marching under blue skies

Life is so damn fucking funny … sometimes. Nota bene: fuck is my new pejorative; decadent please place yourself on stand-by. Amen. But seriously, fuck is such a fantastic word; it can be anything. It’s sort of God-like but never corporeal mind you!

But seriously now, for the intent of this … whatever this is; I do ask myself this many a time.

Earlier to-day I looked at my new year’s reflexion of 2003. Now, those were warm and fussy times, at least I’d like to tell myself this. No, those were not simply warm and fussy times, as I put it ever-so-quaintly, no, they were characteristics of a fantastic world, a very distinct and altogether a differetn universe! But let’s not fool ourselves: we never go to bed and arise to discover that nothing is as it was before. Change is slow and palpable, a fantastic banana slug except it pours the salt on us.

But concerning the reflexion, it was so trite; so un-me (yes, we lunatics are so dramatic at times). What happened, could someone of my genius have written such … noble sentiments (oh I am much to kind on myself tonight)? No, nothing happened. Whoever wrote that rubbish … yes, I’d qualify it as utter rubbish … was not me. No, he was someone else. Perhaps he was that idiot that believed in all that nonsense that I would expatiate on but I no longer care for. We are different people now.

I am different. I have progressed! Oh how I hate this word. Tit for tat! Let’s rephrase this, before this word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “I have changed”. Yes, it has a more dull feel to it. I have changed and indeed, how I have changed!

For better or for worse, does it really matter? Were I now wallowing in mud or feeding utterly wretched beings in the Third World à la Mère Thérèse, it would not hamper the ultimate teleos. Yes my friends: death.

I must digress but in a sense it is a deliberate digression that will take me to the crux of this … whatever this is.

We Westerners are ever-so-scared of death. It is taboo to speak of the subject; worse is suicide. Suicide is such a horrible thing. Why? Our Western religions – Christianity and Islam (yes Islam is a Western religion) paint this fantastic and heavenly kindgom. Whoever said sequels were never up to stuff when compared to to their progenitors? The heavenly kingdom, that delightful paradise where mankind pays obeisance to Him is a grand improvement on the Garden of Eden where Adam and Eva are so daft they cannot throws themselves prostrate to God, as is due and proper to such a wonderful being.

The Muslims go one step further, they emphasize the streams that water this heavenly garden and guarantee a seraglio of virgins with dark eyes and pale skin to every man. Sign me up! Somehow the Muslim heaven seems more realistic – it takes into account the carnality of mankind and literraly man-kind. One is left wondering, what do women get in heaven? The Qur’an never bestows upon women the equivalent; that would be tantamount to offending male pride! But yes, the Christian version is too boring. Come on, paying praise to God over and over, dressed in white. Sounds rather cultish … er … no? Heh.

The Japanese have an array of words that mean suicide. There is an art to suicide; it is honorable. Perhaps it is my appreciation of suicide and its value and virtue, that cause the narration by Plutarch of Cato’s suicide to leave me amazed. Not in the sense that I was shocked but in the sense of wow, that was awesome! I don’t know. Suicide is a human phenomenon. How does Satan’s quote go … nihil est … in The Brother’s Karamazov? Blast if I recall … I don’t wish to misquote, as he does, I suspect it would not be as beautiful or laudable. But yes, the character of the Devil is beautiful … and what he says about God … ah simply divine. Had it come out of the mouth of a human character, it would not have had the same effect.

Let it be known: I am in no rush to take my own life. Far be it from me from entertaining such thoughts, but I think it is healthy to think about death and all its implications. When I die, I want honesty. I am not perfect, in fact, I feed my defects, I work on my flaws. I love my imperfections, let’s be honest, otherwise I’d change them. My lover, the ideal one at least, must love these imperfectios too. They are the spots on my leopard skin! I’d be naked without them! What a horrible thought!

Now, lately I have spoken with someone (yes I am breaking one of my rules where I do not mention anyone in my life – yes I do mention my parents on occasion, but they are not in my life) and we have spoken about death. I have a morbid fascination with death. Why? It is that great thing that has yet to be explored honestly and truthfully. For now, we have been fed myths, noble perhaps, but myths none-the-less. But perhaps all we can come up with are myths, temporary lies. I don’t know and honestly I don’t care. Yet he did not seemed shocked … it was if we were talking about the weather, or any other triviliaty that is exchanged between human beings sans pause.

This now takes me another point of interest. When I decided to return to St. John’s sometime this past summer, I realized that I might suffer a change of heart, after all I am to return to a school that is nothing like I recall. A lot may happen in a year’s time. The fantastic characters that filled the first volume of the novel that is this tragedy are for the most part gone. The me that could be described as extremely sheltered or even better, ‘precious’, is no more.

I am scared. The question arises: do I want to go back? Yes but not without doubts. Yet it would be absurd to simply decide not to return after all. Yes, the year would have been waisted, this long year of waiting when I could have matriculated in Seattle (a fantastic place that to this day has my imagination doing pirouettes on air). Where would I go, dare I bring my friends and loved ones more confusion?

– Where are you my dear? – Oh somewhere. – Oh yes? – Indeed. – Not DC? Ah no… that did not work out as I expected. – Well, yes sometimes things do not work out as we expected. – True. Such wisdom! Its simplicity is music to my ears! – And how do you enjoy this somewhere? – As much as one can enjoy a somewhere. – Indeed.

Few know that I am back in New Mexico. It’s not shocking, I am rather disconnected from almost everyone, partly because of shame. I am a prideful person. My experiment with love failed, I lost my head and I tried to kill myself. There was a bit of histrionics in the whole affair, but quite limited and in fact, insignificant. It was all rather calculated. But there was something … that goaded me onward. Perhaps the desire to inflict punishment, to mortify my intellect, was too good to pass. So I decided to live. Perhaps it was staring into my sweet love’s eyes that made me realize that I would not be able to contemplate his existence any more. How fatalistic and romantic. I shall hurl, I thought I had changed?

But now I am exhausted. I do not wish for this mortification of the mind. No. I want love and happiness.. But with moderation of course. I want sensible passion, palatable ardor. I can’t have all that I want. I must be cautious until I feel like being rash. For now I do not see myself being rash. But returning to St. John’s does seem like a continuation of the abnegation and asphyxiation of the self.

I am seeing perfectly, I am thinking clearly, but for all those that believe me to be a pessimist and a cynic, I might surprise them. The flaming atheist might prove to be a passionate soul again consumed by the contagion of youth. All change is after all … putative.