Anthologies of Awesome

People who believe in angels bother me. That they find invisible spirits lurking along with them in moments of the most undivine. It’s a form of voyeur fetish, possibly. Or more accurately a safer type of exhibitionism. Exhibitionism in that there would be, in these instances of angelic watchers, a presence so doggedly concerned with the individuals goings on as to follow them through all manner of banal carnal taking and leaving.

Further, there is the belief that these angels are following everyone. The angelic host is hinted at in the Bible fairly often, but hardly numbered and never individually assigned. That is probably the exotic influence of a bunch of goddamn heathen wood fairy loving Celts and Barbarians as Christianity adapted to live as it went from the sparse, hot, and civilized Mediterranean and into the densely wooded heathen frontier of Europe. And in that, I thank the goddamn wood fairy believing savages. At least it adds a little creepy personal flair to the idea of angels. Previously they were assigned the more clerical positions in the Roman pantheon. The fairy principle gave them enormous numbers and diverse occupation.

These hypotheses are, of course, unresearched but fairly reasonable.

I did not sit here at my computer, caffeinated, irritated, and generally just needing the internet (which does not live at my house) for a minute or two, with the intention of writing about angels. Angels occupy about five seconds of my thought every other month or so. The real purpose of all this ramble is a need to discuss my personal future. This is, after all, a blog. An ongoing act of narcissism so ridiculous it could only have been conceived in the decades following Nirvana’s unplugged album. Here, short of possible angelic motherfuckers and wood fairies, I reign as some sort of supreme being. At least until the coffee shop girl gets over her nerves and comes over to tell me to buy more Sumatra or leave. She caught me glaring at her. I believe strongly that I have bought an extra hour.

So, the idea of writer’s block is a fairly ancient one dating at least as far back as the Ordovician. That’s why I had to go all Hadean on some motherfucking words. I was like, “Bitch, I was writing about stupid shit or making readers horny about fluvial sandstone back when the moon was still in Theia’s cisted ovary(ies).”

The words, of course and obviously, did not care. They are not ones to bully. And I have figured that my creativity has went a somewhat different route lately anyway. Notes are making themselves friends. Musical notes. I am, and have always been, taken places by music that logic cannot dictate, which is not true of words. If there were ever a truly rational and spaded in human activity, it would be the rationalization of the Blues scale. Take every damn word and sentence you’ve loved and it would not rationalize the way the 7th falls totally and madly in love with the greater Satan of the Pentatonic scale.

And so in that, maybe I am totally lost, as I knew would one day happen, to the frills and fluffy bullshit necessary to write words anybody cares about.

These hypotheses are, of course, unresearched but fairly reasonable.

Maybe I should start a themed blog. About kittens.

I try to find reasons to understand. And I watch the embers rise up and away from me in a funerary practice I just won’t ever understand. The death of something dead and its baptism into a world of further refined death.

He died, finally.

And it hurt me.

It was a passage into some greater death. And in that, he joined the greater life.

This is not some Disney inspired, Phil Collins narrated take. It is true. A majority mind-bogglingly vast of all life is no longer individually alive. But it has joined in the nonindividuated morass of greater life. It’s a powerful and teeming force on this planet and probably others. A force that changes the very scape of the planet, visible from lightyears away (in our case).

And in that greater heaven, we all live forever. It’s a moving and holy passion.

By virtue of who I am and the lives I have lived, death was never far away from me. I have visited it upon others. I have seen it in the same intimate way you know the smells and moles of your chosen love. Death is a fucking bummer, primarily, but only to the living. To the passed on and perfected, it is a mountain building event.

But I only saw the death of the young. I saw the death of a generation of friends. I saw the death of other men my age and children and women, but all young and in their prime. And so there was rage. There was a growling and disgusting and forever morphing anger about the injustice/immorality/etc.

And I was wrong. If you can possibly say anything is a deserved trait of the living, it is their eventual death. They do, afterall, feed off of other dead things. They got it coming.

But he was old. I should not have felt that rage crop up. I should not have felt the same anger at everything in the whole goddamn world the way I felt over the deaths of my 20 something friends for policies none of us understood.

He was 94. He deserved to die. It was over and he was happy to go to his believed in after-life.

I don’t know how it works. I know I had a friend there for me. Many friends, but one great friend and love who listened to me and listened to all my circuitous emotional dross.

Like you are now.

And in that moment, when I was destructing into something like that old and ancient rage that makes genocide seem almost reasonable, I gave more than I planned. And it wasn’t so bad.

It wasn’t the end of me. The way I always thought it would be.

And now my life is peaceful. I balk at the peaceful ease and the lack of murderous anger I feel. There is something about me that died when I met her and another part that languished and one that held fast until it could no longer.

It is interesting to me that only a close death could show me all the parts of me that were no longer alive.

But that’s the way it always works, here in the temporal fallacy of the living.