FireVaney

"...but it is in despair that the most burning pleasures occur, especially when one is all too highly conscious of the hopelessness of one's position." ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky , Notes From Underground

Imagine a long, bare stage with an ornate proscenium arch. This is a 1920s era palace theatre. Rot pervades, vandalism abounds. On stage, TWO MEN are hit with a white-hot spotlight. A fog of dust wafts through the beam. One of the MEN, dressed to the nines, stands center stage; beside him, the other, clad in rags, is down on all fours. Both remain stock-still until the MAN on his hands and knees turns and sniffs the STANDING MAN’S right leg. The STANDING MAN commences to tremble and perspire; a stream of urine darkens his trousers, dampens his socks, and pools on the stage around his loafers. Sensing (and smelling) the fear, the DOG MAN growls and abruptly bites the STANDING MAN’S leg. The STANDING MAN bursts into a fit of laughter. The DOG MAN looks up at the STANDING MAN with an inquisitive double take; then, as if seeking assistance, he looks out over the empty, ripped up seats of the auditorium. Finally, he tugs at the STANDING MAN’S trousers. The STANDING MAN continues...

Initially, I was aiming for irony and penitence with this post. I had titled it: “Goodbye.” It was five hundred words typed and revised and revised and revised across the past three days and it still amounted to crap. I wrote about guilt, about not saying goodbye, about leaving “things” dangling; and then I tried rationalizing it all. But it was crap; it was bullshit. I tried to clean it up, but the only way to clean up bullshit… Well, to tell the truth, I’ve never dealt with bullshit, so I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with it. I imagine a big shovel is involved. So let’s say it wasn’t bullshit; let’s say it was just common, run-of-the-mill human shit. Or dog shit. Whichever kind of shit you like (save for the aforementioned bullshit). And the only way to deal with shit is to bag and trash it, or flush it down the toilet. We all know this. I don’t know why I feel the need to state the obvious. It’s something old folks do and I’m neck-deep in old folks. Oh, yes, that...

"But what you are left with is a premonition of the way your life will fade behind you, like a book you have read too quickly, leaving a dwindling trail of images and emotions, until all you can remember is a name." ~ Jay McInerney , Bright Lights, Big City (p.127)