Journal 36 - Hogs and Mysteries

I think I'm past the point of pulling the covers
of Ennui or TV over my misanthropic head to tune
out the squeaky music box of the world's grand
noise – out of tune and painful like a sore throat
in the middle of April. April may be the cruelest
month – but not of geraniums but pollen. The live
Oak lives. My throat constricts like an anal sphincter
about to be probed – in an undesirable way. What
would the desirable way be? I don't know, a gentle
finger exploring dirty erogenous zones. Something like
that perhaps. The undesirable? An exercise for the
reader. It's the constriction not the sphincter. That's
twice. I think my mind (or my soul, whatever)
constricts like that when surrounded by people who
finally started to think when they got a 'real' job
and had kids. Suddenly they pick up one book and
are the next Gautama Muhammad Confucius bar Joseph.
They say things with such matter of factness that in
addition to convincing themselves they're right they
almost convince me. Silence is so misleading.
Nothing nice, nothing said. The noise of the
tuneless world surges up from the bowels of the
magnanimous Earth like a demon or a Balrog breathing
fire and strutting like a rock star. I want to puke
on such nonsense. I think a cracker is a cracker;
bread is bread. Something mysterious could happen
but not to the non-believer throwing the faux
consecrated baker-bread cracker in the unconsecrated
trash can. Mysteries are mysterious, not confusing
until the right theologian runs along and explains
everything in quaint academic terms. I wonder if
floating high above the Earth beyond the ethereal
blueness of the atmosphere, outside the nitrogen and
oxygen (so cold) – if one could hear the multitudes
chattering and gossiping and singing and screaming
in bed – would it sound like a symphony
of amazing human emotional breeding, or would
it sound like hogs snorting in their own
shit and mud? Hogs aren't so bad you know.

4.16.09