Intellectual Freedom, Creative Courtesy. Hochevar, Legion, and my life in wonderment.

 

Hochevar had came, toting a frosty, bicycling shorts and all, and we observe frost on the chicken's back too.

Redundancy gives a kind of sense to things, I told him, layers and insulations and installations and the pings and the pongs.  As Blake put it, not redundancy, but a more kind of synchronizing, a symmetry, like the spokes of a bicycle wheel, some pointing one way, and some another, but all each a radius from a kind of nexus, and in that, certainty is a deliberate illusion created by the system, that nature pumps and ca-jugs along whether there is certainty or not, and the only true certainty is but a few precepts of nature, and those that we only feel as if we can prove.

I do not mean the world is subjective, but your chains, some of those fetters, are different from those that assail my person; and some things are common, such as the common ailment or the common blessing, the common cursing, and the snow and rain.  Yet some things are quite unique in the interim; I do remember saying I had a unique life experience.

I had a kind of dispersion, a kind of reworking of the body scientific many years ago.  Indeed, I had turned over all the old ideas, to no avail.  Of the avail, I was ignoring the quite plain things in front of my very eyes, in place of much larger concepts which touched others, and not me at all.  They were talking about church glass, and I yelled and raged for two weeks thereafter.  It was a bad science filled with all sorts of variables, things I could sense, but not properly brush-across, while the things I need I brush-across lay in neglect.

What of science, that this was Eden, a dumpy little room, with a desk, shelves, two monitors, a chair: a dumpy little room with a man seeking to answer his own questions, and that not being curiosity, per se, but a kind of initialization of the universe.  In that I remembered a conscious moment before my first birthday.  They said it was impossible for me to remember such, but I even remember what I was thinking.  The novelty of the event led it to be memorable for the others; I was loud, in this moment, having a very conscious moment in the life of a happy less conscious child.

What of this consciousness but not an assailing from the world proper? 

I had detected my own spark of life; and even at months old, I remember the room, the people, I knew where I was, I knew how I'd got there, I knew who was there.

My own little spark of life, and would you believe...

it didn't make me happy.  Quite honestly, it was weird, to be alive, I was looking around at a room filled with people, and the whole experience of living at once seemed so very lamentable, not that there was a problem in the place, nor the doings, but in simply being that particularly conscious of anything: it was not fun at all.

There was a grayscale world this morning along the seaboard, and it was that particularly light and dark of frost.

Hochevar dipped his tortilla-colored fingers into a glass of some kind of stuff and went to work at his art; his art was life, and I was but one dismal corner of the canvas, and an uncheerful but not too upset, little corner of a much more vast cornucopia.  I took one really long, slow breath as he began, and I spat where the lawn meets the flower bed.

The outline of frosty coconuts, and that vaguely resembling that classic family head shape; the baldness, the profound kind of angularity of the skull aft the crown, that kind of symmetrical thing.  I had that moment at Walmart in Rockingham too, watching the back of my bald head in the monitor, the camera behind, the monitor in front; it wasn't quite so much a security camera, but a kind of employee compliance camera, and I was watching male pattern baldness, a contest I had quite put many under the table in conquest, the jettison-action of the dying tree, the hanging tree, the scalp underneath, bad earth, and bad earth brook no good fruit.

"Paint your horrid sh*tstorm, Hochevar, and if it looks vaguely familiar to me, perhaps I'll curse it too with a sort of consciousness that is bewildering, an unemotional bewilderment."

Perhaps this was Legion, forcing a herd into the sea.  I have a vision of their horrified and simultaneously outraged bulged porcine eyes; they made a go of it, the Long Swim to China, not to befuddle Legion maybe, but because something of it seemed familiar.

"I adjure thee, thou Son of the Most High, torment me not."

To the madman, the Son was a psychiatrist, a therapist.

To the stuck screw, he was oil.

To the rash and raw, a balm.

To those requiring guidance and overseeing, a Shepherd.

To the hungry, the Bread of Life.

To the thirsty, Living Water.

To the reader, the Word.

To the concept of time, a constant.

To the criminal, forgiveness.

To the downtrodden, hope.

He is the bootleg handbag that upstaged its more expensive Italian twin; he is the plate of beans, perhaps, given to Esau as consolation and reward.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you for your interest in the material. Feel free to post, and speak your mind. "Democracy is the conundrum in which good peoples repair."

Rolling on with Women's Month movie-watchin'.

Virginia Woolf:   She spoke of striving to find a new narrative method.   Mrs Dolloway?  Orlando?  To The Lighthouse? "You don't li...