Engines and Creation

Fall is passing and the temperature has been steadily declining and making it more and more difficult to truly enjoy all the late-night stoop-sitting I feel is necessary to maintain whatever precarious Balance may yet remain in my life.
I don’t think anybody really appreciates it; the way it lives inside me and wells up at times, like a primordial call that echoes back from some distant and ancient ancestor who sat out in front of his cave on all those long, pre-historic nights just waiting for the cave-ladies to pass by so he could ogle them safely from a distance without fear of one of them laying some serious whip-ass on him with one of those wicked, heavy clubs they all carried around back in those days. It was the Ultimate Rejection and the genetic signal still dwells uneasily in my blood, reminding me of the dire consequences of how quickly things might go South if I fail to meet all the appropriate requirements. And it’s a hard thing to ignore.

But so are a lot of other things these days and that’s why I don’t think anyone understands my need to sit out there and watch the world go by as I brood over the Nature of things.

Like reflecting on how I can never seem to acquire the courage of my consistently high-minded convictions or how the subtleties of the life I imagined for myself will never really match the hard carnival of my reality. Or how a man needs solitude and quiet sometimes so that he can look back through his own glass darkly and give his neuroses the kind of Real Attention that they deserve…and cold weather be damned.
Although sometimes the solution can be much less heart-rending and soul-searching than all that. Yes…sometimes a very physical and ephemeral solution can be found to work out the psychological kinks in the system. If I could just get my hands on what I really want tonight.



But those days are behind me now.

So I’ll keep to it and remain out there until this mystery unravels itself for me and I will commune with the things I have long suspected and now must face as unlevel certainties.

And it goes like this:

The sidereal manifesto is written nightly in the firmament and there is a madness that envelopes the inexperienced soul when it recognizes a Truth that few others can see. And it shines like a dying fire in the last midnight of remembrance when they once came close to warm themselves at the blazing ravings pouring out of a senseless mouth that once made them suspect that there might be something here worth seeing, worth knowing, worth saving. But the closeness of proximity will only cause them to get burned and force them, at the last, to pull back and see enemies where friends once stood.

And they will take what they need and what they want and what they can salvage and dress it up to suit some new need that has been so long festering within them that they can’t even recall where they picked it up; but the infection has been so long in the blood that it has become part and parcel of what they think they have learned and, sadly, that is enough for them.

We can never know the weight of another man’s World until we have born it upon our own shoulders and it is a nontransferable burden that we can only lay down for ourselves. And, if you could see what I see, you’d know better than to call out answers from the Cheap Seats. The Edge is out there…somewhere. And the only people who ever really understand where it is and how to get there are the ones who have already gone over it.

And the Night Sky will go about its business and the Stars will burn down upon us; teaching Secret Lessons to those with ears to hear. They have forged their place above us in the slow, holy groan of Eternity and they will live out their Quiet lives of fire and churn up, from somewhere deep in their sublime engines, the molten gold of pure creation.

And those who pass through to figure out that seeing, feeling and being are all just other words for Knowing will be twisted by the touch of something everybody wants but can never really have.


And Now…back to the Porn.