I wrote on Facebook: lost in a gauze of soaked ether;
dissolved in poached decisions and precisions; yes – a
patient undone upon a table. I always associate the
word 'undone' with Isaiah 6:5 (KJV) – but this time it is
definitely the image of a body on the autopsy table.
Though unstitched would be better. Perhaps I do like
the double entendre of the Isaiah reference. The
passage is important. And obviously I've been reading
Eliot again. Of course 'undone' is associated with
him also now I think about it – via Dante – I had
not thought death had undone so many. Apparently
the world is on a crash course with constriction and
absorption into the supernovae of the Sun's future
outburst. Death by fire not water. The prophecy
should hold according to science. And we who walk
the accumulated dirt of our forefather's ashes and
shit, having oozed out of the chemical laden pond,
somehow aware of our meaningless plight through
the magic mysticism of quantum fluctuation and
simultaneous duplicity, only accidentally favored above
the cockroach crushed with a loud snapped back
under our booted feet, swarming under grand intellectual
edifices, that portend glory and worth in their fight
to control through religion or politics – all thoughts
thought before – you know there is nothing new under
the sun (except lust in the heart is adultery) – we
trample on our own meaning haunted history with
webbed feet and circumcised tails, marching
through our conscious history with a machete not a
scalpel – removing and swiping away anything im-
material. My friend and fellow cousin of the stuff
that composes our bodies – my friend the slow-moving
silver snot-trailing slug lifts his wet head to my
big toe and smiles. I douse him in salt and laugh.
What's the difference? It's all made up anyway.
Goodnight moth. Goodnight cricket. Goodnight daisy.
Goodnight monkey looking over the forest for a hazy
place to call home. Goodnight sweet dying sun. Have
hot fun in your long-last blast. Goodnight tree; goodnight
moon. We'll be together soon.
This blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Journal 26 - Death by Ether
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