Pushing the Borderline chapter 8

Image: survival
Belief: value
Purpose: valuable survival

These politicians had ruled the setting up of the camp. These politicians were a contemporary ruin of a very conventional tradition. This is why there happily was room for the anarchy that just had to be present- this is the only place to be. He knew just how to be happy- why not? Pure sensibility-why not be common with that? Why not be commonly happy? Maybe common was conventional. Maybe common was the present. Why not have a common purpose? His common commodities were the contents of his ever present carpet bag that he carried. Was his invisible notepad not a common commodity? Was he a pocket book angel? A bit of a miracle in dusty shoes? He had a common talent. He heard the music inside his head and his heart. A bit of a miracle with rythmn in his stride. This was his way of being common. Very impressive and quite dazzling. But commonly you knew some better than others and stuck to your friends trying to imagine that you could make them happy. Do you just have to stop somewhere? He didn’t. He was well on his way, crossing borderlines. These politicians were pushing them. Completely unnecessarily, deborched, misunderstood and, harshly putting it: like they were bored to death- probably because they were as boring as impersonal beasts.
She snuck up beside him- she was even cooler. He threw her a kiss. It always gave her a sweet taste of pride. No explanation necessary. Imagine getting this far, being cool and realizing that life just doesn’t go on forever. How blue!
So we stick to the common present like here in the middle of the night with the stargate light and the pretty maids wanting to be angels. They never could be but they were pretty pretty good in their seethrough leotards and golden glimmering breasts dancing to Captain Cool’s rythmn. What a nice way to make us all feel like pretty maids being loved. They were all his and even if he did throw her a kiss she had to stay cool because she couldn’t help giving everything away- but up till now all her dreams had become true so why be dissatisfied?
It is very common to get angry. It is quite human. Not to be a monster, not to be a lump of suger, not to be an angel- so we choose alien. While I write these lines I question my valuable survival. At least as an alien. Don’t wannabe any old pretty maid. Do’n wanna think about it- someone help me-I wanna see the sun-I wanna feel some love- I wanna rise. Everyone wants love to shine on them.
Here on Brown Dungeon nobody cries. The only sounds are the bees hovering in your stomach, building and building.What? A beeshive?
Nourishment to keep the rain from washing away all hope. The gold of Mother Nature this far away? Revelations are incorrigable. Lightning strikes not only once but twice and thunder keeps the circular motion rotating. The sky is split between today and tomorrow. The past is dying again and again. Every single day. While you can hear the grass grow. Swinging back and forth and watcing the world turn around above the pinnacle of the pinetrees. Kids here and there and out of sight but never, ever out of mind.
In the Brown Dungeon you can forget to breathe because you remember. You wish it had all been a lie. It was some way or other but today can be full of shame. This is how it is to be a human being. But. . There is love. If you can get it to light up the Dungeon you will forever be free.
You can choose to live in silence- it’s rather non-committal. Or maybe you could say “ Dunno what to say “ Sorta non- committal also. Maybe you really don’t know what to say because the statement is crazy. Maybe kill someone stupid and take the toll.
This captain was cool. But nobody knew who he was- only his coolness.
Even you yourself don’t know what to say. You may want to make him laugh, you may want to make him happy but he ain’t making you much happy- so it is pretty difficult. So you complain- this is what they say a woman can do. But there are men who are so knotted up inside and out that they fill you with anxiety and fear.
Not this man- he was cool.
Rushing with the drumbeat when you are so tired and feel as though you will never be able to keep up and so what? Don’t tell me; the rythmn- maybe we can work something out together?
The doors are closed here in the Brown Dungeon. It’s cold and damp and our bones are aching.
If one of the doors were opened you’d fall right into oblivion, maybe see a few stars on the way while you float away, slowly evaporating to become a part of an unknown galaxy. Because in the Brown Dungeon nobody tells you anything- like where you are and who you are. You feel like a noone amoung other noones. This is how it is to be a hman being in the Brown Dungeon.
Well- your remnants are not exactly nothing because the bees are there- the gold of Mother Nature so far away.
But. . Before sailing off to oblivion - imagine: you put a raison under your tongue, a magic raison which gave you the strength of 100 gnarling wolves, 3 lions in laison, one white raging rhinoceros and a knocking defensive kangaroo! Okay- you tear the bars out, overcome the waters, pull out every stone- granite all the way from a politicians quarry. Tearing stones out of the wall- feels like jelly slipping through your fingers. There is not much more in here except the warden who, with her alienation from reality, is gawping. You slip a scorpion between her breasts where it gives it’s sting.
So what is outside these walls?
Babylon. Paradise, a thriving oasis. There is Fatima with her pearly eyes gazing right at you. You spit the magic raison out and she’s still there. You never , ever want to be without her.