Parables of actual and metaphysical revolt

EVENT IN THE LAND OF X

Last night, stones fell hard through the midnight sky when all was quiet as moth wings in the village. Figs began to bloom under the heavy moonlight, and fish crows and geese took off from the Lake in un-timely migrations to the north. Hermit crabs and water snakes sought new shores.

The Butcher was found dead on the stairwell, he died from inhaling too much lavender, and the Village Priests all went insane at the same time, speaking inverted Latin and Greek. The Cradle Maker, who was also the Casket Maker, shot himself in the mouth, apparently overcome from the hypocrisy of his craft.

Since dawn, the children have gathered the stones that fell from the sky in order to build a new altar to appease the god of Movement—to show their respect to Lord Chaos, yet fearing him beyond all other gods and all scientific principium….

THE TEMPLES

We grow so bored building our temples for no one in particular and for no particular reason. Some of the workers went down right insane and began eating grass and pissing themselves; some went further into madness and wrote incredibly long books on how everyone in the Land of P was deathly bored with building temples to the sky for no reason. Still, others went on their own and left the Land of P to seek out the Goddess of Change.

Of the ones who left, all but one came back scared shitless and begged to be let back into the Land of P, where everyone builds temples without any justification for building temples.

The one that didn’t come back, who wasn’t frightened by the Goddess of Change, was said by the Oracle of Doom to have been turned into a pile of ash when he dared to touch the sun.

There is no escape from the Land of P.

IN THE DESERT OF SKETE

The world is older than we have imagined.

Wherever he walked he saw his own image, on the grey cliffs, on the illusory lakes, in the abandoned temples, in the sky, on the faces of the buffaloes and goats, in the eyes of wasps and cormorants, and an incredible boredom crawled into his heart and would not leave.

He set out to find God, but God is often silent. For a long time, he had mistaken this silence for God, but after ten days of starvation and thirst, he realized the silence was himself.

His body craved destruction. Finally, it was given to him as a gift; he made a friend of death. Only death is pure, he discovered, and it is only purity we seek. The last thing he saw before leaving the world in acute hunger were large wolves tearing out of the horizon becoming black angels, becoming dust, then nothing, then nothing.

THE FARMER

The barns were empty and had been for a long time, yet the fields were perfectly plowed and ready for planting. Bags of seed sat months in the farmer’s wagon. The same hawk shrieked through the crystal sky at noon as the farmer stared over his declining empire. He would say to himself, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just can’t make myself plant these seeds; it’s de trop and all of that. These days, everything I look at makes me want to vomit, without end. I just can’t get my mind right, or my stomach.

In the middle of summer, they found the farmer dead in one of his luscious red barns. Bright green corn was sprouting up as far as the eye could see.

THE DANGERS OF MORAL PROGRESS

The Earth coldly demanded a Human Sacrifice to be performed precisely at noon that day, but because we are a humane culture, we flatly refused—

And the Earth responded by blowing itself up until nothing was left but the moon.

FINAL JUDGEMENT

The children of Dust have grown tired of numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and have taken all numbers and have thrown them into the Abyss, from which they came. As well, they are utterly irritated with Ancient Knowledge. They have slaughtered Pan, Apollo, and Dionysus. They have taken sledge hammers to their temples and reduced them to pebbles.

These children are the Almighty Future and they rightfully demand Clarity, Authenticity, and Truth, even at the expense of Everything that has preceded them.

They will prevail and should prevail. Let all who get in the way of their progress be burned at the stake.

We have finally arrived at a generation who will make truth stick, even if there are no witnesses left to attest to it.

Amen and amen and amen.

DISABUSE

One day, the world woke up and there was no more Humanity. Everyone gave a great sigh of relief and went around doing whatever they wanted; everything is legal now. If you want to rape a child or shoot your ex-lover in the face, no one tries to stop you. In fact, it is written in the law that you must not show any Humanity or you yourself will have your head cut off. Yes, there is no longer any Humanity anymore, therefore the world does not exist, and the people are finally happy.

