Sing to me, O Muses

Sing to me, O Muses . . .

"Self discipline is what I need to sustain my existence and find meaning of why I am here whether it be to be successful, have a family and help others or to wantonly kill those who try to hold me down in my quest for true enlightenment or search for the very existence of a God who seems hapless in aiding his children in this world full of vile creatures and hungry appetites yearning to quash the hopes and dreams of those who dare assert their independence and who continually remind them that they are bound under the chains of slavery imposed by themselves because freedom cannot be attained in this world or the next."

All hail the divine Father Cockroach who bleeds honey from its frothing mouth yet chooses not to suckle the starving masses yearning to eat the honey ambrosia that will grant them freedom and immortality!!! All hail the Son Dung Beetle who will come in glory to judge the penny pushers and perverted holy men who through the ages called on His name to spread lies and flies to justify their oppressive thumbs on His trash bin flock. And all hail the Horny Satyr who comes in the night inspiring the Selected Drones to speak in tongues and spread the Word to the future generations who would later pervert, prophesize and print the Word on pages used to wipe their stuffed mouths and shit-laced assholes.

I shall sing a new song while waiting for Godot. I shall clean my soul at the car wash and get my spirit detailed. I shall taint my body with sweet tasting drinks that will corrode my teeth and eat of the sacred herd like Odysseus' men while counting my mortality away. I shall let you eat my bread and drink from my cup and ravage you until I have had enough. I shall struggle for my will to power only to have others borrow my words in the name of genocide. I shall reveal the truth behind our origins while you will use that knowledge to separate us as man and beast. I shall dream of Utopia wrought in blood won by those wearing blue collars, and yet you turn it into a nightmare world with seven-year plans and mass killings. I shall march on the steps of your capital with my brethren in busloads, and you shall kill me out of ignorance. I shall imagine a world without your kind and sing a song of peace; you shall murder me and make my legend increase. And all the while I shall wait patiently for Godot who sends me signs and miracles to keep me on my toes.

But I am a man fraught with guilt, sin and flies in my stomach that weigh me down. I dream of flying to the sun but fear my wax wings will melt and have me drown. I sense the doom in the horizon and tragedy of life, but I am sustained by a nagging inner light like those cheesy glowing hearts in those pictures of Christ. Mother Theresa and Schweitzer are no longer -- they might have served as examples. Zimmerman protests too much and sings with a nasal snarl, while those lads from the working class who changed the world are without their leader and have become aging capitalists with no more melodies. Movies stumble to tell a tale and have become a squire to the Knights of the Round Box Office. The Blind Poet of Antiquity seems not to have even existed, while the Bard of England may not have even written his quartos.

The universe is finite, infinite, expanding, contracting, sitting still while time crawls, moves too fast, or does not move at all.

I shall sing my song and wait for Godot. Perhaps Rosencrantz and Gildenstern will join me, even if they are dead. Maybe Joyce but he is probably sulking in Dublin. Maybe Milton but he is lost in paradise. Maybe even Lee though she maybe killing a mockingbird. Perhaps Salinger but he and Caulfield are probably stumbling in the rye. Maybe Socrates if he is not too busy with his inquiries. Or maybe Descartes if he is not too busy with his ball of wax and meditations. Maybe Albom if he gets his Tuesdays free. Maybe Albee if he is not crying wolf. Perhaps Kerouac when he is not on the road. Or maybe Hawthorne when he is done tending the garden and clearing out the gables. Perhaps Malory will lend his voice after Arthur's demise. Or maybe Gibbons after the Fall and Decline. Perhaps I can even convince Guttenberg to stop the presses and lend his voice.

Maybe.

Perhaps.

I shall sing my song, nonetheless, and wait for Godot. I shall even find Godot a city. Like Remeus and Romulus and Dido. I shall build a city on top of a hill higher than Macchu Picchu. I shall call it Erewhon. I shall put two lionesses at its gate and build a ziggurat at its center. The tower shall have seven gates with seven seals and made completely of alabaster and with hanging gardens. I shall make a temple for Godot and make a statue of him seated on his throne made of pure gold. And I shall put this city by the river Styx and place a colossal statue of the Son Dung Beetle peering out into the sea. And I shall call myself Ozymandius and carve my name upon every stone for future generations to see and be amazed.

I shall sing my song and wait for Godot. But while I wait I will retreat and go under like Zarathustra. I will teach that man is a rope between beast and overman. And I shall have Durkheim take down some notes. But Sorel and Bergson shall thwart my every move and will invoke the scream of Munch to scare me away. But I will return and cross the Rubicon with Elijah and Elisha who will anoint me with oil and call me messiah. And I will circle the walls of Erewhon and its sister city Usher until everything comes crashing down. I will slay Sorel, Bergson and their champions Hektor, Enkidu and Sampson. And I shall take Helen and Gunievere from the city and make them Vestal Virgins. In the cities I shall try to find a dozen honest men and fail. And Godot will send fire and brimstone and the bomb upon Erewhon and Usher to wipe the world of wickedness and sin. And Godot, Grendel and Job will laugh from the halls of Valhalla while the gods weep in Mt. Olympus.

Still, I shall sing my song and wait for Godot. But before I wait, I shall travel to far away places and live the life of a Homeric poem. I shall be amazed like fair Portia and Huxley as I brave this new world. I shall be swift, tell the Irish to eat their babies, have a war between books and converse with gentle horses. I shall perform the Seven Labors three times. I shall be a wily sailor lost years at sea while the god of earthquakes pursues me. I shall be a knight chasing down windmills and join a motley crew of heroes in search of a golden fleece. I shall search for a Holy Grail and be struck down by lightning before I touch it. I shall be a child on a Crusade forever lost on my way to Palestine. I shall reach the Orient and write a book, while Erik the Red mocks me when I find a world of grapes. I shall stop the Turks at Vienna and watch helplessly as Scipio defeats Hannibal at Zama. I shall see the sky lit up in flames as a zeppelin falls from the heavens and smile with glee when the unsinkable gets sunk at sea. And I shall fight bravely with the Spartans at Thermopylae.

And then I shall meet Godot at the crossroads on frozen tundra when Nanook is up North with Robert Johnson. He will call me "Victor F." and will ask for his name. "The Creation is the Creator, and the Creator his Creation," I shall reply. And we together like Pip and Stella or Bogart and Raines will walk pass the ashes of Erewhon, Xanadu and Utopia and enter the forbidden land guarded by an angel with a sword of flames. And there we shall eat from the Tree but will not be reprimanded. And there we shall mock Satre's notion of Hell and Dante's visions of Heaven. And there we shall wait for another asleep in Avalon who will come to lead us to Ragnarok. And we shall fight the soothsayers, politicians and holy men of the world until the firmament cracks and Gaea becomes barren.

We shall die and be eternally reborn.

And we shall live these memories again and again . . .

And Nietzsche and Christ will walk hand in hand singing the Song of J. Alfred Prufrock with tears of joy in their eyes like Alex after hearing Beethoven's Ninth.

-- JPN 12/29/00