Crumbs For Crow #4: Were You Ever Really Here?

smoking crow
© Larry Vienneau.

With Or Without You

Oh, how many times have you been caught thinking, “I wish I’d never been born?” It’s like the motto of the civilised peon when confronted with their inevitable slavery, so cunning in its artifice that the chains are mere smoke and mirrors, a world of bread and circuses filled with sound and colour all signifying nothing as they clamour for some sense of meaning.

And just what is that, I hear you ask? Nay, beseech! So throw open thine ears dear sinners, for a quick look in the mirror tells me that you know, that you understand, even if it is deep down underneath the veneer of personality that you believe is you. After all, you are the mere spectacle of personality playing out like a shadow on the puppeteer’s canvas, are you not?

No no no, dear Crow, I hear you cry, I am no mere robot, no mere simulcra of personhood but a thinking, feeling being, unique amongst billions of mortals.

And after all, a robot would just get up each day and do that same thing over and over, wouldn’t it? Like insanity, it arises with a surge of espresso voltage and it pantomimes through the rigorous daily motions without meaning or purpose.

Yet when you look in the mirror as you brush your teeth and think about the day, the working day that will be similar to yesterdays and the day befores,  you can be certain that there must be meaning, there must be purpose. In all the possible realities that could have been, yours is the life that was granted to you…..

“What’s that?” I hear the cry! The heaven’s open and a deluge descends, a pattering of  softly thudding rotten vegetables descending like multi-hued hail. Oh, do not shoot the messenger! I was not born to arrogance, merely practiced it well in the shadow of your soul’s light!

Yes yes, I hear the rancour in your cries as you wrinkle your nose at my underhandedness: “Oh, how unfair you are Crow!” Verily, how can any compete with the reality of such false narratives when we all know the world is a complicated onion of meaning and purpose, a society of spectacles that intersect our little bubbles of reality where they glide into one another through the medium of online media…..

Where we are nothing more than echo chambers to our own conceit.

Yes, even I fall victim to my own mind, stabbing myself and cutting away like a sacrificial victim until I peel the skin of perception back and wonder at the raw flesh exposed to a new reality.

“And what reality shall we pretend is real today, dear Crow?”

Shall we pretend that the Cosmos may grant gifts of fairness upon the masses? Shrug if you must, but as you wonder at the life you are given, and it’s apparent lack of justice, harmony and common sense, you must embrace the concrete – YOU were chosen, YOU were given a life.

So what more could you want? Check your privilege humanity!

Don’t sit there in the doldrums and complain, for this really is a special place despite the way the darkness might settle on the land. You are here, and you should relish it as such because, if one were to pick apart the cloying bullshit of quantum physics, you might very soon conclude that you were never really here in the first place!

“But Crow, here I am?” I hear you say.

I? Is the “I” not a construct of the shared reality that you inhabit? One I for how you see yourself, one I for how others see you, and one I for how you might really be. The three I’s of perception that has granted you the misguided belief that in the intersectionality of perceptions you are somehow an event in the Here & Now™, and that’s where you’re going to stay, not delving into some prosaic and mystical origin of time and space, the beginning place that’s nothing more than a pretence of nostalgia looked at through a kaleidoscope of “peak reality”.

It shifts in broken beauty that has nothing to do with truth.

And you wonder what it might be like to let it go? Like a balloon, rising, rising….. what will happen if you let go? How far is it to fall?

I too was once like you: mortal, dependable, stricken with a burden of purpose and meaning. I had a past and an identity, until I was driven forth from the incestuous comfort of belonging. Nor was it as simple as a commitment to something as disingenuous as truth, for what is truth but the footfalls of the Fool beyond the moment when he takes his first step?

“Ah, Crow,” you said, “Does the first step not crossed the world?”

Spare me. I’ve heard it before….. somewhere.

Would that we could all stand atop the mountain, with one foot outstretched and ready to plunge into the canyons of enlightenment, eh? For what did you find at the peak? Just empty air, while down there in the layers of soil and rock is etched the very crystallisation of history.

