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Good and evil have always existed. They always will. It’s only our stories about them that ever change.
Like it or not, the road to Hell is paved with sustainable bamboo flooring.
all I can see is that lit cigarette. That legalized form of suicide.
Please note, you future dead persons, whenever you shut off a fluorescent bulb or a cathode ray tube and see a residual photon-green glow, that glow is trapped human ectoplasm. Ghosts are forever being snared in lightbulbs.
I love this XD
pink stripes run from the base of the palm down the inside of the forearm, like a few furrows plowed in a fallow upstate field. These parallel pink lines run almost to the elbow. Ragged, they suggest the scant few inches of sodbusting accomplished by some old dirt farmer before he dropped dead of a lonely heart attack. These scars, so rudely cut and freshly healed, they brand the bearer as a would-be suicide.
The subtle, largely unacknowledged appeal of extra homes and lovers relies on not making actual use of them.
Me? In hindsight I’d made the same strategic mistake Charles Manson made. I should’ve quit while I was just a garden-variety animal-sex-and-drug addict, but, no, I had to escalate my status to potential knife-wielding psycho.
The body ages, grows, passes through near-lunatic phases of reproductive frenzy, but you are born and die essentially the same person. That … that is proof of your deathless soul.
No, The Voyage of the Beagle seems more akin to watching five years’ worth of vacation snaps, shown by an Asperger’s sufferer compelled to narrate incessantly.
People with happy home lives do not board ships bound for Alaska and the Galápagos. They do not take leave from their loving families in order to sequester themselves in lonely workshops and studios. No psychologically healthy individual would expose herself to X-rays, Marie Curie–style, until they poisoned her. Civilization is a condition which unsocial misfits impose on the rest of popular, easygoing, family-oriented humanity. Only the miserable, the failures, the outcasts will crouch for days to observe the mating habits of a salamander. Or to study a boiling teakettle. The avant-garde in
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His saga depicted existence as a one-shot endeavor, a desperate struggle to endure and procreate. It’s no comfort when confronted by death to be assured that you’re merely some flawed variation of life reaching the end of its evolutionary blind alley.
Whereas the Beagle book depicted a narrative of death after death, endless adaptation and failure—all history literally glued together with sperm and blood—the Bible book promised a happy life everlasting.
The only thing that makes autumn a tragedy is our expectation that summer ought to last forever. Summer is summer. Autumn is autumn. Neither do grandmothers last an eternity.
Aren’t we all entranced by the means of our own future demise?
Blacks and Asians, Jews and gays, Québécoise and Palestinians and Amerindians, white supremacists, prochoice and prolife, they’re all holding hands. They’re hugging, kissing even. There’s no fear of disease. No social pretense or status indicators or power hierarchies separate them. The crowd is singing my name, grateful for the salvation they believe is imminent. They’re happy in the way people are happy while burning books or beheading kings; they’re righteous.
“We only wanted you to know love. And how could you ever bring yourself to love so deeply if you truly knew how brief a lifetime can be?”
I’m Persephone reinvented, determined to be more than a daughter or a wife. Nor will I settle for some celestial joint-custody agreement, shuttling back and forth between residences in Heaven and Hell the way I continually jetted between Manila and Milan and Milwaukee. My new goal is the reunion of all opposites. I will strive to reconcile Satan and God. In doing so, by resolving this core conflict, I will resolve all conflict. There will be no separation between perdition and paradise.
