The Whisky Old Man

The gears of time once more grind, they attest to a process seemingly inexorable, to a reinforcement of memory so divorced from reality; so divorced from actuality; a prematurely old man sitting on a stool, drinking whisky, wondering why oh why the sky pushes the ground.

Daisies sprout and they die. Like little bubbles in frog soup, it isn’t green but white, a constant bubbling, a teasing singing, breaking and violating the sanctity of viscosity, enforcing an age old tradition of breakage and violation; the frog within jumps up and down in a manner implying humiliation. He has croaked but hasn’t stopped croaking. To observers, madness - to the croaker, acceptance.

The grim reaper sits at home and watches TV; not an ironic joke but in the manner of perceived reality, sits and waits, sits and waits, and laughs at appropriate times, while at a whitewashed wall a clock ticks, but more sitting and waiting is in store. In the kitchen, the frog still boils, boils and boils - soon we’ll have pudding.

A mad color shines from somewhere, a ray of fever, a delirium, a prime candidate for a pill attack. Emanating from funny cracks, this unrainbowed chrome dances lazily, prodding while you are sleeping, tickling your feet with a feather, snapping your toes off with a cutter. Hee hee! it says, Hee hee! and you, sleeping, says no more but the cutter was already out and the feather was already plucked and the sleep was already disturbed, and all it matters now is another awakening, a tickling and a snapping off.

Bow! Bow to the forces of nature that seems intent to deliver its motherly blows; bow to the forces of nature that says I love you, I love you much too much! Bow to the forces of nature that grips with the force of an expanding root, a root long grown, unexpected, and the gripped object expects expectoration. But no, nature says, I am your mother and to me you are forever bound, an offspring of mine and forever bound, forever trapped in the curse of my love, dependent on my support, impossible to uproot, loved forever and loved eternal - and the cycle of birth, growth, death and rebirth goes on, sustain you, sustain ye! Trees do not grow from bare ground, they grow from other trees, and higher and higher it goes, sustaining once again that funny fever, creating again that fun, fun shade of gray.

With no possible recourse to pleasure and no positive response to smiles, the whisky old man still sits, and he watches, and he waits. Stares at the phone and thinks of his skeleton friend, who also sits, waits and watches. Two simultaneous simulacra, one of death and one of life, both much about nothing and ends, as always, in nothing.

A Rebours (Against the Grain; Against Nature)

Simulacra can give plenty of pleasure, plenty of smiles.

“Hardly ever, in fact, are perfumes produced from the flowers whose names they bear; and any artist foolish enough to take his raw materials from Nature alone would get only a hybrid result, lacking both conviction and distinction, for the very good reason that the essence obtained by distillation from the flower itself cannot possibly offer more than a very distant, very vulgar analogy with the real aroma of the living flower, rooted in the ground and spreading its effluvia through the open air.”
-Huysmans

interesting quote.