Your foot sinks into the rich soil of the past, marks it and thus is your position within the world noted for the millennia to come, yet you will not be present to see the lasting effect of this moment. It is like a coalescing butterfly flap that churns the world to chaos, but you will be gone.

But at least you have your hindsight, a short kind of memory that a mortal has for events of one lifetime which makes it seem like it was all so many golden days, those halcyon moments untarnished by anything like the affliction of personal responsibility that you’ve now burdened yourself with.

So you wonder to yourself if it would have made much difference if you’d never been there in the first place? You can flip the switch, like a light bulb or an electric chair, and bright illumination springs to mind as you wonder what makes you hold to the past so dear. I see it in your eyes, that you believe that you possess it. That in itself is the laughable notion. The past belongs to no one, is subject to only the distortions of the present. It wasn’t how it looks, it didn’t feel like it does now. Was it really more intense? Did it have less context?

But you were never really there, were you?

And of course you tell yourself that without it you wont be something, that you wont be you if you sacrifice that splinter of history caught under your finger nail, that you won’t be that special you who thinks and feels and is the eye of the storm. Ha! Special. Is that what you think you are? Oh indeed! The individual, the keystone of everything, the one, the neo, the one….. over and over we tumble into our own minds, a maelstrom of champagne bubbles popping to no purpose beyond God’s hilarity.

Why is it that only hilarity ensues when you claim that you matter?

Excuse me while I puke, for I seem to be a little dizzy, a little light headed……

Get a grip. This isn’t just an exercise in getting the fuck over yourself. You might think that you’ve cracked the whole “you can make it if you try stuff”. But when you’re licking the icing off the top of the cake, are you reall just licking the boot that stamps on a human face over and over, forever.

How does it taste?

“Why do you even pretend to care, dear Crow?”

Hahaha! Why? Is it possible that you have conceived of the pin prick? The needle that is about to pierce the bubble of your reality? I poke not for my own pleasureat your discomfort! Think now upon the very notion of how many universes exist without you, without your footprints in their history, without your bubble floating in their spheres!

Just how many discarded realities have you already created? How many decisions that lead to nothing, to no one, to the simple and inevitable conclusion that you perished in ignominy, that you were turned to mincemeat by the gears of a combine harvester, that you were incinerated in a freak case of spontaneous human combustion, that you mysteriously vanished while hiking through the snow laden mountain passes? Or perhaps you were the chief executioner in a fascist state who was lynched when the filthy peasant masses rose up in glorious revolution?

Or perhaps you simply fell and banged your head.

Aye, how many times a day did that happened? How many realities did you create because you perished, and how many more because you were never really there? That’s right! There are potentially limitless realities in which you died, but even more prescient are the almost infinite number of realities where you never even came into being in the first place.

I suppose that might be a comfort to some, to those who didn’t want to live in a reality where they were best friends with Tony Blair.

Or Robert Mugabe.

Or Vladimir Putin.

Yet amid the cacophony of white noise that permeates these thoughts there is a little boat of solace that floats on the ocean of chaotic interference. A thought asks “what is it not to exist?” It is not pain, it is not pleasure, it is not knowing. It is simple…. not.

So, allow me to give you the ol’ sly wink as I scratch my back side. It’s really nothing to get worried about. The universe is, after all, a big place and even the realities in which your life plays out don’t amount to much more than the tinniest of farts in an oceanic jacuzzi of cosmic dimensions.

I’m not unsympathetic, it’s just that the whole notion is absurdist comedy; what matters? What import anything? Is it hard to find purpose and meaning? I don’t care. Who knows? I might even throw you a bone. Here it comes! Are you ready? Just think, if there is a reality in which you never existed, then perhaps there is a reality in which you always exist. Maybe you are the Platonic archetype of all your other selves, the bow that breaks the wave-front of existence and all others follow in your footsteps, perhaps you could be made immortal by science and medicine, or maybe the sum of your thoughts and feelings will be preserved when they are uploaded into a permanent machine body or turned into a sentient cloud of nanites…..

