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,
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.