On Whales

never never never. My weekend, end - it all comes back to the whales. Why do we do we? Mammals, too slow, too fat, too stuipd to step out of the water, to live in the air they breathe. Like ^mountains or the solid, piled shit squeezed out of the executive's broken bowels after a week of coke and money, they sink to the bottom_. Send in the traw l e r s, the dredgers, the salviors - perhaps if they dig deep enough they'll find oil!, the compressed blackness of hate held under pressure too looooong - mutated into something of value of worth or produce and production and work. (never never never not now maybe later or later still after it all). I wondered.      But then I didn't, because I (k)new. It all makes sense when you don't think about it, just let it sneak.     in, let it get beihnd you - silent and deadly ( or dead or just asleep ) - and it will show itself, eventually.

With all the time in the world or outside of it I might be able to tell you the truth. A truth. Something visually indistinguishable from a truth. A true replica - an authentic fakery.

i used to make buttons. not ones with words or slogans or mother fridge clean just slightly dirty jokes, but buttons. I could make a button out of anything - paper wood steel plastic vomit tin coal dirt glass flesh fat skin bone you. buttons to close or to cover up or hold fast and never open except on command with words never created. buttons are the apex of civilization. They make sure your clothes stay closed.

CDs too. I could make those. They lie to you, lie to you all. They say that only They can make them, only They have the skills to. Or perhaps not skills, but right and authority maybe god given chosen people to give sound to the masses to the people to me or you or your best almost friendly aquaintance. Lies. Perhaps Their's sound different (mine made scratches and squeals and sometimes voices but never music). Haha, music. I almost forgot and was surprised but not pleasantly when I heard music again because it had become stone and electricity, not sun and blood. From blood comes all music - the push and pull (beat beat beat beat ka-boom ka-boom pulse push thud snap hollow) as blood and heart and veins become rivers and pipes and valves and THUD their volume through. When you shut your ears and mouth and eyes and look nowhere but at it all at the same time, then you can hear music. Da DOO. Da DOO. Da DOO. Da Doo. da.

But whales, their blood must also make music? Surely? What is theirs but ours slow and cold and deep. But if they do, maybe trees too. Theirs just slower and older. If, over a million billion years, you left a tape recorder in a forest, and wrote a quick note to your greatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreattimesthousands-grand-daughter-or-son to play it back at highspeed, then you could listen to them. But if you did, they would probably be just the conversations of people spoken slowly and softly, bitching and whining. "Sally the Oak, that slut, she got fertilized by three guys at once! (oh I wish I could do that have the courage just to do it I know I want to do it don't you want it too if you look deep and long inside, can't you feel it there the touch of pine needles brushing your trunk while sycamores intertwine their roots with yours and force them inside your bark to that place where the juices run) The slut."

But the thing with whales is that they're big and humans too are big (some of them) but humans don't want to be big and do silly things while whales just don't care. Or do they? I've never really asked. Perhaps if I sat a whale down and had a conversation it would just be an hour of me having to listen to tales of plankton-free-diets and treadmills or health shakes and supplements which if they don't kill might the inbuer thinner make or if they kill do then thinner I guess happens naturally.

So in the end I went, not to see whales but maybe to see people who see whales or wander and make whales or imagine whales. I don't know if whales exist, do they? Perhaps they're just mechanical metal and plastic glass and grease which arise (technichal word: breach) and wave a black or grey tail driven by gears and chains and ooooooooooooooooooooh go the people and ka-ching! go the tills and ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-aaaaaaaaaaaahhh! go the whores professional and amatuer and retired alike.

All this madness complete and finished, madness of people without a clue but with many a penny I have pennies too but they won't exchange them without a letter from my bankmanager or priest and I have neither as they both fulfill the same function in end don't they? One guards the riches of the world the other those of the spirit. I just forget which is which.