Maybe you never age beyond the best years of your life and you live in that tiny percentage of realities where humanity survives until the end of time itself……

And as the serpent eats its own tail, you have to wonder if this is that reality, or if it is perhaps a reality close to you. How far away immortality in an infinite sea of realities? How far away the good life? How far away a reality where history passed by without you making any difference whatsoever?

A reality where you were never really here in the first place……


Support Root, Star & Feather

Hi, if you like what I’m doing and want to support the site:

  • Give it a thumbs up down below – it really helps.
  • Follow or sign up for email notifications.
  • Join me on FACEBOOK.
  • Sign up to the MAILING LIST.
  • Help pay the bills by becoming a PATRON and receive future rewards.
  • Buy a poor writer a coffee to keep this blog running WITH A ONE TIME DONATION via Paypal.

#fantasy #sciencefiction #pulp #author #writer #writing

 

Crumbs For Crow #3: Apocalypse Disco

smoking crow
© Larry Vienneau.
 

Apocalypse Disco

Pfff! The dust is settling and everyone’s suddenly playing the existential blues on a vintage guitar with two strings while some journalistic hack bangs away on an old, broken piano tuned by an establishment that can only summon enough cognitive prowess to think in black and white.

The proverbial arse has fallen out of the universe it seems, and what else can us ne’er-do-wells do but sniff it up like a line of cheap rate coke cut with a dose of tranquillisers and prance around like getting trashed is somehow rebellion.

Welcome, welcome one and all to the Apocalypse Disco, first Extermination Event where humanity’s vaunted superiority is nothing more than an odious old bastard wheezing the last drag out of a dirty roll-up, a cancerous old clot of a human being who’s about to put his history on the prayer wheel….

And behold! Such prayers are blasphemies I tell you! What will you do when you return, eternally cycled over and over like a broken record that never gets rid of that irritating little pop, crackle, pop…….? You pray that the effluent of your spirit will be poured back into the vessel of another chance but you won’t even take the time to brush the fluff from your spinning platter of revelation!

Who is the fool? And who, who is the deity that possessed just the requisite tool for the removal of spiritual lint? Heed now and await the dance of the dead as I, the almighty and impeccably tasteful Crow become DJ to your inevitable demise.

[You take me aside, indicate that I should perchance cleanse the white tracery of excess from about my respiratory nozzles and ask just what in the name of the Seven Hells I’m prattling on about.]

Prattling? I never prattle, I just provide preamble to the party of all parties, the final party at the End of Creation itself. A wise man once said that Death is but Sleep being shy, so for the love of music, put your party pants on and just pretend that when you lay your head down tonight, exhausted from exertions, you aren’t just practising for the inevitable.

Meanwhile the eternal PA is playing all of the divine’s favourite tunes, for pre-Destined or un-Destined, whatever your destination, you’ll end up on my floor – even if you’ve no eyes and ears like an almighty, vengeful thunder bastard who’s begging the question of just who the hell stole his damn boom box?

You must be ever so sly, my friends, if you wish to purloin the pure beats of Heaven, and even while you raise your hands to the celestial jungle boogie that rises over the horizon of the Anthropocene you must fend off the sense of mortality, that fragile thing we are subverting in the name of hedonistic nihilism, and instead cavort like chimpanzees scratching our posteriors in search of relief. Or belief……

Give it a sniff because you think no one is looking.

Humanity at it’s most genuine! For even the greatest of apes can chuck shapes. Most of the time, that is, and you might dance oh-so-well when compared to that fellow over there who just doused himself in petrol and stepped outside for a cigarette. The room is on fire, and so are you! Hit me one more time! That’s the Apocalypse Disco. Keep on keeping on and let the mood move you towards the revelation!

Oh sweet revelation!

