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
solid, piled shit squeezed out of the executive's broken bowels after a
week of coke and money, they sink to the bottom.
in the traw l e r s, the dredgers, the salviors - perhaps if they
dig deep enough they'll find oil!
compressed blackness of hate held under pressure too looooong -
mutated into something of value
and work. (never never never not now
maybe later or later still after it all)
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
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
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
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.