Writhing In My Insect Fear

I don’t like how sometimes you can see light through your fingers.  It reminds me how thin humans are.  My soul has felt pretty thin lately. Aside from that there have been a rash of people that have tried to find me, search me out.  Let me pose this warning to all would be glory seekers; I am to you as the yeti to the Himalayan explorer – exciting and dangerous all at once.  A beer keg in the trunk of a cop car.  It has been said by some that there is no “Meatgrinder”, that I do not exist.  The mad scrawling here is the work of many authors, or even none.  Let me assure everybody that every single solitary syllable was my own creation.  Mine.  Every grizzly piece of prose present on this website is signed with an ‘M’ by a bloody finger, like the forehead of a mortally wounded patient given morphine by a field medic in some 3^rd world hell hole.  The bloody ‘M’ announcing to all that the man is both damned and delivered simultaneously.  I started this website to help me cope.  To help me vent the madness of war and this modern life.  To help me figure out what the fuck was going on and at the same time to be my epitaph.  That being said, fuck it, seek me out.  Buy me a beer, punch me in the mouth.  Maybe you’ll make the next posting.  In a play even the audience is part of the performance.  In this swirling maelstrom why shouldn’t art imitate life imitating art.

Live humbly, die nobly!? Bullshit.  Live nobly, die miserably.  That’s the way I want it.  I want to go out kicking and screaming and fighting against the darkness.  I’m just a troubled ape walking around on a giant ball of dirt.  Kick and mock me as I spiral towards infinity.  My words are the death rattle of my failed life.

I’ve been puking a lot lately.  I’ve been just washing my mouth out with beer, happens when I’m drinking mostly.  I walk down the street from the bar.  A crusty old bum lays sleeping under cardboard.  He has about half a million more dollars than me, give or take some pocket change, and yet he is the beggar.  I am entombed in debt – it is the modern day replacement for original sin.  His weapon is guilt, my weakness is ambition.  Decadence.  I don’t need or want it, but nobody tells Buddy Holly how to play Buddy Holly god damn it.  I’ve been wandering in the desert, but sticking your head in the sand doesn’t make the world go away.  Pain.  It takes a long time to get over it – it is almost sensual in that way.  Romance is simply actions, moving slowly towards anticipation.  Guilt.  What a senseless waste.  It’s Christian roots sicken me.  Irritate me immensely.  I don’t want to be victim to it but the streets are filled with regret.  Alone in this circumstance.  There are so few people who can even understand the context of my complaint even if there were to be one.  The Rosetta stone is missing.  I’m left speaking a dead language hoping and expecting the nuance of my inflection to be appreciated.  All the while I am perceived as unintelligible, erratic, insane.  People with such meticulously crafted lives need to call me crazy, because the whole house of cards comes down if I’m not.  For the wealthy money is taboo.  Discussing money is vulgar – in poor taste.  For the soldier maybe killing is the taboo.  Maybe mortality or experiences on the very brink of existence.  Many rich people try and feign importance because they’re not important.  They can’t be.  Their wealth actually precludes them from it.  For the soldier maybe it’s the same thing.  You have all these accomplishments, large and small, physical, emotional, intellectual.  And nobody will ever understand it, can’t even see it, and don’t care.  They pretend like they want to care, because appearing to care about this shit can improve your social status, but nobody really cares.  An army of yes men.  Again I am Huxley’s savage, prostrating myself in existential terror, misinterpreted, debauched.  As a soldier your life and achievements are lost.  There is that commonality almost.  The thing you want to talk about the most is the last thing you are permitted to by your own set of rules.

“Roy: I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the darkness at Tan Hauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain. Time to die.” – Blade Runner (1982)

Modern samurai with doctorate degrees sitting on the skid of a little bird – that’s what’s going on.  This is the cream of America’s crop.  This is the cream of humanity’s crop.  Doctors, lawyers, poets, and philosophers – all philosophers.  For some all their poetry written in blood.

The American Dream – I want to live outside this dream.  I don’t ever want to see or for it to be said about me that I live in a fucking dream.  I want a lucid waking state.  I want consciousness and no bullshit.  I always wanted to live on a desert island with dinosaurs and mutants, which is pretty much what happened.  The universe is just as untranslatable as my life.  The universe has me stuck with a pin, writhing in my insect fear.  This is horror.  Not vampires or werewolves or monsters.  Not physical horror, this is mental horror.  I live in Babylon after the collapse.  Fuck humans.   Everybody believing that they are immortal.  Waiting, endlessly, for their immortality.  Life is nothing, its garbage, its shit.  Life is a hot beer shit.  At first, glorious.  You get up.  You turn around, and you look at it and you’re proud.  The fumes, the stink of the shit are rising up.  You think ‘god, I did it, I’m good.’  Then you flush it away and there’s this sense of sadness when just the water is staring back at you.  The history of melancholy includes all of us.  So I go many nights, sleepless.  There is an economy of insomnia.  The things you do at certain times, certain actions, certain decisions – all of it driven by this fear that you won’t fall asleep, can’t fall asleep.  Counting the hours down.  Counting the hours of potential sleep.  Counting the hours of sleep you’ve already lost.  Tick tock tick tock.  The clock, a nemesis.  Time, unstoppable, immutable, in your face.  You hate it.  You hate time.  You hate yourself.  You get desperate, walk around your apartment, walk around the block, read a book, jerk off, drink warm milk, drink whiskey, drink cough syrup, pop pills.  You give up, put on a pot of coffee.  Suicide.  You hate yourself, go to a bar, talk to the worn out whore who makes origami out of cigarette tin foil.  You self destruct.  If you’re not going to sleep then you’re definitely not gonna sleep.  Fuck sleep.  Fuck your job that makes you fear for drowsiness – coworkers staring at you like a carnival freak.  Fuck your life that depends on masochistic routines.  Fuck your loneliness that left you to deal with the universe with just your own pathetic beer-soaked brain.  Fuck you.  Unable to love, unable to live, unable to ever be content.  Fuck your mind, endlessly churning.  Fuck the sound of gears in your head.  Fuck all the unanswerable questions.  Fuck the whole fucking world.

But the warm Santa Ana wind still blows in from the desert.  The salty sea spray rolls in softly over the beaches at night.  And dew, like tiny jewels, collects on the needles of a cactus, somewhere, out there, all alone.

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