[Originally published January 23, 2008.]
The Writers Guild of America Strike
The Writer is Divine Creation made manifest in a World of Mortal Sin. His Divinity, however, is of a Secular Divergency: there is no room for God in a Universe whose only Organizing Principle is Murder and Decay. He has been Sacrificed by the Heathens of an Amoral Paradox. In the Ruins of the Battleground of Creation lie the Tarnished Remains of Zingers Flogged and Tortured, of Timeless Quips Raped and Pillaged by the Emblems of our Spiritual Assassination: YouTube and Google Video.
The Success of the
The Phenomenon of Pregnancy creates in the Physiognomy of the Host the Epitome of humanity’s Displaced Cannibalistic Desires: one believes oneself to be engaging in the act of Creation, only to discover, behind the Blinding Cloak of Elation, the Insidious Mask of Suicide. One need not be reminded of the Mating Habits of the Appalachian Dung Beetle to realize that Pregnancy is merely an act of Self-Immolation, veiled by the Momentary Pleasure of Copulation so as to dispel the one Elemental Truth of Human Existence: that we are provoked not by the desire for Preservation but rather by the need for Destruction. Inside the uterine wall lie the foundations of the Chaos on which our Universe has been constructed. The mother Creates so as to be Devoured by her Creation. As the mother feeds and cares for her child, it is only in the most Fathomless Depths of her Psyche that she realizes that she is preparing herself for her own inevitable Murder, the Murderer being the very child she has reared.
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As Saturn did, so, too, does our Depraved Quest for Disengagement with a Universe Founded Upon Murder and Chaos Devour its offspring: as we wait anxiously to suckle upon the Gangrenous Fruit of Perceived Meaningfulness, we feign surprise at finding ourselves already between the Famished Lips of the Desolate Paternalism of Anarchy and Dismay. But it is not Pain that we experience; it is a Disembodied Delight, a Howl from the Lungs of Death, who embraces us, as would a father, as we descend into our Graves of Earthly Pleasure.
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It is not childhood that we aspire to; it is an Idealized State of Impoverished Ignorance. Childhood is a Ghastly Period immured by a fascination with Death and Destruction. Ignorance is gained with knowledge: the further we separate ourselves from the Underlying and Unrelenting Murder That Underscores the Universe, the further we separate ourselves from our childhoods. It is only by embracing Anarchic Chaos that we can embrace our Natural, Vernal State.
Oh, that is So Six Months Ago.