What did it cost? The mere shrug of an accountant! Listen to their plaintive coos of delight as they tally up the GDP of a global funeral: treatment, caskets, urns, and don’t forget the buffet! Business looks goods as the scales of eternity slip slide about and the prayer wheels fire up like damn Catherine Wheels on the rioting bonfire night of self actualisation. You’re getting it on like Guy Fawkes, moving, doing it, you know, like a sex machine man: the lame politics of sexy disco, lights flashing like wicks set sizzling by the matches of ignorance until sweet surrender is a detonation that lights up the face of a pyromaniac at an arms fair.

Dance, sweet flames, dance!

And in the fire of epiphany we shall discover that we are all soul stuff, the spiritual tar upon which temptation’s feathers gather as we fly too close to a nuclear furnace of civilisation! It all makes sense! You came here, again and again, like self-aware water poured from vessel to vessel, but so is begged the question: who turns the tap?

And what becomes of life when the reservoir runs dry?

Can we reasonable assume that there is only so much held in reserve of that metaphysical love juice? You are but one drop in an ocean, but what happens when drop after drop arrives wanting to be human? Are you just the artichoke that rolled the loaded dice and was delivered into another ape suit? No wonder the natural world is in decline! there is nothing to spare!

What? You can’t see yourself as a snail? No? The old bastard takes another wheezing lungful on his turgid rollie as he wishes only to be human again and again, draining the last kick out of the cigarette that is the material world. It’s not to even be considered how beneath them it might be to take the form of worm, or fungus, or blade of grass!

Oh to be green, small and bend in the wind, accepting the bare foot of the mystic upon my dew lined blade! Touch me, oh Sun!

Don’t cock your eye at me like that!

Let us cut to the chase, cut the mustard, nip the bud. Every living thing wants to go to the disco, so as the nulldozers are levelling the lungs of the earth and the cybernetic trans-humanist autolung draws the tainted air from the capitalist crack pipe, you shall be reincarnated as the greatest of species, homo saltatorus! And to hell with you Google Translate! No public school boys were harmed in the writing of this screed! What is the world coming to? You! You, the dancing apes at the end of the world!

You’re all here! Recycled like soylent green soul stuff that only wants to party like existential, phenomenological witnesses of the Apocalypse Disco!

We reach the Climax! The crescendo of a spiritual burden brought about by the ever-so-populous bum scratching ape, flinging what they find into the transcendent scales as they tip, precarious upon the edge of the Void, the living essence of the earth pouring out like a punctured wine sking while the incarnations of endless, cavorting dancers continue to sniff bemused fingers with the sole intention of waking up in a puddle of their own excretion after a clandestine romp through the hinterlands of promiscuity!

That’s right, this party is about to implode! Prayers can be sent via the great porcelain telephone!

Pff!

As the dust settles, the crooked dancers at the end of time light up and watch the smoke rise, content to know that they partied hard and all it cost was everything.


Support Root, Star & Feather

Hi, if you like what I’m doing and want to support the site:

  • Give it a thumbs up down below – it really helps.
  • Follow or sign up for email notifications.
  • Join me on FACEBOOK.
  • Sign up to the MAILING LIST.
  • Help pay the bills by becoming a PATRON and receive future rewards.
  • Buy a poor writer a coffee to keep this blog running WITH A ONE TIME DONATION via Paypal.

#fantasy #sciencefiction #pulp #author #writer #writing

 

 

Crumbs For Crow #2: Everything’s Ruined/Nothing Works

smoking crow
© Larry Vienneau.

Everything’s Ruined/Nothing Works

Hello my delicious sinners. You look sad. What’s the matter? Still languishing in the horror of your own samasarian nightmares? Poor you. You have my sympathies, you really do. It’s not, after all, your fault so why pressure ourselves unnecessarily with personal responsibilities? I mean, look around. It’s not like you weren’t being used like a tool from the very day you were born, wrapped in darkness like a boiled sweet before being thrown into the maw of reality and instead of sweet suck the molars of Fate chewed on you as if you were nothing more than a second hand piece of bubble gum.

