DOSE:

oral

DXM

I'm not sure I recognise the relevance. It would be nice if there were an additional depth to these experiences, but some things are just wallpaper. Aesthetically pleasing maybe, but merely a thin veneer with no inherent value. I guess the movie in which we star may echo earlier explorers - the wilderness is not always as wild as that we may have preordained...the forest for the trees et al. I see remembered images in flickering grey/blue phosphorescence. Am I man enough to be the conscientious objector I can respect? Set sail upon a sea of trouble...but will hindsight reveal me simply adrift? I have a terrible feeling of ominous foreboding - the horizon is significantly darker than it appeared a decade previous. I think I expected a future painted in burning white, I have no idea what led to this overly enthusiastic vision of the yet to be, it just seemed to be the way the cards would fall.

Instead, the embers of the cold war seemed to have been fanned into reignition. I guess that at the very least it gives me a cause! I haven't marched since Palm Sunday and Michelle...all those years ago - younger, much younger...but now I'd mean it. Then it was simply the thing to do, newly immersed in tertiary idealism and freedom, it was right to express some political savvy and march for a cause, even if it was not truly grasped or understood. But even then it gave a feeling of belonging. I wore the 'No MX' badge proudly (in tandem with the 'Fuck off - I voted NDP' button) on my newest affectation, a climbing chalk bag. It's maternally warm within the clique even when, especially when, the slogans mouthed are not your own...but now I'd mean it. It's time to stand. Time to perform the surreal street theatre of death. Super eight photons flicker across the retinal surface, and the ghosts of the '60's rise before me.

Where are you now Abbie Hoffman, now that I know your cause? I worry that my statements aren't subtle enough to be attractive, but fear that in additional convolution the point may be lost. How does one present their issues and beliefs in a format sophisticated enough to attract support, but not so sophisticated that only I, Jung and Freud could grasp the underlying principles? Cliched? Aren't we all, but still...one must appease the critic within. I wonder would She (my mother, my ex's, Lara, Gaia, the Goddess - the feminine incarnations I have known) be proud? Is this an act of defiance, or merely the making of noise to fill the silence? I want to hold the flaming flag and burn the acrid, nylon flesh. Uncle Sam sit me on your knee and tell me another saccharin sweet lie wrapped within the guise of truth. What happened to those dead years in between history's momentous peaks? How did the fabulous flappers from the roaring 20's furiously Charleston their way into the fascist Goose-step of the 30's?

A premonition...I see Suharto fall, I see Nero play - just another repetitive motif indeed! Too many monuments, and always plenty of virgin marble for chiseling names, there's even room for foreign ones. I think it can only be described as cowardice, my current stance...there's no longer any comfort in the rhetoric I so readily spew forth...it's finally down to that confrontation between me and him - the voice within. To do the right thing, or do the safe thing? I wanted to be Che before I even knew who he was. Is it true? Are we just a generation afloat, in limbo with no anchors or roots to the past. Is there any reality beyond the actual ink used to print our carefully recorded history?

Where are the physical links? Did these things really occur, or is simply reading it, wishing enough? Why can't I scream? Are there no answers, merely the mocking lines of innumerable questions? And they won't go away, can't go away, because they're all we have. You old men marching, you left us with a syndrome solved only through sacrificial bloodshed, and now the maddened screams are internalised because our hands cannot be cleansed, and to cry out loud would only draw additional attention to our guilt. Lady Macbeth are we all - out, out, damned spot! Why must I carry the millstone burden of guilt for actions perpetrated by my forebears? Why they, theirs? We were all supposed to start out shiny and new, the proverbial unmarked page, but the old folks remember, and their bitter memories are osmotically absorbed by the young along with childhood's fairy tales. What chance did we have? What chance they? Hate is as virulent and insidious as any viral infection, yet we illogically fear the anthrax, and quaff the cup of hatred. It's only dark because we won't open our eyes.

I rejoiced when I saw Madeleine cornered on CNN. I thought that America had once more recalled the hazy memory of her constitution and joined in the fray, that the aquarian ideals weren't completely asphyxiated by 80's pecuniary infatuations. There are fragments of similarity out there, mirror reflections of self - they too fear, they too question. Why aren't there more? Old men once looked into childhood skies inhabited only by feathers and wind, whilst alien spacecraft are spotted by Islam's sons today, and blood is more readily consumed by sand than western soil. Desiccating desert winds preserve evidence of rage for future anthropologists to ponder. Global stockmarkets note the trade index of West versus Middle East, and today in Tokyo, the value of the Arab child dropped once more against the yen, whilst the price of a barrel of Saudi crude remained firm. Desperation attempts to force form from void. I pattern paper with repetitive notations, but it all appears deceptive.

Unable to fully grasp the concept I perceive, I continue to sketch the ephemeral edges. I wish to brandish the copper lance and, astride the peak, challenge the gods of old inhabiting the roiling stormclouds above...and even now I fear the thunderbolt of redemption. Would it prove my sanity or stupidity? Mistakes appear randomly repetitive even on the global scale, and at a generational rate that allows us all the privilege of partaking in the same dead ashes as yesteryear. Strike the Jesus Christ pose and become martyr to yet another cause - at least that's modern accrual accountancy at work, recognising value added to a life of dubious worth. Perhaps the only value of these words is the beauty they dance across the page. Is a phrase any less valid if it says nothing of worth, yet pleases the eye or ear? Aesthetics? Some things are just wallpaper! Maybe my thoughts, ideas and various other emotional outpourings fit nicely into that niche. The curlicue of the question mark taunts me with it's repetitiveness across the page. Do I bring nothing to the table but the fathomless hungry maw? Nothing to help sate anothers appetite? So now...what choice...I intend to fade, to sit back and fade to green.

Exp Year: 1998	ExpID: 1893
Gender: Male
Age at time of experience: Not Given
Published: Jun 16, 2000	Views: 7,324
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DXM (22) : General (1), Unknown Context (20)