"It's about words, and words are all I have…"




So said Jean Paul Sartre   What could he possibly mean?

That freedom is contingent upon one’s  degree of imprisonment?

That every small act  even the most minute  was an act of

defiance in face of the boot?  Or the waiting train for the long

ride to Polish towns with death camp names?


Yet freedom as a condition is not native to human existence

As Beckett mentioned  We are born astride a grave  But even

if one may  compartmentalize  deny  +anesthetize   it is also true

that you + I are dropped into a story written by who?  One which

unfolds with seeming choices at every step   except   for the beginning

+the end


Nailing one to a family  to a place +time  + to a demise  One which is

exactly the same in physiological specifics for every single one of us

Organic matter  to decay  to pushing up daisies  Organic fodder for yet

another storyteller  Sartre was likely pulling our existential chains   For

isn’t all of human existence contingent?


Upon where you show up   +through whose chute   Whether your storyteller

is benevolent  or brute?   And just about everyone is a storyteller these days!

Taking a shot at demi-god-ery  at immortality   So why not run with the middle

part of your story?  Head for Mexico!   Escape your family   They probably won’t

notice anyway


Shoot yourself if you must  +watch your storyteller turn to dust  He never expected

you to take the reigns   Mostly  scrape the surface  for it is in the underbelly where

you can hide for years  quietly pretending to be passive + unfree    I tell you now:

there is a saddled horse at stage left  waiting   +a wild eyed creature  crouching in

the grass  loving you  secretly


It was just a dream. You dreamt him. 

You can make him do whatever you like.

Where was he before I dreamt him?

You tell me.

Then I woke.  From his dream or yours?  

There is only one dream to wake from.

(Cormac McCarthy  Cities of The Plain  1998)





End of Summer  2017    ..good riddance



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