Or was it? Don’t shake you head at me. You know what I’m talking about. No, it’s not dirt in my eye, and I only flash my smile when I sense a kindred soul.

Ah, that’s right, there are so many reasons, aren’t there? There is this and there is that. But what does “it” all mean in the end? Oh, you wonder, or you doubt, and you question or you accept. You build frameworks that are like towers with weak foundations, and sometimes you bother to rebuild after inevitable catastrophe, other times you just stare at the ruin and pop a handful of medication.

And so you don’t even see the quicksand, either way.

Or do you? I don’t know. Perhaps you can, perhaps you can’t. It’s all academic really. Perhaps you believe that you have an immortal soul. Perhaps you think you’ll be coming back – although one might ask if, given the current rate of extinction, what you’ll be coming back to.

I can see you shrug and play your get out of jail free card as you tell me that you’ll just reincarnate backwards. Clever stick. As for those who are going to Heaven, or Hell, depending on just how guilty they feel, perhaps you’d like to place a bet on whether it looks like a white collar office – I mean, after all, isn’t modern, western society the pinnacle of the evolutionary process? The great chain of being and all that guff?

Yeah, I’d be thinking about maybe fixing that……

Because all I hear is about how everything is ruined, about how it used to be better in the old days, how nothing works any more. Perhaps that’s a problem with nostalgia – you know, from the Greek – nostos (to go home/return) and algos (pain/ache). You want to go back but it hurts. Doesn’t this tell you something? Perhaps you’re just holding yourself back. Perhaps you’re living in the past.

A bit like those silly suppositions of political leanings and cultural stances and history and tradition. Nothing is set, it’s all fluid. Look what happens when you can’t keep up the pace, you fall behind and start blaming that huge cheeseburger you had for lunch for the cramp in your foot that’s keeping you from passing the baton to the next runner who wants to step up on the podium and fix everything.

Well, that’s not how it works. Or is it? I confuse even myself sometimes, but that’s okay because if I break myself, I’m just creating my own problem, and then I just tell myself that I’m the cure to my own madness. Crow, I say to myself, if you weren’t half as intelligent as you pretend to be then you’d be twice as thick as you could have been.

I give myself a wink, ruffle my feathers and clear my thoughts. It’s all bullshit, of course, but then that’s what we’re all really good at: filling our minds with bullshit and then flinging it at each other in an attempt to solve problems that didn’t really exist until someone else told you they did.

And like a broken record the public speakers go on and on about how everything is ruined and nothing works.

It’s all so tedious.

But just stick your fingers in your ears and ignore me. Most people do when they’re walking along and see me stooped on a park bench, talking to the air. It’s probably a no smoking area, but my clouds come from the gift of fire. Sure, it’s easier to ignore me, rather than letting me pierce the veil of cotton wool that keeps you from living instead of worrying about every little detail.

You don’t want me to set you on fire.

Carry on. After all, no one’s paying you to read this, are they? And if they are then how about slipping me a a few coins while I disingenuously proffer awkward solutions to those that listen while paradoxically claiming everything is where it is supposed to be and everything is fine.

It is, isn’t it? Look out your window. Is the meteor coming down? Wait a moment while I try to pull them back…..

Oh bugger….

There goes the curtain rail. No shutting it out now.

Hmmm? What’s that you say? The sky is looking a little orange?

Oh, I’m sure that’s just a nice, rich sunset. After all, it must be getting on for tea time and I hear that book burnings are coming back into fashion.

Why, it really does look perfectly fine out there to me.


Support Root, Star & Feather

Hi, if you like what I’m doing and want to support the site:

  • Give it a thumbs up down below – it really helps.
  • Follow or sign up for email notifications.
  • Join me on FACEBOOK.
  • Sign up to the MAILING LIST.
  • Help pay the bills by becoming a PATRON and receive future rewards.
  • Buy a poor writer a coffee to keep this blog running WITH A ONE TIME DONATION via Paypal.

