My father’s sister Carol’s big dream throughout life was to win the lottery. As things sometimes go, being near to the end of her life she now possessed billions as well as title to one of the richest women in the world. And now having little else to do she took up the task of interviewing people to see who she could give some of that vast fortune to. Her criteria being to assess the positive aspirations of unique individuals that would provide nourishment to the culture as it had been in her time. Her nephew, the son of her late brother as myself, was in attendance from afar to provide occasional suggestions. His own self not being one of them. On one occasion when the two of them went for a short stroll in the plaza of the skyscraper that served as the headquarters of her philanthropic enterprise, the nephew offered an observation. “You now Carol, you know what I remember about you, especially now when you have been so fortunate?” She shaking her head. “I remember that damn kitchen in your mother’s house that was so awful in its tenement style puke colored green walls and how it embodied the essence of failure.”
Having realized for some time that my own most treasured aspirations had come and gone with the expected hardships associated with my own rocky entry into advanced age, I found myself increasingly occupied with the question of one’s will, and how it applied to life? I could no longer understand the character that I am at this stage! Knowing, of course, that I currently lived more in my mind more than in that exterior universe populated with other people. Many of them from those that I occasionally had encountered suffering along in the day to day conundrum of a similar dilemma. Existence being a play or perhaps full blown theater that offered little explanation or direction save for the fact that images seemed to be particularly important. Billboards, altars or company logos projected all about bespeaking some inferred continuity of purpose. An I myself, being one that nursed along creative abilities and lived with the habit of imagery inspired by my own design. A would be alchemist in tandem with those others supporting the incessant fictions of solidarity that the culture fastidiously produced. I tried to share in that form of magic of proverbially catching lightning in a bottle. Yet in my case over the years it had remained all too securely bottled up.
There seeming to be only one reliable possibility an ascendant moment in one’s existence. A point of closure when you can rationally apprise the conclusion of the latest chapter of your material existence. That point at which your life comes abruptly to its conclusion. And that being only if you are lucky enough to be cast into delirium by the immediate nature of that final physical collapse. That pressing awareness that you are leaving. But to where! Something so dreadfully obvious, even blatantly apparent, in the passage of a loved one. An inference that you are returning, but to what? Another play? The theater that has staged the grand farce of your existence up to this moment as some major, or more likely, minor segment of an immensely dense unfathomable production? This notion of a assumption of form and demeanor; always assuming some other form; some other circumstance; that leads to an unexpected dilemma. “Is that what it is all about?” A continual quest for something unique and never repeatable? Only then to discard it when it has become tiresome? “Is that what it is truly all about?” Just one experience after another, occasionally prosaic or mundane, like the scribbles on the pages of an endless book that keeps going on, and on, and on, and on, and on, ad infinitum? Until like everything else that can be humanly appreciated one assumes it arrives at that point of cessation when it comes to a screeching halt and Negentropy takes over. Then no longer observed it simply dissipates back into a formless nothing. No longer stimulated to activity by so many errant less obvious choices. Is that what this is?
There is something wrong about peering into all things exterior and only see the hand of man. To not see the chaos of the universe lurking behind the shadows of every human bound element. Those places that it is unchallenged in snow and clouds and light, or lack of the same, unceremoniously remaining invisibly uncontested. It is implicitly a war! One that is lost the moment that it is enacted. There is no way to defeat chaos. There is no way to defeat the constant infiltration of changing circumstance by all manner of unexpected possibilities that are presented to one’s life that take the form of all types of overtaxing chaos come from the boiling desires of all other things living and all things not.
A longstanding proposition has been time and again raised that all women are whores in terms of their sexuality. The prize of their intimate attentions is afforded only if it is paid for! A strict transaction that infers ownership of the participant male, or female, that succumbs to charms that initially seem free. The transfer over of the same is an implicit bargain that implies binding responsibilities under the title of what in their arcane language is called ‘Love‘. But that’s not Love! Love is something free and spontaneous! An impulse, so often and too often, driven by biologically driven happenstance. Or so foolish males are led to believe from childhood at their mother’s knee. The end product of the same once in the form of new life that was the glue that connected the participants. But within this current era based on that enslaving form of fallacy called ‘money’, the issue of the womb has been cut out of the equation by solipsistic impulses of greed. Greed for favors and gifts as tokens celebrating the worthiness of the female by the male. The reality being payments on the installment plan for that same male for the privilege of holding milady’s hand as she shops or eats through his bank account. This outward power that is exerted by the femme being supported by an obsessive daily ritual of explicitly dressing up one’s respective physique to emphasize and enhance their viability according to current market standards. Something occasionally referred to as ‘the latest fashion’. Their worst fears being a source of stewing anger when their market value is diminished as a result of direct competition by a rival or having been passed over by the most eligible and monetarily successful member of the opposite sex. Perhaps then in terms of a controlled form of chaos, the Devil ‘IS’ a woman?
It is not the experience of pain that one worships in the ritual of suffering imposed upon another. It is their eventual involuntary surrender to an inevitable fate. An unpreventable forceful surrender by way of a degree of violation that is of an unbearable magnitude. The presentation made to all would be heroes, that if they fail in the end, they merely become a member of a community of past tense Perceval’s. The viability of their respective quest finally run its course. The admiration afforded such expected forms of defeat being expressed as relief. Not in simply being a victim but a fallen hero who has made every effort to prevail in the face of insurmountable odds. But one that has raised the standard of the endurance of any particular misfortune to a new incredible never before incredible level. The essence of contemporary modern maleness. Assuming the label of both perpetrator and victim needing no further explanations beyond the obvious facts of same. Obsession and ‘fait d’accompli!‘.
A dream within a dream! Lodged in an easy chair in some stranger’s lounge trying to drive a car in the dead of early morning down an empty snow bound alley suddenly coming to the conclusion that there was no way of stopping it. The pedals on the floorboard no longer in evidence below my two cold and icy desperately stamping feet! The bulk of this fatal chameleon slowly racing forward to the barrier of a cyclone fence. The approach in mental slow motion passing the perpendicular roadway ‘T‘ and into this flimsy barrier between two garages. The impact unexpectedly held up in frozen time to reveal my battering ram transformed into a little toy car front bumper impotently resting at loggerheads by the bottom of the mesh hardly visible under silent streetlight darkness. The tiring mental trip back upstream back into that living room where the sound of two angry voices out of the range of vision wafted in from the dining area to the right. A contagion of fear gripping me that the conclusion of this confrontation might become murderous. Never really considering whether this was a self-insured dream or and actual form of spiritual projection to some other entities’ alternate dimension? An immediate absence of bodily heat signaling some inkling of a physical possibility. But understanding that no matter how cloistered one thinks one is in protecting their own unique experience the door to same may always be forced open? Participants eagerly ready, by way of a mysterious universal inclination, to become contestants in your game as well.
Now catapulted back to the end of World War II in middle Europe. My side having just entered a very small kingdom to liberate it from enemy control. Part of the mission, attempting to replace the standing governmental administration imposed by them with the original ruling personages that they had deposed when they had invaded. The armored half-track that I was beside under fire from snipers while I stayed low on my belly trying to start up the engine from underneath it. The vehicle having recently been resurrected to service by army mechanics after having been shot up by the enemy. It being debatable as to its continued reliability in transporting these dignitaries. A spare set of keys being found they were then inserted one by one into the ignition of the truck until, ‘voila‘, it started up.