The invisible knock of the bad infinity

I opened the door. I opened the door and there wasn’t even a knock. I opened the door. In walked Mr. Gravity. Mr. Gravity walked in, and my world spun out of control. He opened the door to the infinite. But not the good infinite of love and virtue and excellence and greatness. He opened the door to the bad infinite of insatiable ego and vicious accretion and crippled meanness. He opened the door of the bad infinite and flung my soul right in.

How can this be? How can there be more than one infinite? How can this be? How can I let him in without even the common courtesy of a sympathy knock? Aren’t we consensual adults? Are we consensual adults?

Without even realizing I gave my consent—consent by introjection—I found myself swimming in the vertiginous ocean of bad infinity. Mr. Gravity held me under like a school yard bully giving me a swirlie, a bogwash, a dunnyflush. Before I knew what hit me I was drowning in the Boggy Swamp of Swampy Bogginess. I imagine I could hear the distant sound of a gurgling Gracey Kallifracks wail. It was all over.

But in truth I was oblivious—even of my despair. My predicament was beyond me. Rather my predicament was me. I was, I am, beyond me. Even when lost I am searching for myself. And I did not know I was lost until I was found, but once found all may be lost. Is it worth the risk?

It was the call of the lord that did it. The divine. But the good divine. The bad divine, Mr. Gravity, disappeared. I was lifted. I didn't know I had been down until I was up.

And that is the true horror. The true horror is knowing that what I do not know will be my down fall. The true horror is knowing that the up going is the same as the down going and vice versa.

What I do not know will be my down fall. But I do not know what I do not know. And knowing that is the Judas’ kiss that will seal my fate for a paltry 30 pieces of silver.

The Return

After hurricane Katrina Gracey Kallifracks returned to his ancestral homeland in the Boggy Swamp of Swampy Bogginess, on the outskirts of Thursday City in the Valley of Keene—hopes, ambitions, and bank account annihilated by nature and the powers that be. Gracey can shred his git-fiddle like a rabid feral cat on the arm of a cheap second-hand couch tossed into the dumpster to be reclaimed by mother landfill. Though the critics loved him—they all said he was either way too far ahead of the times or way too far behind—he never caught on with the people of New Orleans and was already on his last dime before Katrina’s landfall. Now that he’s back in the Valley of Keene he is continuing with his family’s rice farm, his main source of subsistence, and he continues to hone his craft on his back porch and in any local dive that will have him. You can catch him for free most nights out in the boggy swamps or on the cheap at bars like Gunther’s, 3 Sisters Pub, or the Devil’s Outhouse.

Imagine the sound of a chorus of bullfrogs, tree frogs, crickets, owls, and cougars all wailing in harmonious lament to the tune of a shared nightmare of mother earth dying then twist that around a crying angel and you might come close to approximating Gracey’s sound. And don’t even get us started on the haunting performances he enacts (words can’t do it justice, but be warned you will not soon forget it). He is a one man force of nature. We here at Thursday City News just hope that one day he finds an audience outside the swamp and the critics.