Rational men. Where do I find 'them'? You ever talk to a man with a persecution complex, you'll notice he uses the word 'They' frequently. They are responsible for this. They have no interest in seeing the innovative and the original brought forth. Their definition fo beauty is the familiar, the pre-approved, and the accepted. The reason why the spastic creative mind has such trouble meeting with veneration in his given time, is that the new, startling, paradigm-shifting interpetations are a direct threat to such beauty. It is folks who would spill the preceding sentence out of their mouths that enjoy the use of the word Them in all forms.
And tell me, now, that rational brothers don't love word games more than a piece of ass most days. They codify said ass into very bizarre little contract negotiations. Don't ever accuse them of choosing piece of mind.
I recover from rationality myself. there's a friendly old rub in simplification, don't think I don't know it. I'd sit there, in front of whatever ridiculous tale I was hearing. If that sonofabitch threatened me in the slightest, if its assertions even barely scratched a challenge against my own train of thought, I took it apart. I went to work on it. Logic to get like water in the cracks. A little of the Socratic to shiver it apart. Ahmmers of finality; imeprative, self-assured mutual destruction in the postmodern as a last resort. I'd pull years worth of culled reading together into finest construct of an astrological chart, and declare the future of the idea worthless. Almost an idea? Almost works with hand grenades, you suicidal motherfucker, I'd say. I'd ratchet up the vocabulary. Words should have an exact meaning, I'd say. No one word should be doing the work of two.
Sometimes I wonder how the rational brother gets past the headache of the metaphor. or worse, envy, sublimation, longing, or sarcasm.
And why he hadn't taken a hatchet to the Poet's throat yet.
Overindulgence might be a curse. I might have turned those laws into chants I'd reinforce myself with in the in-between quiet hours over and over, as if repeating them made them worthwhile. I learned how to give myself every name and label in the fucking book. In the end, that house of cards blew over. I used to curse at career-minded types, at middle managements, mortgage payers, and child-bearers. Having something to lose was hilarious to me. I've since gained a better measure of understanding. Lincoln Log morality might blow over, or the parental mindfuck reaches the limit of its influence: One find different centers. Change of location, change of ground: good for foraging, good for survival.
It takes a number of years and a strong stomach to learn that you don't know. And real fire in the gut to want to still take steps afterward.
So these days, I hunt the rational brother. Without torch, because I don't think it's light he needs. All I've got is an ear. I look for the ones who've given their souls all the way over to it: I look for the truly regulated. They hold a secret I don't have. What a will, to bend themsleves into the checks, balances, and fallbacks. Now, rationality has put a lot of food on the table. Obedience has had its rewards, and when it comes to matters of currency and exchange, I'd rather broker with a banker than a poet. Still I seek the brother who has yet to be overtaken; the one who stands apart even from his work, who hasn't heard the three AM question sponsored by self-doubt and the inevitability of failure. For failure is always an option, no matter how strong the faith in rationality, or any other pantheon. No answers by pranksters or jesters. Or lawyers or semantic mathematicians. Not even from apologists.
I'd like to see one more unshakable soul before I die.
Call that the most irrational of behaviors: Wishing.