meanwhile, elsewhere…

Well, look at that! It’s Friday again already. This week has flown by, as do most weeks as you get older. You know the Eternal Footman is waiting to take your cloak. But who has time for that? I don’t. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But I know I’ll have to deal with him sooner or later. Until then, let the weekend begin.

From time to time, I like to flick through my old journal entries. You see, in addition to personal blogging, which is, in essence, a form public journal/diary, I also keep an offline journal, one reserved for me deepest, darkest thoughts. It’s also where I scribble out my poems and experimental fiction pieces. I’ve been hemming and hawing about publish another poetry book. I have one that is nearly ready. I just snickered to myself because it’s been nearly ready for a couple years now. I’m not a hundred percent sure what the hold up is.

As it’s the weekend, and my brain is a little fried, I thought I share with prose poem I wrote a while back. I was in a post-modern, surrealistic mood. I love playing with language. It is, after all, a virus, as William Burroughs said. You can slip language into a person’s mind, and cause all kinds of reaction. Even these 225 words you’ve read so far are having an affect on you of some sort.

And now I’m going to slip these words in and tinker with your mind a little more.

There were always cracks in the system. But somehow we missed or ignored the warning signs: the increased angst, dread, and anxiety; the war to end all wars; Oppenheimer’s deadly toy; women’s liberation; the sexual revolution; civil rights; Vietnam; Aids; an actor playing the part of the president; a president playing God. Stop. Get grip MR Lowe, you’re spiralling out of control again.

Where was I? Oh yes, God. Dead. Life. Meaningless.

It took us awhile to realise that if we wanted meaning, we’d have to make it for ourselves.

“No answers will be forthcoming”, said the priest who was the last human to see God alive. He then promptly committed suicide. The people were shocked. He was finally out from under God’s thumb, finally able to experience true freedom. Why would he commit suicide?

Several days later, when they were clearing his room, they stumbled upon the priest’s journal:

“There’s no way I can tell them what really happened. I wouldn’t have believed it if someone had told me. There was only one part that mattered, to me anyway. I don’t even know if I remember all of it. I can’t remember how it ended, exactly, but when it ended, I knew the question would drive me insane.”

How should I live?

Track of the Day: We Don’t Need Another Hero – Tina Turner

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