Talking to the dead this morning,
my ancestral spirits so to speak-- easier than with the living dead I suppose
Had a rough night. My dog, Insomnia, partially tripping on cortisone, just wouldn't relent and comply with retiring to bed, and finally when it did, it sat their happily like a pig-in-mud, dog-in-a-manger, amusing itself by hurling sleep-disturbing insights at me and Morpheus, about my (fear of) death.
Nothing profound, just like the thought of that final moment--penultimate moment to be technical--and what that's going to be like. Then, forever dust, in a neglected cemetery, along, eventually, with all the --to be equally dusted-- actors with whom I share this mundane and temporal stage, with all it's karmically (re)enacted dramas, petty and overwhelming at times, major and overwhelming at others.
We stick to, with, the stock script, doggedly. Like shit-to-a-blanket, really, as Sister Rae would have it. Destiny, taqdeer, determinism, call it what you will --historical materialism to be really twee and hip. I imagine always, the Grand Old Author, Ink- stained, Smiling(?) at this folly, foibles we present as earth-shattering and unique facets, scintillating pearls to our selves, burnt offerings at the altar of Narcissus.
My bru said to me one hazy night many moons ago(over 444 moons ago to split hairs, to suggest occult conspiracy, and to mix metaphors--it's that kind-o'-morning), he said, "you know you're a Fatalist". Casually, softly spoken, almost a non sequitur. I thought it fit, as an epithet(fatal, faizel -- got a ring, a rhyme, no reason, to it)
No need for that old voodoo medicine, cortisone, to tamper with Fatalism this morn though -- black is beautiful!
Paint It, Black