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i all seems so ironic. from the time that i awoke on Thursday, until the opportunity to flop on my ass on Sunday night, the entire weekend was an unending repertoire of repairing broken things. automobiles. jewelry. audio systems. carpentry. what remains of the epidermis on my index finger. the one bit of recreation... witnessing the destruction of other things. safety inspections. major tune ups. diagnosing my child-tampered stereo (which took two days to correct, only after getting down on floor level to figure out what little fingers could reach)... and blown speakers. abrading deteriorating paint and woodwork. replacing the missing jade stone from my ring. re-welding the broken hinge on the volvo... then, leveling the excess bead (and most of my knuckle) with the angle grinder. innumerable tasks. then, a call on Friday... from my architect friend, who turns more Hawaiian every time we meet. and, a bit freer, it seems. he copped an earlier inspiration of mine, and wanted us all to meet for the demolition derby at the county fair on saturday night. there's the irony. the ultimate destruction... nay, the viking funeral of the excessive American Bulgemobile. a fitting swan song. building up to destroy. only, considering the wanton and determined ferocity of the proceedings, some of those old beasts withstood a lot more punishment than their brethren that are only granted the "to-the-store-church-and-doctors-office" sentence. the thick, driving rain and the heavy, premature darkness set the muddy stage for the entire evening, making the sporadic fires and smoke do the strangest things. in its death throes, one particular sacrifice of Detroit shat orange-y flames from its nether regions... and expired in a wreath of tiny smoke rings from the hood-mounted exhaust. it was like a rising squadron of halos... more likely, the wraiths of the piston rings. it did not go gentle into that good night... but, with a certain artistic finality. "artistic finality". now, that remark hits the nail on the head, in a succinct description of these last months and days. rereading recent journal entries, i can't help but laugh at the desperation... hoping for things that can't be, or shouldn't. looking for some electric spark that would jump start this rusted wreck in my chest. the long spell of artists' block continues. and cock-block. and reverie-block. hollowness becomes me. is becoming me. i dream to fight off the inevitability of all things lost. perhaps, there'll be enough spirit left to manifest a little upward ring of smoke. |
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