2 December 2012

In a dream last night, I had this thought: “Even in my dreams I'm a drug dealer.”

4 December 2012

I guess this is it, hm? This is the rest of our lives. I'm not saying there won't be change.

“Nothing ever changes,” said the Sage, quite nearly quoting the Poet, “There is nothing
new under the sun.”

Indeed, we'll see money perhaps, and families, and maybe love, if we're lucky. But we
aren't built for these things. We weren't programmed to be a part of this, the rest of our lives. So
it will never quite click, like they say it does for some people. I don't know if that's really true at
all, if one day you just sort of wake up and say, “OH! So this is where I belong!” And just go on
dandily after that.
I do know one thing, though. You never wake up and say, “OH! This is what I've been
waiting for!”
You never get there.
I won't molest you with pseudo-wisdom, with catchy little phrases that “sum it up.” If
you know anything, you know that there is no sum. It's stray ends. It's twisted knots. It's
unbalanced equations. It's the unchecked power of human evolution, stacked on thousands of
years of amassed wealth, of uncontrollable emotions filling canyon-sized graves. It's all these
things.
This is too a journey to somewhere, and yes, the destination does matter. All roads lead to
Rome.
We're all going to the same damned place. Dirt. Ash. Food for the grass, to be grazed by
the never-ending masticating machine of a genetically engineered bovine species. We are to be
shat out, like everything else, all the gold and glory and wonder of the world, shit out the ass-end
of one creature or another... whilst bits and pieces of your remains go straight to the grill of some
angry American on the Fourth of July and into the bloated bellies of his family.
Those goddamn rednecks ate Hitler. And Stalin, too. And someone, somewhere, is eating
Jesus. Or will, soon enough. What a sacrament.
Fucking heathens.
So that's it. That's the story, folks. You want to get ahead of the game, you say? You want
to find the shortcuts, skip steps, get right to the meat of this matter? You wanna make it? Here's
what you do:
Park your car in your garage. Close all the doors. Turn the engine on. Sit in there. Have a
drink or two. Fuck it, have four or five. Pop a few ambien, and a xanax if you're feeling
particularly antsy. A vic or two couldn't hurt, either. They're prescribed by doctors, goddamn it,
they're legal, of course they aren't bad for you.
And just take a nap.
Take a good, long nap.
Soon therafter, you'll have gamed the system. You'll have beaten all the square little
drones in their suits and ties or coveralls or whatever the hell they wear in your industry, you'll
have pulled one over on them, yessir! They'll work their way up the economic wrungs, or rot
where they are, and meanwhile, as they live out their droll little lives, you'll be far ahead,
standing there, tall and proud, at the place they take their baby-steps to, the place they crawl
towards on all fours, dribbling and drooling their way into decrepit old age, slathering onto
napkins as they mix up the names of their kids and grandkids, until some tearful relative pulls the
plug.
You'll be there, waiting for them, just itching to tell them your little secret, the secret to
your success, how you got ahead of them and the rest of the competition.

Yessir, clever girl, you.

Progressivism is a whole paradigm. Progress. Advancement. An even pace, a steady stroll

to the world we all dream of. Faithfull pilgrims, head tucked to the chin, a cutting clip under the
wind, steadfast, stoic, laying the foundations of a world of peace, of blissful existence, of
limitless exploration and experience for all.
Tell you what... why don't we skip the millions of years of squabbling and war, of
rejection and advancement, of minor successes, major setbacks, and vice versa, skip the parades,
the palaces, the poisoning of the environment, skip the melting of the ice caps, skip nuclear war,
skip the move to Mars or the Moon or Alpha Proxima, skip the eons spent rebuilding, or
whatever alternate history you'd like to imagine, whatever it is your skepticism beckons forth to
replace my own melodramatic fantasy... just skip the million-year, billion-beer, trillion-tear
pilgrimage... and every joy along with it. Every newborn babe in the arms of its mother for the
first time, every v-card being cashed, every goal scored and every score nulled and every
triumph of any will, large or small, human or otherwise... skip it. Because there is one, final,
brilliant blunder made on the part of god. He named it mortality. And he programmed it not just
into us, but into the fabric of the universe. And if he hadn't, he wouldn't have been all that special
of a being for very long.