A question to ponder

Speaking of cats, look what the cat dragged in

If one were to travel northeast from Thursday City into the surrounding Valley of Keene, across the river, deep into the heart of the Back Woods one would eventually arrive at the Dark Prefecture. A magical place filled with wonder and made all the more intriguing by the decades of accumulated folk tales surrounding the area. One would most certainly get there eventually; if one were so inclined. Once there one may or may not encounter Le Gooch the prince of the Dark Prefecture.

Le Gooch is a divine creature, a deviant perversion of divinity perhaps, but divine nonetheless. We do not know whether he protects or terrorizes his territory, possibly both, but regardless he is there. There is no documented evidence of his existence in this realm, but trust me he is there. It is rumored that he has been responsible for devouring men, sacrificing women, and (inexplicably) de-limbing philosophers and heroes. Believe what you will.

Below is a rendering by our resident sketch-artist:

Seriousity killed the cat?

A rebuke I generally level at myself, first and foremost.

But seriously, what is so wonderful about being serious? Unless you are seriously filled with wonder.

The puppet ghoul (on a rhetorical string)

The fuller and more profound my comprehension of divine/transcendental principles such as soul, spirit, character, fate, and infinity becomes the more iridescent, manifold, wondrous, magnificent my cosmos becomes. The more magnificent my understanding of the ineffable and infinite mysteries becomes the more concrete and whole my cosmos becomes. What used to be an every day feeling for me I now recognize as being intolerably depressing. What used to be intolerably dark and depressing I now comprehend as ultimately sobering and revitalizing. I now understand pain and anguish in a way that has become invaluable. I now realize the grey numbness that used to pervade the “everyday” was a vicious noxious disease of nihilism and apathy spreading through my mind, body, and soul like a plague, and eating away at my infinity—gnawing through my metaphysical umbilical connection to the divine. This disease wasn’t killing me, no, death would be a welcome release from its clutches. Nihilism is a disease that is turning the human race into the walking undead. The zombification of an entire species is taking place, literally we are (have been) devolving ourselves into another species altogether. A soulless, spiritless, valueless mass of ghouls. And just like ghouls we serve whatever master happens to be enchanting us at the moment.

Prelude to Asterion

This is a page from my sketchbook. It is a rambling rumination on the origins and implications of the Greek myth of the Minotaur. At this point I have to make recourse to Chief O’Doole from “Miller’s Crossing”: “Jesus, Tom! I was just speculating about a hypothesis; I know I don’t know nothing.”

A rapture

Fred floats in a liquid sky as a searing pain-induced rapture overtakes him.

Woe is me!

Thursday City was shaken to the core today (Thursday of course) as we received word “the Moth or the Flame” was not deemed worthy of receiving a Xeric grant. For you 8 people who have been eagerly awaiting its imminent arrival you are going to have to wait a lot longer. As stated below (far below now), I am determined to get this book printed. But until I can find a way to do it I have no idea when it might be done. Unless someone has a cool $6-7,000 sitting around in need of a publishing project.

Anyone?

The Boggy Swamp of Swampy Bogginess

The sun goes down. The lightning strikes. But the task remains. Navigating the dreaded Boggy Swamp of Swampy Bogginess requires all the strength, courage, vitality, and vigilance one can muster. And even at peak condition one still needs luck and eudaimonia (good graces) to make it through alive. And even then the reward is death. But we would rather die having lived than live half-dead.

The murky landscape is constantly shifting. A boon one moment becomes an albatross the next. A solid foundation dissolves into a bottomless pit. A beautiful woman is deadly, and a poisonous snake is a friend. One must be light on one’s toes. Dancing like Baryshnikov across pitfall and booby trap with ease, grace, and elegance. Don’t forget to bask in the horrifyingly beautiful surroundings, just don’t succumb to their whispered words of seduction, i.e. destruction.


Percy Hemlock negotiates the Boggy Swamp of Swampy Bogginess atop Gingerboy the Nimble Lion-ape, while scratching his cohort Wesley Junecheeks on the noggin.

Satyricon

It was a translucent purple night. It was as if dawn were in collusion with midnight to create a deep darkness that one could still see through. It must have been around 3 am. I was watching Fellini’s “Satyricon.” Imagine my surprise when one of my sculpture pieces appeared on the screen. It was Balthazar. The revelers at Trimalchio’s banquet were heading down the side of the mountain to enact a mock death ceremony for Trimalchio himself. And suddenly! there he was. Balthazar was standing monumentally above the partygoers/mourners. And later in the movie I spotted another. This time it was Johnnie Sphinxter in the field where Encolpius accompanied the Poet to die. Was this all my imagination? Had I seen this all before and just forgotten? I did watch the first half of “Satyricon” ten years ago, and for some reason never finished. Could I have retained those images and then remade them as part of my own system of archetypes and symbols? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was really late and the slippery limen between over-focused consciousness and mythic unconscious was dissolving? I rubbed my eyes. Everything blurred.

