Friday, August 19, 2005

The Jordanian

I will tell you what it meant.

He was a good man. He tried to live modestly, tried to avoid unscrupulous temptations.

He tried not to judge and he tried not to fuck.

At first he followed Allah, but after a chance encounter in school, he found himself inexplicably drawn to Nichiren's austere simplicity.

He found purpose in service, in giving himself to his country. And though it was against his nature and beliefs to practice violence, he would have done so without hesitation if he was called upon. Because that's the sort of man he was.

So when he lay gasping for breath amidst the nitid embers that fateful August morning, he wondered what it might have all been for. They always do. And I will tell you: it was all for nothing.

Listen: there were no flashbacks, no revelations. Just an immense burst, the entire world instantly igniting. Daylight became darkness and then reality itself split apart for a nothingth of a second.

And then the sensation of his surroundings slowly coalescing, different than they were before. The tin warehouse was ripped open. The sun filtered though acrid smoke. The taste of burning paint nestled with salty blood in the back of his mouth. He was vaguely aware of the ragged steel shaft fully penetrating his shattered ribcage.

His breath came in wet, guttural wheezes. His throat spasmotically gurgled with sanguine bile. His scorched shirt was saturated with blood.

His Gohonzon -- vaporized in the blast.

There was no peaceful sensation as he expired, no magnetic light, no preparation for death's deep chasm. Only confusion and shock.

...

He was just a simple creature killed by other simple creatures. The perpetrators never knew about the good man whose life was snuffed that day. If they had, they wouldn't have been sorry.
His family and friends mourned. Their cheeks burned with tears. The government thanked them for his sacrifice and dutifully mailed them compensation checks. But none of it meant anything.

Perhaps if he had lived more unscrupulously it might have meant something. Perhaps he could have discovered that it's all just monkeys with mortars on the other side of the fence and there's no deeper meaning to be had -- only smoke and confusion.

His death signifies nothing at all. In fact, no further sentences will be wasted on him.

...

The startled, intoxicated drivers who perish amidst tangled metal and the thick scent of airbag gas in the night air. The diseased beggars covered in filth, expiring among forgotten alleys. The convicted Mara Salvatruchas ruthlessly beaten in Guatemala's notorious El Hoyon. The hundreds of Greek passengers harvested in a single stroke, their plane smashed into a mountain face. The nameless Ecuadorians who drowned on that boat, cries silenced by the waves. The girl in Kansas fatally mauled by a seven-year-old tiger while posing for a photo. The cancer victims everywhere, succumbing in the world's ICUs. The addicts who've injected their last. The thin soldiers dying in dust-choked streets, clawing madly at the ground, screeching...

It has been deemed. They all perish tonight. You can cry, laugh or yawn. I have nothing more to say.

I am listening to: The Stooges - Fun House
And I am feeling: Peppy.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Ode to Poseidon's lil' bitch

Words unspool from my hands in an incandescent stream as I think of you, friend, and your snarled existence -- wrought with permutations, responsibilities and intricate stratagems. Whenever I am tempted to entertain the notion that my life is hopelessly complicated -- as is often my wont -- I would be well-advised to look to you and your impossible burdens.

How is it that you shoulder them so cheerfully? Which cuts deeper, the fury or the blandness?

Or perhaps to you they are not burdens? Ah, but that would merely underestimate your deep reserves of stamina and patience. And anyway, I believe that you pilot a ship assailed by storm upon storm, though you weather the castigating waters with a smile.

Worry not, amigo. That vessel is stronger than even you may dare to believe. And it's headed for calmer, more nourishing waters.

Behold the spirited commander! His port calls with a siren's persuasion! The rain slashes his steely gaze!

And so forth.

"Methinks he relishes the fetid squalls," I remark to the foul prostitute on my left. "But he tires of the diffuse wetness that can be felt as vapor in the atmosphere or condensed liquid on the surfaces of objects; dampness."

She nods knowingly.

This entry is getting bizarre. So I will conclude on an uplifting note.

Believe! When you navigate that wretched boat out from behind the dark, turbulent wall on the horizon, wiping your face and grinning with satisfaction, know that I will stand at the dock with a bottle of spiced rum, mirroring that audacious countenance.......

Ahoy.

I am listening to: Caesars - Paper Tigers
And I am feeling: Zesty.