#fantasy #sciencefiction #pulp #author #writer #writing

 

 

 

Crumbs For Crow #1: The Hardest Step

smoking crow
© Larry Vienneau.

The Hardest of Steps

It is never, nor ever has been, the Universe itself that causes you to weep my child. With these words, and through the staunch bastion of determination within you, you have become a seeker. You and I are not unalike, but child, I see that the tears are welling up even now, before we begin. Do not let the recourse to the infantile pseudo-emotional reactivity blur the singularity and purpose of this, the most persistent of conundrums, for it is in your heart that you have come to with the burning desire to unravel that which condemns you. Stand strong, and we shall aim with alacrity to release a salvo of piercing intellectual propositions that course straight at the heart of the suppurating mediocrity of the modern day discourse and expose the wranglings of malicious fools and those serendipitously blessed with a fortune unearned.

Through everything, remember, it is I who understand and answer your call.

Thus, let us not rein in our multitudinous hail of arrows, for they are guided by the power and tenacity of our will and purpose to strike true to the arrow butt of existential and tangential purpose. In this fashion, and by good order, so shall ye reap the munificent bounty of the true sight, the unveiling of your direction via the ever expanding compass of quasi-samsarian egalitarianism vis-a-vis the expansion and contraction of the ineffable and never ceasing continuum of the cosmic purpose that has hitherto remained occluded to your dim vision.

I too, was once like you, accursed, but as one hand pulls another up, so too will you pull those others of misfortune forth into the light of understanding.

Yet beware! For there are critics who raise unambivalent objection to the proposition that there is, not only purpose, but that there is actual significant meaning in one’s pursuit of the enlightening realisation that one can attain a modicum of orientation against the prevailing notion that such a pursuit is merely the recidivistic retreat, nay escape, from the contours and colours of a reality that lies beyond the recourse of individual determination.

Such are the arguments of fools, and if I am any judge of character, you are no fool.

So let us rejoice, for such arguments are exposed as the futile fabrications they are due to their endless repetition ad nauseam, not to mention ad populum, as the enemies of true understanding are forever utilising the inherently self-serving components of expansive relativism, their number established in quantity but not quality, and via the network of methodical information relays they are able to disperse these pseudo-philosophical inaccuracies regarding the endeavours of those such as ourselves who seek until, as previous supplied, the notions that allow us to become insusceptible to infiltration by populist and conformist nonsense.

Thankfully, the true seeker stands above the gathering and decrepit malaise with the proud bearings of warriors ancient and indomitable, those noble of heart who thrust forward with certitude at the uncaring spectre of nihilistic materialism to boldly proclaim that theirs is the right by divinity and dint of acceptance of spiritual burden.

In this way we find each other, and although there must be acceptance, or at least reasonable doubt of knowledge regarding the possibility of the universe which can never offer obeisance, it still remains that we shall possess the singular right of those that may demand such, no matter the futility of such demands, for it is an act of cosmological resistance that one can attain a level of profundity against the enveloping causality of apparent meaninglessness without attributing their stance to the realm of the fearful nor the ignorant.

For if there is one thing alone that the universe is moved to condemn, it is wilful ignorance. Nothing could be clearer to those such as ourselves who move toward unveiling, and rest assured that it is by these very words that we are reassured in the understanding that what is sought is to remove themselves from such callous condemnation, for how could anything be clearer than the reading of these very words?

Now, rest child. There are many steps to take, but it is the first step that begins the journey which will cross the world.

And you have braved that first, and hardest, of steps.


Support Root, Star & Feather

Hi, if you like what I’m doing and want to support the site:

  • Give it a thumbs up down below – it really helps.
  • Follow or sign up for email notifications.
  • Join me on FACEBOOK.
  • Sign up to the MAILING LIST.
  • Help pay the bills by becoming a PATRON and receive future rewards.
  • Buy a poor writer a coffee to keep this blog running WITH A ONE TIME DONATION via Paypal.

#fantasy #sciencefiction #pulp #author #writer #writing