There is no such thing as Jesus Christ or an Egoless Consciousness

The ink had turned into blood…

He confused Poetry and Revolution and then Revolution for God. This after many years of writing about childhood and dead animals—then, nothingness became his theme. He turned political quite by accident, and now his readers are followers, wielding swords and anti-aircraft weapons—waiting for him to give the signal—he is silent, for stardust flows through his veins and there is no voice to guide him; only this irresistible urge to eat the sky, this irrepressible desire to slaughter everything, to become everything.

He has given no signal—the tanks are silent and he has not moved an inch for days; the crowds outside the window threaten to crucify him on the Town Square.

And this of course is exactly what he wants.

{THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS JESUS CHRIST OR AN EGOLESS CONSCIOUSNESS}

DREAMS OF A BORED MAN

for Jean-Paul Sartre

He dreams of water. His life, by some accident in the mind, has realized everything he needs to know, therefore, there is no reason for him to exist. Yet, he would like to retain consciousness and become water so he can circle the globe in a blissful all-knowing power that will never have to assume the form of action.

THE MONSTER OF VILLAGE Z

He could not be sated; all the cormorants we brought him, all the blood sacrifices wasted on him. He did nothing for us; he didn’t save the crops from drying up, nor did he stop our women from rebelling against the stove and the pot. He did not save us from Boredom, our greatest adversity. All he offered was Time destroyed by collecting sacrifices for him…

And now there’s not a single cormorant left in all the Land of Z, and now he wants only the blood of herons and egrets—we purposelessly, stupidly, and un-inspiredly kill for him daily—

WILL THE REVOLUTION NEVER COME?

Until that day comes when he’ll die of boredom, all our sacred birds will be extinguished, even though we’ll have total freedom.

What then, Citizens of Z?

WITNESS

Someone put a huge clock in the middle of the garden and the clock resembled Jesus Christ Superstar; it was fucking up the biorhythms of the figs and oranges. The Serpent who lived in the garden, wanted to eat the clock but couldn’t so he made love to this clock that resembled Jesus Christ Superstar—

And the earth began to hemorrhage and it turned greener than ever before.

THE BIRD CATCHER

All he wanted was to catch all the birds in the world. He didn’t understand why he felt this way; all he knew was that it bothered him that birds could take off into the sky whenever they wanted. There’s something wrong with that kind of freedom, he often thought, as he was snaring birds with his dozens of traps. They should be captured so that they’ll appreciate freedom, so they will become humble and not place themselves so high above the rest of us.

One day the bird catcher was thrown in prison for trapping birds without a license. In his cell, all he could think about were all the birds he didn’t catch and how they still flew into the sky whenever they wanted.

Thinking of Heidegger and Lewis Carroll at the Same Time

These flowers are only as real as the anti-flowers which are almost as real as these non-flowers—

Seriously, folks, where on earth do you draw the line concerning these matters?

DOG AND MAN

A man without a nose stopped at the corner of Fifth and Main and grieved that he was alone. A dog approached him, growled, and proceeded to piss on him. The man raised his arms to the sky and prayed. Why can’t I cry? the man called out to the sky. Cars Green and Yellow passed by and honked their horns, yelling at the man to go home because he was giving the passersby bad thoughts because of his missing nose. Oh well, said the noseless man, and he unzipped his pants and proceeded to piss on the dog. The dog said, fuck you, and walked away growling. The man cried for a long time then finally he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large pistol and blew his brains out right there on Fifth and Main.

THE KILLER

There was a man named Joshua, who wanted to kill the sun and moon. It was an instinctual response; no line of logic led him to his desires. It’s just they’re so big and bright and they are superior to us, he thought. Why should they have the privilege of lording their brilliance over all the earth?

He wasn’t successful at killing the sun and moon. He could find no way of doing it since they are so far away. So, Joshua turned his attention to the sea; why should the sea impose all its beauty and mystery on us humble human beings?

And, at least, he could touch the sea, thereby giving him a better chance at destroying it.

Joshua, our poor idiot sauvant, attempted to swallow the sea dry, but he drowned in the process and was washed out with the tide.

