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Stealing Wings from an Angel: Excerpt Page 1I write to you now as a cornered rat on hind legs and bearing my teeth. But wait, do you hear the lapping of the waves against the wooden hull…What’s this? What’s this?—coming through the fog? Could it be? Yes it is, a soliloquy. Props, lower the pale moon over the black waters of the lake! Shhh… he speaks. lap lap, lap lap, lap lap, lap lap… What I am intending to write tonight is a manifesto of the destruction of the megalopolis that we so hastily constructed and now must live and die with. Our forests of steel I-beams and glass bark rooted in cement will all fall to ruins—it is inevitable—and all I can see to do is to write of the destruction that I picture in my mind and laugh from shock as I would if it were happening at this exact moment. Did we not prove that Atlantis sunk? Our continents are not permanently in place nor is our ideology. A bold shift of underground plates or a bold confrontation of thought may send our taffy ideals and card house skyscrapers to the depths of chaos. I would not be so quick to forecast this horrible vision upon us if the world everlasting and the life eternal I was born into and raised to trust as truth had not died from a tortuous death upon the cross simply because I changed my point of view and stopped believing everything I had been told. This manifesto is a living testament of that destruction. In my mind I can see the cover of a particular edition of Henry Miller’s, Tropic of Capricorn, donning an untitled Helmut Middendorf painting of a man dangerously trapped in an one-handed handstand upon the pinnacle of a skyscraper overlooking a great megalopolis. He is a naked man of bald head, twisted body and dangling legs, as though flung to his position, and in the instant that the awkward balance was attained, that microsecond before gravity pushed him toward his death, he froze in this precarious pose. Looking at this acrobat, at his delicate balance, the manifesto is written. That man is me, that man is you, that man is our whole society that we take for granted each time we strap ourselves in the bucket seating of our horseless carriages that squeeze out poison cheeze at a rate of 3000 FPS (Farts Per Second) en route to a lovely day on the shore. We are so easily pacified by luxurious daydreaming (and of course, our shit doesn’t stink). Our whole existence relies solely on this acrobat, and under his hand is a great pressure valve which he nonchalantly holds down. He teeters, but we do not seem to notice. The sun is warming our skin, the gulls are crying with our souls. The handstand stays stable for now, but in a rotten rat filled apartment a religious maniac is making a bomb at this very moment which he will use to try to topple this man. Do not the ruins in Hiroshima tell us enough? Stop looking away! The world is going to end! I can feel a strong gust from the east…Egypt Ancient ruled for two thousand years, but we had to unearth its remains to discover these truths, and we leave this little man on top of a great phallus so any freak can take a shot at our security. Ha!—we have no choice…we are the land of the free! But don’t hand him a hotdog, he may remember he is hungry and lose his grip trying to eat the wiener. Don’t tell him a joke, he may laugh and kill us all. Don’t read him a book, he may become existential and slaughter us all with ennui. Don’t offer him money, he may realize he is not being paid what he is worth and become greedy, demanding, and threaten our placid life with higher and higher wages until we can no longer supply his ego, then he will hold us mercilessly under thumb. Don’t show him a Bible, he may discover an afterlife and let loose the dragon from the bottomless pit. And under no circumstances whisper in his ear the erotic raptures of sex—erections and equilibrium are fatal combinations. 1 Today’s book is brought to you by the word “fuck,” and by the word “you.” Always a winning combination when used together. And by The Way International. When someone asks you to a Twig Fellowship, just remember to say, “Fuck you!” |
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Posted on September 16, 2007 in |
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The Secret Curse Surrenders