Monday, July 23, 2007

A Knight is the Order of the Day

[I am a double agent conspiring against myself, doused in complicities, awash in brigandage, a Ronin, masterless and free yet yearning for meaning, alive and hiding, though the mission is lost, or even more dejecting - forgotten. Every turn takes me further from the objective, each crest gives sight to a vast vista, an expanse of ennui, more onward, more tomorrow, more hope, more reasoning as to what exactly the quixotic itch is that throws coals in to my heart, and fixes my eyes on the horizon. It's no engine, it's just a loco motive, a deranged dynamo, a maniacal motor gasping for fuel, consuming in its greed, a phoenix that has never taken flight, merely existed to stare sorrowful eyes at passers by before self combusting, colours red gold green and grey of smoke and ash and yet even the beauty of that moment is taken, as though the death of the phoenix were but a single flash bulb in a stadium of photographers...]


You can worry about the hard times, but you'd be missing the point. One of the greatest moments in cinematic history was when the Wizard of Oz went from black and white to colour. It's good to remember that. Man, a while ago I thought a misjudge in character on my part was the greatest tragedy of my life to date, which is hilarious, when you put things into perspective. And shit, I played the fucking part. Broken, I said. I ain't broken. Goats don't get broken, they keep moving, keep checking the scenery, eatin' some, then movin' on up (ok sure, occassionally there's need of a Primal Scream, but really it's always high melodrama...)

This morning I realised however, that if I hadn't have made the mind fuckingly stupid decisions I made over the last four, maybe five years, I wouldn't have devoured Bukowski and loved his poetry more than his books, wouldn't have discovered Henry Miller and understood what he was actually TALKING about in Tropic of Capricorn , I might never have thought to follow my own trail to pick up Celine, and Sherwood Anderson and, and, and...well, you know?

You don't have to suffer for art. But anytime you suffer, if you come out of it humbled and smiling, you'll find a cornucopia of rewards. If you're hungry, that first eye fillet is your first and final meal, if you're sad, those three chords and perfect lyric will show you a light, and those shivering, heart breakingly wise words will give you a brother in arms, even if they lived a hundred years before.

A few posts ago, maybe a month or so, an anonymous commenter said,

listen, buddy, in about ten years you'll realise that love is not such a black and white binary. it's not all or nothing, it's not pain or perfection. it's everything you can imagine wrapped up into a kind of dull package. and maybe you just take what you can get. and maybe near enough is better than the whole damn head-over-heels caper.

And I kind of agreed, I said, yes, but it's not as fun to write about that pragmatic view.

But really, I don't agree.

Love is all or nothing, Love is pain and perfection. And if I don't think that then what the fuck is worth shit in this life? Have poems been written, wars been fought, paintings been born, all in the name of compromise?

A toast, to True Mediocrity! May you live forever, in a general sort of pastel tinted niceness.


I choose to be a Knight, a believer in passion and explosions of the heart which both create and destroy in equal measures, a dreamworld, a mission motherfuckers, and if it's the most brainless, cockamamie, loony, kooky, imbecilic dream that Love can conquer the World and that one day a different society may exist through the simple power of positivity and romantic dreams, then leave me my Quest and put your stock in the devilish erosion of the body politic, a double for a doppleganger, and I will fight silently for the magic within as your Ruddy White Hero slays ancient forests with his Plan for Change. As you vote bane for bane, cancer for contagion, I will pray softly that they all drop dead, poisoned by themselves as scorpions.


In the meantime, it's keeping me and mine safe from harm, and eyeing a bold, white steed.

An escape.

*kicks boots in*


  1. hey there, that was me that wrote that. and i stand by it. and i stand by that you will realise it in 10 years. so you'd better still be here so i can check. okay?

    but i like your style and i like your passion and i like the way you still believe.

    and where the fuck is your facebook?


  2. I shall be here. Maybe. Ten years? Freak, I hope I'm not actually...

    It's there. Is easy to find. Where's yours?

  3. i've found yours but i can't get into it. if you know what i mean. i can't find your profile thingy.

    mine's under melba may. otherwise known on occasion as melba might. but more commonly, melba absolutely won't.

  4. I was with you until Henry Miller. I had a long and winding argument in a pub the other night about whether or not Henry Miller should be shot out of the canon into the sun, with the consensus being that thinking about it, he is probably already dead.

    In any case, to be sublimely nerdy, what is love if not utterly grayscale? Sure, the starkly bold tones of black and white exist, but they serve to provide contrast for hundreds of beautiful shades of grey. A bitmap love would leave me cold, I think - it's the depth and texture accrued by subtle variations in shade that make love such an exciting prospect. And here I abandon the metaphor of love as a .tif file, and decide to go to bed.

  5. Henry Miller and his wicked, saucy ways are misunderstood. If that's what you are referring to. I think too much focus is on his hunger for the finger bang, where as it's his passion and incredible brain which really get me sparky for him.

    And congratulations, you've actually rendered me punless with your zingy metaphor. Which is perhaps a first. I'll have to make a resolution that it does not happen again. Or perhaps I should sit at home until I hatch a jape egg.


  6. giff us a go! giff us a go!

  7. I would, except I've got to quickly shoot over to PNG.

  8. and i've got to go to the .doc for an RTF*.

    *Rigorous Tit Feel, previously known as breast examination.

  9. It's actually Miller's unapologetic misogyny that gets to me - I've studied enough saucy lit that my delicate sensibilities are unoffended by fingerbangs and the like.

    Oh, and I wouldn't have PICT you as a such a terrible punner...

  10. Funny, in his old age, he actualle became very apologetic. But enough of him, what about Nabokov. I mean, he's an amazing writer, even though his masterpiece is about a PDFile.

  11. [lays down pun stick with a debonair 'you win' flourish]