Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Unveiled Massacre Mind

I am one of those people who used to dream about somehow acquiring a nuclear weapon and detonating the device in the heart of the Citadel, or, The Fat Apple, or New York City.  York.  What a terrible word to name the preeminent city of a country that isn't Enlgand.  It's like giving England a blow job every time the name is uttered.  I can't understand how after the revolutionary war took place American's still retained the nomenclature of their bygone, abusive, and belligerent fatherland.  I also remember some school shooting or another occurring during high school and the next day I went into class relishing, brooding, sexualizing the thoughts of what a bloody massacre would be like in my Western Civilization class.

When I was younger I used to roam the construction sites of new homes that came to occupy the field where the kids of the neighborhood used to lark and romp.  I did this with my best friend Timmy.  On the rainy day that I arrived riding in the ugly family golden boat of a Chevrolet  into the drive of my families new home in Touchstone Estates, there was Timmy with a Tonka Truck digging foundations for some massive plan in the muddy expanse of the front yard which had not yet been outfitted with the abomination of America: the grass turf surface.  That is as far as memory permits in that event, but, as the story goes we became inseparable best friends.  Before the houses were planned and built we roamed the grassy open field over turning any boards or tree limbs in search of snakes.  One day we became quite industrious and taped a collapsed box together and went foraging.  We collected at least a dozen snakes that day and the only thing that stands out in my mind is how after we put the snakes in the box the snakes would stick to the exposed surfaces of tape and writhe and stretch their skin grotesquely trying to free themselves from their capture.  We also used to be delighted to find mouse bones on the ground that the owls excreted and set booby traps with string to trip up anyone who wasn't supposed to be in the field.

After the field was cleared in order to develop the land into an extension of our neighborhood, Timmy and I would walk into the houses and cut the wires of the brand new furnaces that were being installed.  We would launch glass bottles as far as we could into the air and watch them shatter into pieces as they hit pavement.  We wrote our names into newly poured cement of garage floors.  After this incident the police investigated and showed up at both of our houses attempting to right the wrong that had been perpetrated with a finger shaking and a warning as if this would do the trick on a couple of wayward young boys.  One summer, when there were dirt piles all over the place due to the digging of ditches for pipes, every kid in the neighborhood by the hand of some mysterious force gathered in the construction zone and a war ensued.  Factions formed and the endless supply of dirt clods gave everyone all the ammo they would need to perpetrate a pegging on the enemy.  With the ample supply of nails that we found in the houses being constructed, by night we furtively propped them up against tires with the points aimed directly into the rubber so that when the cars were driven in reverse a puncture would occur.

I guess it is no wonder then that I would wake up in my high school class one day dreaming about massacring everyone there.  And I did this without a conscience, without a second thought, without remorse, in cold blood and so matter of fact that I considered it a natural part of existence.  Mind you, this was a single morning not a prolonged protracted brooding that came and went like the passing of the sun.   It was not until much later after the Trade Center Towers were destroyed, a number of years in fact, during which the time I began to lapse into my longest bout of sustained insanity and a ferocious, fervent daily, moment to moment desire to smuggle a nuclear device into The Greatest City ever constructed and to detonate it.  Every time I thought of this it was like an a mentally driven emotional orgasm.  Constantly, day in and day out.  I studied physics in college and had no idea how to write anything the years directly following my time at a learning institution because I was so immersed in calculations and mathematical equations and physical laws that my mind simply did not operate on a word basis.  Nevertheless, I was provoked at the time to take up the pen and begin to write a terribly abortive play which I was to send to my physics adviser in college who ran a one act play contest.  The only thing I remember from the that spiteful day when the towers exploded was passing by my grey haired physics professor - who was an ex-air force tech operator and favored Kant over Nietzsche at a school where Nietzsche was labeled as an adolescent philosopher  which is a childish and immature perspective given Nietzsche will have more fame and life after death than all of those lousy professors combined and so much more - after the news had hit and catching him in a worried frenzy of anxiety mumbling something or another to me as he passed.  For all he knew it was WWIII beginning.  I don't think that would have phased me a bit.  I went to the student center and quietly ate my lunch and watched the pictures of the burning toppling towers on television without a single emotion.  When there are 7 billion people on this earth, what is the death of two thousand people when the daily world death rate is over one hundred thousand souls?  Governmental instigation of atrocities...  Who wants to be involved with their games anyway?

I feel like a technologically advanced Maldoror.  I am reminded of an introductory quote to Demons by Dostoevsky after writing this today.

"Now a large herd of swine was feeding there on the hillside; and they begged him to let them enter these.  So he gave them leave.  Then the demons came out of the man and entered the swine, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and were drowned.

When the herdsman saw what had happened they fled, and told it in the city and in the country.  Then people went out to see what had happened, and they came to Jesus, and found the man from whom the demons had gone, sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind; and they were afraid.  And those who had seen it told them how he who had been possessed with demons was healed."  Luke 8:32-36.

It is the summer solstice today.  I do not claim to be healed.  Global warming lurks ever present breathing down the nape of the world.  Love, empathy, care never seemed so non-existent today.  I felt lonely driving to the store.  Not from lack of people attention but from lack of schizo divinity incarnations.  There is no reason to care.  As the sun blistered death at its yearly zenith a soothing placidity and almost joy overcame me and I thought of Emerson and his essay compensation sitting watching a pretty girl pass me by:

The wings of Time are black and white,
Pied with morning and with night.
Mountain tall and ocean deep
Trembling balance duly keep.
In changing moon, in tidal wave,
Glows the feud of Want and Have.
Gauge of more and less through space
Electric star and pencil plays.
The lonely Earth amid the balls
That hurry through the eternal halls,
A makeweight flying to the void,
Supplemental asteroid,
Or compensatory spark,
Shoots across the neutral Dark.

Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine;
Stanch and strong the tendrils twine:
Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,
None from its stock that vine can reave.
Fear not, then, thou child infirm,
There's no god dare wrong a worm.
Laurel crowns cleave to deserts,
And power to him who power exerts;
Hast not thy share? On winged feet,
Lo! it rushes thee to meet;
And all that Nature made thy own,
Floating in air or pent in stone,
Will rive the hills and swim the sea,
And, like thy shadow, follow thee.


Song of Nature by Henry David Thoreau

Song of Nature 


Henry David Thoreau

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gull of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.

I hide in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life
And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers
My gardens ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.

I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.

And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;

What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.

Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and piled the layers
Of granite, marl and shell.

But he, the man-child glorious, -
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.

My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.

Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?

Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;

I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?

I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.

Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day and one of night
And one of the salt sea-sand.

One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.

I moulded kings and saviors,
And bards o'er kings to rule; -
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, Fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.