Sunday, October 12, 2008

We Make Ourselves Every Day

We make ourselves everyday, we make ourselves in our own image. Some of us do it with care, artfully constructing a vehicle for the nameless, some do it sloppily, drowsily, with no attention to that which they are making, like a pimple faced, snot nosed teen in the kitchen of a drive through fast death chain assembling a Whacker burger from the ingredients available in a row of unwholesome white bins.
We make ourselves everyday. Some of us do it with flare. We make ourselves not just once in a day but as many times as we possibly can, in as many mediums as possible. We do it in service to my Lord, a silent black strange thing which cannot be defined as a thing itself. Only our relationship to it might be described, and I describe that relationship to you now with that pair of words, "My Lord", which implies that it is the governing noble force and I the capable hands which act out the will of the creeping chaos, the untamable shadow of the moon, the eternal resident of the underground labyrinth.
We make ourselves every day, in every moment. Some use only their default settings. They make themselves without love, they make themselves without care, they make themselves without attention. These docile little lambs go about chewing their cud and bleating their complaints to one another while the shepherdess, cloaked in black, wielding her curved cane, a cane made in the shape of a hook for snaring an unwitting fish, guides them gently towards the ashen abyss, to the well of lost souls, where they will spin like thin white sheets in the spin cycle as viewed through a little glass portal, twisted and tangled, churning in the dark, their whiteness revealing their great sin; the sin of having made no effort. They will have been, as we say, caught white handed, bleached out by the destroyer, the bone masher, smiling under her hood, edging them on with her boot tip, fastening gleaming brass bells about their necks. Why, I wonder, does she want them so white? So purged of color and variance? So depleted of any nutritious value that you will have to WONDER, is it still bread at all? See how she leads them to pastures which keep their fleeces soft and lovely?
We make ourselves every day, and if we do not do so with vigilance, there will always be another willing to make us for herself. She will prepare us to her taste, tender and undernourished, like calves shut away from sun and slaughtered before they can mature in order to yield a choice piece of veal.
Some have noticed the way that we make ourselves. Some have painted themselves black to escape the butchers block, to flee from Mary’s gently prodding toe, for everywhere that Mary bends the lamb is sure to go… Once painted black we are denied the safety of being bound to the flock. If you are not to her liking…away you go, to fend for yourself, if you will not be what she would make you, (something with salt, pepper, and a parsley garnish). If we make ourselves black, we are our own masters, beholden to none of this well tagged earth.
When you are your own maker then the world will close its doors to you and a cold wind will blow forever over your wretched frame. If you turn your back to Mary, she will make her world impossible for you to get by in. Don’t cross Mary unless you mean it. For those who painted the roses red, it’s off with your head, or into the wild wood, where the hungry wolves roam. Into "la aventura", into the unknown, from whence you will never emerge, because they don’t take our kind in the malt shops of the bountiful manifested world.
Out here in the tangled darkness, where our strange and varied colors mix and bleed together to make midnight soup. Out here where we wild things are, screeching and roaring, wailing and writhing, dreaming and stalking. Out here, where we make ourselves in our own image, in the form of the formless, governed by the boundless, taking shape for the pleasure of it, in service to none but the shadow, the unmade which aches for us to make it. We make ourselves for the hell of it, for the joy of it, to create because if you have not made yourself today, then tonight you will grace Mary’s plate.

Labels: , , , , , ,


Post a Comment

<< Home