Savage Mood

A parabola is the trajectory a projectile follows that gravity feeds as gravity feeds everything in space with its ferocious magnetism and repulsive force depending on where you are how situated you are in relation to everything else and that’s a parabola. Parabola the parable of the bowl. Parabola the bowl of parakeets in a parakeet cage lined with newspaper which is lined with the distortions and tragedies of its day.

And what’s the feeling of the hand with a fork in it? The tines are signs of penetration in the glory of a moment too quiet to be fully understood. It’s the secrets in wax that glow in the flame dancing at the tip. That illumine a room illumine a skull illumines the darkness so brightly the darkness grows plump and palpable in that strange new heat arousing the muscle beating the heart the heart making it beat beat beat.

I feel increasingly alien, lost, detached and reattached simultaneously. I feel I belong to something ancient that’s no longer in evidence, that’s been crushed by commodity, industry, that ugly word, industry, yuk, I get antagonized immediately as soon as I hear both those words: industry and commodity. I like things, I like food, I like having money, I like being able to procure items when I want them, whether I need them to sustain comfort and life, or if I just want to indulge in some luxury. But these desires are also burdensome. Confining. Driving. Beguiling. What desire was ever liberating?

When I hear the word ‘industry’ I hear the clank of chains, I hear the rhythms and deadening syntax of monotony, of the extraction of resources and giant holes in the ground, the stink of diesel, the stench of exhaustion, the obliviousness to anything sublime and beautiful. Acerbity rises in me, my blood turns caustic, acidic. I want to escape all this, as I want to destroy it, alter it, turn it back to renewal and interaction with the cosmos and its billions of stars and black energies of light.

You really can’t exaggerate anything these days, that’s how bad they’ve gotten. 7,000 people quarantined on a cruise ship outside Civitavecchia, Italy. The coronavirus is freaking everyone out. A woman of Chinese nationality came down with the flu. The passengers and crew waited for the results of tests carried out by a medical team from Rome’s Lazzaro Spallanzani National Institute for Infectious Diseases. And the woman just had a normal case of flu not the dreaded coronavirus, which are enveloped viruses with a nucleocapsid of helical symmetry that have an incubation period from two to fourteen days. Its name comes Latin corona, meaning crown or halo, which refers to the fringe of the virions (virus particles), which resemble a royal crown or solar corona. If you’re going to come down the flu it might as well be something imperial. Lethal, but regal.

But what I find gross is the ginormous cruise ship – the Costa Smeralda – with its 2,641 staterooms, suites and cabins. What’s a ship that big doing on a poor old ocean dying of asphyxiation from too much carbon dioxide and plastic? Don’t have people something better to do than float around stuffing their pieholes with food and booze on a colossal shopping mall at sea? The world is round but the people on it are obtuse rectal rhombi with supplementary angles and diarrhetic hemorrhoids. Completely disconnected. No sense of reality at all. But good at reproduction. I’ll give them that. They know to fuck and pop babies out. And this results in great appetites and lunatic ambitions. The people want more and more and more from a finite ball in space. It isn’t huge, it isn’t small. It’s just a pretty ball of swans and lakes and waterfalls and trees. Pimentos and hickory and bees. Emeralds and eggs and photoelectric emissons. But it can take only so much before it collapses and its yachts and apricots begin to decompose and rot.

I blow on my fingers and wait for the sun to rise in the east. I hear the groan and rattle of a garbage truck. The chirp of robins. What happened to my life, I wonder, where did it all go?

And isn’t earth the ultimate cruise ship?

I need a new alchemy. I need a new way to break the filigree of overwrought thought into vapory ringlets of nebular oblivion. I need the alchemy of experience and the alchemy of trinkets. The alchemy of words and the alchemy of herbs. The alchemy of ancient wizards in old cold craggy castles. The wind raging. The crows cawing. The eerie colors of chemicals, red and green and pink bubbling in glass beakers. The hiss and sizzle of molten metals. The aura of the otherworldly surrounding anything that might catch a little light. And outside the stars send their light shooting across millions of light years of cold dark space. Places where space melts and known laws disappear. We were here, they say, we were here.