We can admire Joshua’s spirit but not his politics.

THE MAGIC HAND

For the old whore in Cuba, Alabama who once gave me a dollar without asking why.

He was forced to eat a star, although all he wanted was bread. All he wanted was to be normal, but he was pre-determined by the Bucher Shop to have his limbs chopped off for mystical purposes he didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand—the Village Priests apparently saw something sacred in deforming him, all the old gods were now held suspect, and in the air an incessant storm was brewing—they said to him, We will feed you and give you a name—You are to speak without imperfection—but as in all matters of society, the village soon became bored of their sacred amputee and starved him to death with moon dust and with solar interstices in his belly.

NERVAL

Passing through the intricate pipe work of Hell, you said aloud to no one but yourself, this is where I want to stay. Upon returning to the upper earth for a while, you looked around recognizing that it was no good; here red is not red nor blue, blue; only the dissipating rays of sun at days end gave any clue to form.

Dear Nerval, you were the first to say that this world does not exist, nor has it ever existed, nor will it ever exist.

THE MESSALIANS

{A bishop interrogates a group of heretics in an attempt to convert them to the Church of Rome}

Do you believe the world to be holy?

Yes

Do you think the world is evil?

Yes

Are you Jesus Christ?

Yes

Are you Lucifer?

Yes

Do you believe in the Trinity?

Yes

Do you believe the Trinity is nonsense?

Yes

Does Christ have a cock?

Yes

Does Christ have a pussy?

Yes

Does Christ shit and piss?

Yes

Is Christ too holy to shit and piss?

Yes

Is matter evil?

Yes

Is matter good?

Yes

{And with this the bishop went home and happily placed a heavy revolver between his eyes and blew out his immaculate brains.}

THE UN-CONFUSED ONES

The deformed children will rise up against their maker and slaughter him—they have grown pure in exile—they are fully conscious, they have never uttered a false word or have used a false image. Pity this world that one day soon we’ll have to face them, for the world has not trained itself properly to confront them—yet, their entry onto the stage will be the death force that kills many—those who have not trained themselves for the message—

The dialectic is coming around soon—be forewarned.

BONE GATHERER’S BLUES

She had collected over 10,000 skulls of birds she had destroyed and boiled in bleach. Piles of little heads were stacked neatly all over her ramshackle cottage. She couldn’t remember how she came to such deeds but it was clear even to her that it had become an addiction.

But one morning, pallor spread across her whole body and she wanted to die. She thought, I have spent all this time killing and boiling and it has come to naught. I could have had a normal life; husband, child, dog, house, car. I have wasted my life on a mystical pursuit that I thought would bring me enlightenment, instead it has only bored me—the bones mean nothing.

Suddenly, while she was seriously considering killing herself, a Peregrine Falcon flew into sight and landed on the cottage’s roof. With a semi-malicious grin, she took up her bow and arrow and fired into the new sacrifice…

THE MANSON

They began to mutilate one another; sister became armless, mother faceless, father voiceless, brother and son went blind—servant became master, master piled up loaves of shit in the outhouse. The dogs took over the table and the caged birds settled down into bed with a good book.

The home owners knew there was no way of stopping this; outside always gets in no matter how hard you try.

THE WISE MAN

There is no experience worth having, he thought. There is nothing left that I want to know. There is no one with whom I want to talk. There is no painting or ocean that intoxicates me. There is no little child that restores my faith in humanity. There is no woman who moves me to passion and there is no man I wish to admire. There is no building with its great heights that impresses me, and the strange thing is, and I know it’s not very strange, but still, the strange thing is that I’ve never been more at peace with myself, I have never been happier.

And with this realization, he closed his eyes and went to sleep forever.

Home

I arrived at the house hours before the sun was up and fell asleep in the tall grass of my childhood—someone was whispering to me in monotone éclat, éclat, éclat. Dieu est éclat, but I was not afraid. I have never been afraid. I have never been afraid, but the voice wouldn’t leave me alone and it said further, All the fruit in the orchid is poisoned, and all the flowers are yellow. How did that happen? I answered out loud. I also asked the voice why all my dreams were of blood and crabs and it responded, Because you were born with a divine disease. I wanted to get up but couldn’t, nothing held me down but my own weight.

