by practicalspactical

as language breaks down, like thought – as we slide ever deeper down this slippery-dippery rabbit-sized tree hole, clutching feverishly at Mr. White’s furry foot hopping out of reach, trying to ignore the disembodied smile hanging over our shoulder – the obvious question is whether or not we remembered our spelunking gear, if someone’s eating our bread-crumbs, if Ariadne’s golden thread got tangled, if we’ll be able to find out way back out

I continue to for-tomorrow-ate all my studies, and one day the morrow is here – and boom, happy birthday baby, here we go again –

shall I disavow my study of the instrumentalities, the osteology of the headless monster? or shall I continue, engaging in reductionism, studying the clothes instead of the body? Emperor’s got no clothes, don’t I know it.

Nine Supremes dancing in a row, say painful deaths are a-ok as long as – as long as – the pain is incidental. When the State swings the axe, we’ve all got our hands on it — maybe that’s fine — god knows, the monsters are out there, leering, clutching at their crotches while the blood of strangers flow — denying common humanity, falling into sharp-edged solipsim — the human mind is malleable and capable of believing any strange metaphsyic that is not completely incompatible with the perceptions that flash through our neurons and display the world for us — so maybe, when the metaphysic is so strange, so dangerous, that it denies our own solipsism – maybe then wield the axe and send the strangeone on ahead, into outer darkness.

But what of the damage — surely to wield the knife, to cut at being like it was slack rope — surely such an act screams against our own being — the knife cuts both ways — and we’re all holding the knife, we’re all bleeding from it — what would we lose by locking up the monsters in white rooms, with books and exercise, to pursue their solipsim cut off from the reality that could not accommodate them —

it is a question of ontology and subjectivism and of placing your mind in the place of the condemned — seeing the axe fall across our own necks, do we permit it to continue — are we after vengeance? or justice? or safety? O Mother, O Mother, Forgive the Sinners, the Harmed, Hide them away, Heal their Broken Minds — and as for the sadly sane, the safe but sad, heal them too.