Naked and spectacular

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She took with her

When my mother took her life, she took the life she had helped me build with her.  Everything that was bright and exciting in my life was built on the steady foundation of her support and encouragement.

I do not know why she thought her death was a positive decision.  Did she not have faith in me, as I had faith in her?  Did she not believe that a mother and son are always such?

I struggle now for a heart to expose myself to, and find only indifference, sex, philosophy, vapid suggestions, poetry and an impenetrable apathy and nihilism.

What we call hope in this world is willful denial, blind adherence to preordained goals in an ever-changing and complex world.

What we call faith is a blind and violent destruction of everything truthful and real, a raising up of banalities and plastic figurines in defiance of the Supreme Divinity forever visible to those those brave enough to look.

What we call love hesitantly peeks through the routines of convenience and humour, terrified of the intensity and perversity and filthy nudity of a love that penetrates us everywhere - fiercely in a single shared moment - and doesn't necessarily result in contracts and domestic arrangements.

We fill our sadness with objects - not too beautiful, not too sexy - pathetic in their limits.  Not to remind us of our best moments - exuberant, dangerous - authority and culture forgotten!

Before paranoia, before the ugliness and violence of the world became so unavoidably central, before fear of the world, I had a mother who believed in me, who knew what I knew, though our irrelevant thoughts were different.  I had a life that stretched out into a future, out into a world - out into a world that would be breathless and impressed in my presence.

Now there is a pervasive silence and endless empty streets in identical cities all over the planet.  Nowhere to go when everywhere is the same.  Familiarity in the most extreme.  No one to be shocked.  No one to hold me unselfishly.  No one I would go to unselfishly myself.

She made her decision, sucked her life out via the portal of a common poison.  So common we all spew it out into the atmosphere every day.  We all kill ourselves and each other little by little daily, pretending we're alive.

The world is dying and my mother told me with her own death.

She gave me life, love, hope, and then she cursed me with a lifetime in knowledge that we're all dead.

I can never forgive her, cos she's not here to forgive; I cannot resent her cos she's not here to resent.

There are seven billion humans on this planet and not one of them is my mother.

My father is a teenager.  My best friends are all infants and I am supposed to pretend to be an adult.

I am an unweaned baby with no breast to suckle on.

The religions and entertainments my countrymen suckle make me sick.  The dairy industry my nation is built on is not a viable source of nutrition.  Eating and fasting make me feel equally disgusting.  The houses I was raised in make me feel weak and humiliated.

She's dead and the son she knew is dead.  There's a man sitting here, writing.  A man she will never know.


Tamlyn Magee said...

I love you

vici said...

touched on so many levels by these words. golden drops of venus

Chris Kirk said...

Life after hope.

Releasing my cynicism and anger, so I can start afresh with a shaved head, a naked body swimming in the ocean somewhere warm, with sex and joy and dancing.

Richard said...

I like this and so far your other writing. I think of Artaud, Guibert etc. I am not sure yet but this was well done, and moving also. Alex West sent me here. I will read more.