Okay it's the holidays and that ALWAYS means Mom. She loved collecting Santas and talking at kitchen tables with snacks. And then, we let men in white coats backed by corporate deacons and the church of Health, Medicine & Wellbeing poison and radiate her to death at the ripe old age of 54, right before my sibling's and lost father's eyes.
Of course, as the Book would have it, I was far away in Hollywood, but I did come home to see The End.
Ah yes, and then there's him. Daddy. After a few short years with his only friend gone and two years barely into retirement, alone in a stripped-down house with NO SANTAS, no color, and no spirit, it finally was his turn.
His lungs of all things; what a Lucky Strike. I remember being sent on the errands, money in hand and a short bribe on top, to go walk to the gas station each weekend and buy the cigarettes that killed him.
Oh, how I'm Witness!
Yeah so holidays always kinda brought me down. I was gonna say "bring" but nah, I feel the spirit this season -- I do. But it ain't no Jesus spurring me on. It's Light as a theme and love of Home. But they won't stop reading the wrong book out there! He's the reason for the season, they all say, and cite that stupid, Kubric monolith (one rock) of a Black Book everyone still thinks is really history.
The only Bible is the book you live every day, and you read this Book by noting all the irony and synchronicity of your each and every hour -- the silly coincidences that only Authors can come up with. And then it Dawns on you. You ARE the Bible, not God! Wow! Just a pretty Damned-Good Read. See? Both ways the Word "read," -- one Way Once Done, and the other -- to Do. So Merry Christmas.
To the Three Magicians and a Star!
To a poor bastard kid.
[a stubborn life] || sweet boy, the hive came crashing down today | cracked open on the driveway | sweet boy, the bee queen fled here from the smoke | the day i burned the roses | i dreamed i gave her new wings for her flight | the once she owned just didn't fit right | sweet boy, there is this stubborn life | cracking me open like the bee hive | somewhere somewhere somewhere inside | sweet boy, if you ever made me cry, | it was from all the tender things you've said | sleep tight, and when you wake up again | it is my time to go to bed | like every every every night, okay? ||
"That which triggers off an affect, that which effectuates a power to be affected, is called a signal: the web stirs, the scalp creases, a little skin is bared. Nothing but a few signs like stars in an immense black night. Spider-becoming, flea-becoming, tick-becoming, an unknown, resilient, obscure, stubborn life." (Dialogues, 61)
a footnote to Mom and Dad - their Bibles were beautiful books, and are still, and holy; I have rite and live their stories every day. Heck, I've even created hymns. They are Genesis to me.
THere's a lot there, huh? I need to read and reread this, and see how deep I can get, for I am skating the surface.
The bible... is a hologram. We not only are the bible, we live in it.
The Empire Never Ended.
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