Tuesday, July 7, 2009

rhetorical answer

The hardest part is letting go. No one wants to and it just makes so much sense to hold on! It goes against all subjective logic. "One must believe in something!" One must have a path or a guiding star, right?

Caught by an intense and unfamiliar feeling, I grabbed my bike and rode north. Past broken car windows, past abandoned houses, past an entire block of hair salons, past friends houses, past the enemies houses, past bureaucratized educators and past houses too large to not have slaves, or maids and landscapers as is the PC term. Past my past, future, and many parallel universes where I could have stayed home and created this whole experience in my head. Fucking hell it was hot but that was the idea.

I had to be on a high peak of a mountain looking down at trees over a vast landscape. I had seen in many dreams and many scenes of friends of henry chinasky sing his same old song, praise be that drunken poet. The feeling tore at my nerve endings and every internal breathing mechanism my body contained. The image was so vivid I sometimes would feel as if I was there already and without stopping, riding at full speed off of the peak.

I don't know where I ended up. The surrounding area reminded me of a time in my childhood when I ran so deep into the woods that I no longer remembered how to get back to the safety of my suburban domicile. It was the first time I remember feeling both fucked completely and alive at the same time. It was beautiful.

As my legs found the best place to stop, I had forgotten the point of my journey. Why did I leave the confines of formal logic and "common sense"? Was it something external guiding my path? Allah? Hoffman? Adorno? Byrd? Was it the human condition itself or was it some capitalist plot set on a fleeting bit of "control", praise be yet again. Was it anything at all?

I hid my bike, locked to a tree, from the prying eyes of any state pig that may happen to be stalking the back roads for speeding loose women so that they may live out their tragic but still very acceptable and bourgeois fantasies. It was very dark and there was no way I was expected to remember a flash light in my manic escape. By my amazement I did remember a pen and paper though. That and the bike lock are now instinct. I continue through the pitch black woods with only the image in my head of my destination. Lost. Fucked. Happy. Progressive.

Up and up past animals who were confused but seemingly indifferent to my cause. I can see patches of sky through the trees up ahead. Stars shine through that are impossible to see even on the clearest of nights on the roof of my building in the city. The clearing is finally up ahead. I made it somehow. The peak only mildly resembles my vision but fuck it, life isn't an exact science. C'est la vie. This will do. The image instilled in my head is probably just a movie still anyway.

I step on to the rock and slip. Of course. It's dark and I don't know shit about my surroundings. Pissed at my obliviousness. Afraid of the imminent pain coming to me. Hanging off of a drop that might not kill me but definitely would hurt immensely. The future, praise be. The pain, praise be. The hardest part about hanging there is the realization of having to let go. As my fingers slipped from the rock I understood why I was there. To let go. No more praise. No fear. No longer elevating unworthy individuals, as if any are that at all. No Monuments. Kill yr idols. Fuck the police and the intellectual all the same. Fuck hanging on to nothing, I was there to just fall.

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