83 lines
5.4 KiB
Plaintext
83 lines
5.4 KiB
Plaintext
,...
|
|
$$$$
|
|
$$$$T""P$$$ba, ,gd&P""T&bg. ,gd&P""T&bg.
|
|
ggggggggggg $$$$ $$$$$b d$$$$ $$$$b d$$$$ $$$$$b ggggggggggg
|
|
""""""""""" $$$$ $$$$$$ $$$$$ $$$$$ $$$$$bxxP&$$&P """""""""""
|
|
$$$$ $$$$$$ T$$$$ $$$$P T$$$$
|
|
$$$"""""" " """" $$$$$$ "T&$bxxd$&P" "T&$bxx$$$$$' " """"""$$$
|
|
""" """""" """
|
|
ggg "Activated Charcoal" ggg
|
|
$$$ by -> Tocoblock $$$
|
|
$$$ $$$
|
|
$$$ (* HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #916 -- 11/30/99 *) .,$$$
|
|
`"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
|
|
|
|
My raw earth cannot be lost. Even young I knew that chance
|
|
sometimes has its way with you, that the truest and most real may
|
|
evaporate, might disintegrate, might appear never to have been there at
|
|
all. But I witnessed raw earth, living infinite possibility, I nearly
|
|
touched it, and when it faded I never thought to follow it. I was sure
|
|
it would return, Arthur-like, when most needed. Where once there was
|
|
certainty at least, at least there is still hope, so I have not yet lost
|
|
everything. All the sad night, under-lit slick streets where nothing,
|
|
nothing can ever be completely clean have not convinced me otherwise,
|
|
although I have often been stranded on these very streets screaming
|
|
inwardly for the smallest glimmer of anything worthwhile, some reason to
|
|
live or die, wondering if I, too, was finally fading to Avalon and if
|
|
Avalon might secretly be hell.
|
|
On these streets I had cliche death-thoughts and thought, "Why
|
|
bother?" as I thought why bother about anything and found no answer and
|
|
so pressed on wishing there could be a difference between what I saw when
|
|
I closed my eyes and what I saw when they were open and thought, "This is
|
|
death of imagination." and thought this, finally, is balance, outward,
|
|
inward, and wished, dimly, that it could at least be horrifying but it
|
|
was not but was just nothing, nothing at all.
|
|
Now I knew joyless passion, the miserable non-misery of endless,
|
|
uncontrollable mundane repetition and I thought, "Sex also becomes this,
|
|
eventually." And so it had. Even Prometheus probably felt nothing
|
|
before long, who waited for pain then felt pain, waited for pain then
|
|
felt pain, until it was all the same and was neither pain nor waiting.
|
|
The black spots on reality that came just before the stomach pump
|
|
were only windows to the slick streets and were also meaningless death,
|
|
and I tried to sleep, to embrace them as I had embraced them before the
|
|
overdose, slowly taking pills one at a time for two hours, but the doctor
|
|
kept me awake so I could actually drink these streets as prescription, as
|
|
activated charcoal, and live to see them again in reality and be stranded
|
|
there again, where there are too few street lamps and no reason to move
|
|
and so you just move anyway. I would later spit this stuff out, but it
|
|
has a way of staying with you, of commanding revulsion at the thought of
|
|
eternal existence. This was the cold night; these were the throes of
|
|
soul dying, which is not a painful death but is slow. In this light I
|
|
told myself a joke and shrieked, because in this light humor was bitter
|
|
punishment, reminding me not to attempt movement and to abhor meaning.
|
|
I remember being visited in a prison by Christ. I mean quite
|
|
literally that I was locked in a filthy cell, hungry, did not know if I
|
|
was to be released because I was there for no reason. At once I knew
|
|
that I was not alone and I was at peace. I knew I had to learn the
|
|
Lord's Prayer and I knew whom I had to learn it from. The person who
|
|
taught me later became insane, kept stable on a steady diet of
|
|
psychotropic pills, and now I know the Lord's Prayer and I remember that
|
|
for a brief moment I was at peace. I remember that I was at peace; I
|
|
cannot remember what peace felt like, but I know it didn't feel at all
|
|
like balance.
|
|
The sun eventually came up. It grew warmer and I could see, but
|
|
the streets are still there, superimposed on everything that should have
|
|
meaning, that should be beautiful but isn't. The activated charcoal has
|
|
a way of staying with you. Sometimes I wish I had not drunk the pure
|
|
street the doctor gave me but had slept instead. If the spots had
|
|
finally come to rule my field of vision, maybe I would have been allowed
|
|
a more pure hell, unsullied by the illusion of possible escape or the
|
|
memory of raw earth. If god would only abandon me entirely, rare
|
|
glimpses of beauty might not create such an ache, such briar guarded
|
|
denial, and then there would be no need to wander, vaguely hoping to
|
|
encounter some accidental redemption.
|
|
I read once that a certain tropical island is home to a species of
|
|
turtle that crawls from the sea to the strand once in its life to lay
|
|
eggs. When finished, it is turned onto its back by wild dogs and
|
|
devoured alive. For this it is born. If this is life, when do the dogs
|
|
come that it might finally be ended? Or better, when will I finally
|
|
discover my dog nature and turn to devouring?
|
|
|
|
[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
|
|
[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #916 - WRITTEN BY TOCOBLOCK - 11/30/99 ]
|