It's not the End of the World as We Know It. It's just the end.

The Rock n Roll equivalent of snake-handlers, O'Connor's good men so hard to find, apocalyptic visions with the contempt for a fallen world, they make YHWH out to be the badass of the old testament, and they, reveal the world we live in as the stink and the diddy; a world in which Christ's sacrifice is little more than a gesture, a raised middle finger to humanity's ability to lie, cheat and murder.

In a world where the only heroes are as monstrous as their nemeses, Achilles all, with Hector's body dragged through the mud, where the only interceding angel is a Stagger Lee and "four holes in the mother-fucking head," the very concept of divine grace becomes inverted, salvation is death, and divine grace a psychopath with a gun.



These men of God, these scourges released onto an unsuspecting world nevertheless deserving of this tribulation, these men are the Judge of Blood Meridian, the Iagos of a fallen planet, the Caliban in this tempest of sin, and Prospero is either entirely missing, or else he is one bad motherfucker, and pissed as shit at whoever woke him.




This is not a world where tribulation and rapture are some dates in the future, as meticulously planned as weddings, but one in which tribulation is a rapist on the loose, and rapture comes at the end of a gun.

lies lies lies

Monument

three packs of cigarettes. twenty apiece that makes sixty, makes sixty hours I can keep this up, between six pack and bottle of wine means one beer for 10 cigarettes, which in turn means 1.12 oz of beer per hour, and then also allowing for 12.5 mL of wine, which when converted from metric becomes 0.4228 oz. On a little more than an espresso shot worth of fluid I can finish this I can write this hour by hour until I go back to work again.


See, it's a problem of scale. There's the underlining problem, the one that starts off with a feeling of listlessness in the afternoon, and by evening theres the obsessive, the compulsive need - to break down, to talk, to shout, to scream, or just to hit the refresh button on this until it bears some relevancy in this world, at this time. It won't. I'm pretty sure about that. But back to the problem of scaling. My solution to the underlying problem is to go to the druid, and I simply cannot scale this up to deal with every night. I can write in this blog, which is a poor attempt at not going to the druid, and I could probably call someone. None of this satisfactory. Right now, nothing helps me to sleep more than eight or nine guinness. Less than that are the optimistic dreams, waking up in disappointment, or the confusing ones, waking up to an overwhelming sense of doom. This all sounds dramatic, doesn't it? This all sounds like, well, what did you expect?




I am better than this, better than these nights of spilled out talent, better than these nights of obsessive paralysis, better than this desperation. It was easier to be better than this, once. Even small gestures betray me. Just don't make me beg.

Half in the Shadows

I crossed into a valley, a valley so dark, then when I looked back, I can't see where I began. I can't see my hands; I don't even know if my eyes are open.



I feel like I should be at the druid right now.



You know, a year and a half ago, I wouldn't have thought that any of this was possible.







A year and a half ago I was between JP and Cambridge. A year and half ago -

I still need to wrap presents.

Christmas Wishes.

New post also on the sister blog.

Well, technically, three new posts. And it needs editing. But some people need to know that despite the soul-killing nature of living with them I am capable of producing - well, crap. I hope you all get hit by buses.

A Rejuvenation of Will

I guess that pretty much sums it up.

The Miserable Return of the Triumphant Blog

(Or starting over on no new footing, really no footing whatsoever.)


A soundtrack for this holiday season:
Mountain Goats - Game Shows Touch Our Lives
Wrens - Happy
Nick Cave - Gates to the Garden
Replacements - Unsatisfied



Then stay in doors for three days with nothing but a molding pot of soup.

And all the life you thought you had will shudder and fade like old film stock.