Monday, May 25, 2009

Journal 20 - Picturesque Garden

The world is such a picturesque place with its
on-cue frowns and thumbs-up. Smiles are the samurai
swords of our correct century. I hear the clock
tick – tick tock tick tock – loudly while it always
obediently measures out each indifferent second to
our wannabe rebel lives. The flush of the toilet
whisks me back to swirling reality. The pope
himself must turn and flush the toilet of his
eminent refuse. What was it like in the 1st Century
of our Lord? Or in the garden for that matter.
The real first century. Did the turd falling from Eve's
beautiful ass smell and reek like 2 day old chitlins
in the dead heat of a Southern summer? Were
the movements of Adam noticeable to the beasts
he named just days before? It's late in the
toxic corners of my shrivelling mind. Well, brain.
Is there a difference? I once knew there was.
Dennet tells a different story. One filled with
emotionless objectivity. Except for those times the
objectivity eluded the ambitious eyes of the young
scientist with his career on the line and his
raise in the interpretation of the ancient cell
residing in his drying Petri dish; Kuhn was
wrong but not that wrong. Revolutions are difficult
to pull off without personal damage. Even Jesus
and Mohammed couldn't escape the leftover doubt
and disbelief of their soon-to-be-obsolescent
fathers. We are trying to erase such accidents from
the collective memory of our once-again correct
culture – not even the primal miracle of wine
can save the worker from his work. Our minds
are sedated with the waves of the television –
please let's all get high and wander the streets
in child-like wonder – grasping anew the mystery
of grass and stars and moon-lit beetles on the
concrete walkway. Spider webs shine in the moon-
light if you manage to cock your head right, perfect
in their patient craft. TV is the Kevorkian of our
prosaic world – pestiferous in its grasp on the dying
consciousness of the next generation – an incubator for
the written off soul – dried teats of dreamy apathy.


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