When I woke up the next day I watched the film on my computer. It was no dream. I saw it again. So I took some screen-shots, and here they are. Balthazar and Johnnie Sphinxter as seen in Fellini’s “Satyricon”:

Awash

Just when you thought it was getting to be all too much to bear, Quintavius prances out of the mystical field of rainbow flowers and showers you in warm, delicious, dark-chocolate centaur milk!


Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

The secret of “the Secret”

“It would not be best for man to get what he wants”—Heraclitus

In a culture completely and radically unfit to decide what it wants one of the worst things imaginable would be for it to get what it wants. It wants riches at the expense of Soul. It wants riches at the expense of Spirit. It wants riches at the expense of Earth. It wants riches at the expense of Life.

It doesn’t want truth, it wants aggrandizement.
It doesn’t want justice, it wants vengeance.
It doesn’t want love, it wants obedience.
It doesn’t want fidelity, it wants loyalty.
It doesn’t want change, it wants reform.
It doesn’t want growth, it wants progress.
It doesn’t want new, it wants novel.
It doesn’t want substance, it wants flavor.
It doesn’t want perfection, it wants happiness.
It doesn’t want best, it wants most.
It doesn’t want life, it wants not to die.
It doesn’t want mystery, it wants secrets.

Heaven’s Barber Shop

The sky;
the sky is actually the floor of Heaven’s Barber Shop.
The clouds;
clouds are the freshly cut hair of the gods strewn across the divine barber’s floor.
The pole;
a tornado is the barber pole, therefore the Midwest is the entrance to Heaven’s Barber Shop.
Scissors;
lightning is the sparks that fly when the divine barber clips the electrified hair of the gods.
The wind;
the wind is the divine barber’s broom sweeping up the clouds.
And planes;
planes are lice; even our gods are lousy.

Lord of the Dance

I wasn’t even aware of it then, but it was Cinco de Mayo. I was on the F train—Manhattan bound. My father and Angie were in town, and I was on the way to meet them in mid-town. It was a crisp day, a few cotton candy clouds hung in the sky, big silver and white flying cars crisscrossed between the clouds, reminiscent of science fiction novels, and the train was close to a capacity crowd. The doors opened with a chime at York Street, and on walked a 3-man Mariachi band. There were no violins, no trumpets, and no silver studded suits. Maybe they weren’t Mariachis after all. But there seemed to be a faint whistle in the background when they entered, and it suddenly felt like the Wild West; our subway car had been transformed into a saloon. The band began to play.

They played quite well. Suddenly, a voice in the back of the car shouted: “BAILAR!! Bailar, bailar!” I turned to see the source of the encouraging words. I couldn’t remember what bailar meant at first, my Spanish is more than rusty, more like non-existent. But somehow I felt convinced we were being invited to dance. The man was a striking figure. He possessed one of the most distinctive faces you can imagine. He seemed to come straight from the world of Fellini. He wore a kind of military coat, which was not too large, but was much too long, baggy, but fitting, pants, a flowered shirt, cheap shiny Sunday shoes, a wide brimmed hat, and coke bottle glasses. And he was dancing. Apparently the band had a hype-man á la Flavor Flav. They played us into Manhattan and exited at Delancey Street.

At Second Avenue another band from south of the border clambered onto the train. This time it just seemed normal. All the patrons in the subway saloon had been desensitized to surrealism by now. The band, without much ado, began to play. A few seconds into the music we again heard from the back of the car: “BAILAR!! Bailar, bailar!” Could it be that the Mexican folk scene was taking a page from the world of hip-hop and all including a hype-man now? I turned, and to my surprise it was the same man. And he was, once again, dancing with glee. And he was, once again, vigorously encouraging his fellow travelers to do the same. After all who among us can truly resist the spirited melodies of Mexican folk music?

Again he shouts: “BAILAR!! Bailar, bailar!” He snaps his fingers and stomps his feet. The band plays. He shouts again: “BAILAR!! Bailar, bailar!” He is not a paid hype-man. He is simply a man who loves the dance. And we are all merely potential dance partners in his ring of fire.