Goodbye Angel, Hands In Your Pockets

i think about jamming on keys to see if words fall out of the heavens. theoretically a room full of monkies with typewriters could, could, punch out a copy of Hamlet or Wordsworth. An Elephant with a paintbrush could roll out a Picasso or Monet, and a tomb sucking rabbit could accidentally jump on a bass guitar cranking out licks that would make Victor Wooten cry. Chances are. Chances aren't.


There's some strange concept rolling about humanity telling us that to survive we have to suck up all of our insanity, pack it away into a closet, and take a deep breath of reality. We either have to get training to do something, an education for the future, or we have to do what we are so gifted to do that we survive on it. If we choose not to follow suit we are outcast, we are homeless, we die early. So there are your chances, you pack it up, you go a bit nutty, you drown in the destruction of your own making.


then i remember, we are not monkies, we are not elephants, we are no tomb smoking hop-a-longs - we are something different, well maybe different. we may have something called "sentience" but we hardly understand it. we have insisted on hurtling ourselves head long into the unknown. And when we dip our cups into the unknown there are magical times when we come up with gold. The Magna Carta, the Frank Lloyd Wrights, the Who's. There are also times when we dip our cups into the darkness and come up with the meanest dross. Rapes, murders, discontent. The sickness of our world. Additionally, there are some who choose not to dip their cup. They stick with the things they know. And last, certainly not least, their are some who train themselves to live on the edge of the darkness. They are the craft makers. this is how we have done ourselves.


so we take our cues from what we have seen. we argue on glowing screens, we allow our views to over run us. we are on the cusp. we have these gifts, we create our beauties and our tragedies. and God is both brought to tears of joy and tears of pain. freedom, sentience, opportunity; all of these are the gifts given us, and what have we done with it? how far have we gotten?


i have rewritten this line about five times now. i do not know what is coming next. i am torn between throwing the computer into pieces and taking a pious stance on top of some bullshit pulpit. i remember that i am in pain. i wonder if pain is part of my sentience. part of my freedom. anyone reading this blog regularly know that i am in tremendous pain most of the time. this pain may or may not be attributed to a nerve disorder that is blowing up the nerves in my face and potentially my right arm. the last time i asked the doctor what he is treating me for, he basically said he has no idea. i take 5400mg of anti seisure, anti pain, anti psychotics a day. they help - sometimes.


so here i am, trying to make it, treading water on the edge of darkness. dipping my cup into the black, looking for something to quench my thirst.