Thursday, October 21, 2004

Well damned if they didn't do it after all...

I'd had a feeling all along. I remember telling apprehensive fans to reign in their psychasthenia and calm out the twisted folds of the renegade sphincter. "You never know", I said. With uncharacteristic restraint I did not get involved in my usual minutiae about the series; I love baseball after all. I thought, if I open my mouth too much I'll queer the deal. But I knew, or I thought I knew, when Shilling brought his bleeding heel past the gates of the enchanted city on nothing but guts and fury. You can't ask more.

How strangely it parallels another contest. We here are treated daily to the quisquilious mumbo jumbo of the rent-boy haruspexs who tell us of the steaming juggernautilis of their augers. This boat won't float, that's why it's beneath the waves; polls to the right of me, polls to the far right of me, into the valley of incredulous spec we witness the procrustean omission of the credible.

Are you with me so far?

I said, if the Sox win, it's a massive shot in the arm for John Kerry. Count on it. Twin malisons now face a sweet termination. We've weathered the nefandous passage. Shall we come out into the kind light? Sweeping up the rotten detritus of noxious flood is a deal more involved than the cleaning of the stadium last night. But may I say, put your backs into it ye scum!

I recognize that many would rather I gave my attention to things non-political. I've a broken ceramic edge to my work in this black dishwater. It does reduce my occasional good work and change my better self to a shrill night-foundered objurgatrix.

My apologies in that regard; following this election- and that will include whatever reverse nikhedonia I may suffer- I am of a mind to eschew the thing entire. You may hold me to that. You may say, in that time, "You said you would talk of finer things." And so reminded, I will.

I do not aspire to be a practitioner of obtrectation (though I think it to be other than that), nor do I seek to gather you into a Noyade (albeit one of words) like the none-too-greatly lamented Monsieur Carrier. The finer side of our emerging being is oft beset by the gnawing animals of an unresolved past. We do think that if we fail to carry out our executions that the rats will own the house. It's a hard thing to make vulnerable that which was so long threatened. I will try though.

My dance with the noumenon and attendant omphalopsychitic efforts are far too important to be compromised by a vanity ballet in a rain of shit. So, bear with me if you can until the whangdoodle is stuffed and served.

Many months prior to the emergence of the eccedentesiast Barmecide I said, "here comes trouble" and so it was and is. Something in me said-I must oppose this saponaceous abderite. And so I have, winning opprobrium and losing what small respect I may have gained apace by other means.

Should the cack-handed clown of incessant malversation be returned to the baboon throne, there to prance amidst the ruins of a dying dream. Should the whole of it be delivered into the hands of mallemaroking rantipoles I will turn my attentions to those things of a more timeless nature. Surely the world has always been both Grand Central toilet and palace of temporary wonder for the lucky and the blessed. Let me aspire from here to be at least a part of the former and as much of the latter as such a forbearance may attract.

Between the tragedy and the roman-fleuve of this temporary state we do bell the cat and pay the piper. I am neither judge nor executioner. Less of the Xanthippe in the midst and more the hearts veriloquence I trust will serve me better.

We can all be taken unaware by trauma like Houdini to be put in pursuit of the numberless quacksalvers-but if we find nothing in the end, perhaps we might adjust our area of inquiry.

My prayers are with you for a swift end to your degringolade. May it come neck and neck abreast with my own newly committed galluptious peregrination into a better land within. The time comes when there is no further good to be had by continuing as a proctalgia among so much that might have been callipygian had I only had the eyes to see.

I know that some here will feel that I have been galimatian here; perhaps, perhaps not.
It is now time to reach for finer things, to weave a more enduring song from the ethers of the tathagatagarbha.

I have decided that we are all fools and having so few guns I am neither of a mind nor in a position to play Cassandra or Kublai Khan. One can do no better than to construct another world when ones real delights are not to be found in this one. Perhaps, like another baseball guy said, "If you build it they will come."




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God in Country

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