Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Dear Friend,

There is so much slippage. The spiral descent is a messy one – a scrambled, uncertain, unexplored part of one’s brain. My shopping cart is empty, hungry for higher thought.
Being spoon fed, for so many years, I am ready to wander aimlessly or aim less. The labour that I seek is not of the physical kind, thus I have no wonder full goals in mind.

From the surface this faerie’s tale seems a trite “Alice in Blunderland,” - here I am where
you left me, ready to dream, fantasize and chase the dragon of truth - all in the name of meaning. With no bookish aspirations mine is a mind field that grows as wild as the poppy - meandering through lucid metaphor after metaphor.

What is one day in a fuchsia cage? I’m the “strange fruit” that will not rot.
Eat, eat, every word; you have asked me to a feast that is never ending.

Time is a plot to keep everything from happening at once. – Henri Bergson

Once upon a time, the clock that was once grandfather became son.
A son, who grew so sick of the life in the city where meaning was built and rebuilt, stripped and refined, renovated and restored; one can barely assess the damage or breathe the air of life. The cycles are like circuits on fire. Narrative and Meta narratives are fired like canons at old tomes. Motherboard grows stronger and Mother Nature weaker. Sure we have Meta analogs but who has the time? The road from manuscript to database is completely digital and does not provide an escape from the dystopia that invades the mind.

At the portal of youth, I knew nothing and lied about everything. The wrinkles and grey hair, now account for some measure of learning, if only by accident. Knowledge is no longer precious, but wisdom is as wanted as the youthfulness I once had.

There is an abbey or ashram that calls me to ponder, to escape the meaningless city.
Compartment after compartment of filth and noise one can hardly think past all the material, visual and textual trauma that is life here. Every thought is strangled by the ticking of the clock. Deadlines are flat lined. Talking is an act of technology, thinking timeless, meaning infinite. You know what I mean? – Is a rhetorical requiem in a chorus as chaotic as the city.

In clever fun,
Sean George, 2008-05-21