In my life I have times when everything is extra fast, I can talk to other people and go outside, I write music and read and learn and everything I do is effortless, I am floating through reality, my thoughts race and I feel like I am moving faster than I can possibly explain.
Then it finishes and the whole world slows down, suddenly I’m underwater and every movement is a struggle through air that has become thick and even thinking is hard. I sink into the blackest of holes and so I just lay back and try to be calm till it’s over. I don’t know why it happens, brain chemistry I guess. I’ve learned that my life is just constructed of these two distinct phases and I try to take advantage of both.
No matter which phase I’m in fast or underwater I yearn for fulfilment, I have a desire to live, breathe and feel every moment as an exquisite and unique experience, to live my pain as a reminder of the trembling horror and joy of a paradoxical existence.
I have often considered trying to find a balance, maybe seeking professional help, but what I create when I’m fast, the way I feel, it is better than sex, better than drugs, it is what makes me, me and I couldn’t live without it.
If these times I have now, this small measure of suffering I must endure, is the cost for those moments, it is a price I am more than willing to pay. The trick is to accept it as part of who you are, it’s beautiful and terrible, just as life is meant to be. We should always live on life’s edge and never, under any circumstances take the edge off of life.
Feed, Digest, Excrete
I’m hungry, I find nothing more frustrating than the sensation of hunger. There is nothing in this world that will remind you of your mortality, of the fact that despite your thoughts, your achievements, your dreams, you, like I, are tied to the eternal cycle of feed, digest, excrete.
You are your body, resplendent in its finitude, draped in limitation. So that tug, that ache, that desire for nourishment knocks at the walls of your consciousness despite whatever elaborate mind tricks you play to delay it, whether you are writing poetry, making love or perhaps making war, that gentle tug ascends, like a expert piano player hitting each note from lowest to highest in a perfect succession, into an internal scream that threatens to tear open your belly and escape to a better world of nourishment.
You cant starve the hunger, you can’t tame it, you are ITS slave, its plaything, it lets you go for walks during the day, roll in the fields, pick bluebells and butter cups with your buxom German milk maid, but when it is ready, it will call you and slave like we answer the call and give in.
And we feed, we gorge, we chew and grind organic matter in our teeth, saliva dissolves it, coats it, helps it reach a boiling, writing sea of acid, where it is broken down so, its nutrients extracted and its waste excreted and so it goes on. Feed-Digest-Excrete.
It makes me wonder in my free time, when the hunger is satiated and I am allowed to roam free for a moment, why like this, why would it choose this form to continue. And by it I mean life, it is all very well when we used this process to drag our aquatic arses from the primordial swamp of evolutionary history, but surely there will come a point we abandon such physical limitations, when we are free of biological necessity and can become that which we are, simply thought.
Alas for all this dreaming the only way to escape at this point seems to be some disinfectant, a knife and some heavy duty painkillers, Although I dont recommend removing your own stomach and intenstines to anyone without at least some rudimentary training.
And so we are slaves, but not just to the hunger, for the hunger simply bears the whip for our true and diabolical master. We are driven by the hunger, but are owned by our genes.
They have given us minds, because the mind, the conscious mind works better than instinct, it can solve problems and cross cognitive bridges that its instinct laden forebearers could not. Their hardwiring was good, but not good enough, so millions of years of evolution have given us consciousness, but not for us, not for our benefit, it exists for them, for the survival of our genes, who use us to live on, to give themselves continuation into eternity.
And we, gifted or cursed with conscious thought, must bear their gift and carry them forth into the ether of future times, tortured and oppressed by the fact that we are the slaves of physicality, of matter. That our dreams and pure thoughts are a by product of evolution, they exist only to better equip us to carry our masters forth, and we beasts of burden suffer the indignity of our yoke and cry bitter tears into the well of human suffering. Slaves forever Feed, Digest, Excrete.
My old cat Akasha died in Australia yesterday . This poem is for him;
Is your taxonomic nomenclature an endomthermic Quadroped
Carniverous by nature?
Your Visual, Olfactory and auditory senses contributed to your hunting skills
and natural defences
I found myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations
A singular development in cat communications
That obviated your basic hedonistic predilections
for a rhythmic stroking of your fur, to demonstrate affection
A tail was quite essential for your acrobatic talents
You wouldn’t have been so agile if you’d lacked its counter balance
and when not being utilised to aid in locomotion
it often served to illustrate the state of your emotion
The complex levels of behaviour you displayed
connoted a fairly well developed cognitive array
and though you were not sentient
And did not comprehend
I none the less considered you a true and valued friend