When I awoke, the sun was just coming up and the grass had withered all around me and I knew I was in Hell because I was surrounded by tall clocks.

CANNIBALISM IS CONFORMITY

I wake at sunrise to the sound of squealing pigs; outside, an idiot child is eating pig shit and rat meat in a dish of black decaying rice. Next door, a virgin is being washed in a huge zinc tub; she is being cleansed for a political sacrifice of dubious worth. Tonight, her loins and buttocks will be served in rich sauces at the Imperial Table. I do not know what they will do with the rest of her, except that she’ll disappear forever with the rest of the sacrifices—

But before then, I too will fall into a trance, intoxicated with the dinner conversation of Aristotelian logic and Middle Eastern affairs.

THE JERK

There was a man named Alfred who died every year on Good Friday and like clockwork was resurrected every Easter Sunday.

Therefore, Alfred had very few friends.

A FEW LINES BEFORE THE SHOTS GO OFF

There are too many who still cling to this black and rotting corpse we call literature and writing.

Hard to say if they should be pitied or massacred.

We who wait patiently for the REVOLUTION know writing and literature must be annihilated; that we need a world un-contaminated by any replication of reality at all.

Either accept the brute nakedness of ourselves and of the world or into the pit you go.

IN THE VILLAGE OF Y

Last night I dreamed of armless boys and girls playing in a forest on the outskirts of town. Their smiles made me laugh, their minds made me weep; they spoke a mechanical language, some strange scientific dialect. The altar where they sacrificed themselves was worn; on the sacrificial table read: WHERE IS HOME?

They bathed in dust and ate stone and wood. They were neither happy nor sad, neither indifferent nor committed.

THREE EXAMPLES OF THE WAY THINGS CAN BE

The price one pays for having a profession is a déformation professionelle, as the French put it—a professional deformation. Doctors and engineers tend to see things from the viewpoint of their own specialty, and usually show a marked blind spot to whatever falls outside this particular province. The more specialized a vision the sharper its focus; but also more nearly total the blind spot toward all things that lie on the periphery of this focus.

–From William Barrett’s Irrational Man

1.

Finally, we got tired of it and one evening we gathered all the shrinks and shot each and every one of them. And that’s a lot of shrinks too, about 6 million. Think about it, 6 million shrinks, and there would have been even more if we hadn’t acted when we did. We shot them and shot them until we ran out of bullets, then when we ran out of bullets we bludgeoned them with heavy sticks of oak and maple. When we were finished killing all the shrinks in America, we lined the bodies up one after the other on old Route 66 outside of Amarillo Texas and people came from all over the world to see the dead and quickly rotting shrink corpses—

There was dancing all around the bodies, the dancers foaming at the mouth with Euphoria.

2.

The cops, strangely enough, were not quite as guilty as the shrinks. The death policy we took with the cops was one of hanging them all from every strong branch across the whole of the good old U.S.A. It was quite a site, you should have been there, you should have seen them cops dangling from all species of trees, little blue and grey costumed men and women just a-twittering in the wind—

There was about as much Joy as when we killed all the shrinks.

3.

The medical doctors were next, but we couldn’t kill them; they were somehow not guilty in the same way as the shrinks and cops. With the doctors, it was simply a matter of re-education. We made them read Sartre, Camus, Heidegger, Kierkegaard, and the like—all the Existential writers, Christian, Jewish, and Atheist. The doctors had to pass an examination based on these Existentialists. If they failed, they had to re-read all the Existentialists over again, or they could choose to have their best hand amputated. You would be surprised how many of them chose to have their hand chopped off rather then read all that Existentialism over again., which goes to show you how half educated doctors are, Existentialism being far beyond their small minds.

4.

The task of making this world a better place to live is far from over, of course—Teachers, lawyers, and politicians, you guys are next, so if I were you, I’d leave the country now.

(THE ABSOLUTE END)