Visible Origami — May 2, 2014
Dog Poet Transmitting…….
May your noses always be cold and wet.
There’s a certain kind of weather that conspires in its elements to create a bone chilling cold. It feels worse than the temperature might suggest. The air is laden with moisture. A mild precipitation is in effect and incidentally, I’m presuming it’s incidental, the woods are filled with cuckoos. Such a day has found us here in the woodlands of The East and once Mr. Visible returns to the gray construction zone (grin) that he most recently fled, he will be rustling through the wardrobe for one of his ski suits AND… all will be well. Mr. Visible’s visible friend is not much moved by such things. He seems to move through some unique and personal atmosphere where everything is always fine and when it’s not “it’s getting better all the time”.
It’s a rare and welcome event when one encounters someone with an optimism that not only rivals but exceeds one’s own. This is a devastating form of chemistry against which no pallor of gloom or passing darkness may even momentarily prevail. I realize now… am realizing, that I have spent significant time in my life around people who do not always expect and look forward to the best results, no matter what the indications and appearances might suggest and seek to brainwash one into believing.
I don’t think I spent the amounts of time that I spent with such troubled souls had anything to do with mutual affinity. I think it was more a feature of the universe, striving to put the occasional sun drenched planets and personalities into those areas of many moons in need of something to shine upon them, just as this planet had previously been in search of some form of illumination to counterpoint the dreary landscape of a dying age. It’s not often pleasant to sit by the death bed of one you may have known for far too long and if death were anything final it would certainly not be a festive affair in any case. There are those who have convinced themselves that there’s only the one round here and following that, one descends into an unconscious darkness, never to rise again. It can be especially trying when it is an entire period of time and not a person who is passing on. You’ve got history there; far more history than you can remember and in some cases, want to remember.
So… you’re sitting by the death bed of a dying age. The usual contraptions are set up to prolong the agony of existence, well beyond the point where anything sane would even imagine holding on to such a state but… it’s not the age itself that is responsible for that, it’s all the little bipedal bacteria that have their enormous investments in the age and specifically in the state of corruption that the age has come to. You’re there by the bedside and if you close your eyes you can hear the labored breathing. Occasionally there’s a rattling sound like a marble rolling over the corrugated metal surface of a wind tunnel that was put there for just this sort of an analogy in need. You can smell the sickroom smell that not even gallons of disinfectant nor the baskets of noxiously sweet violets can cover up. If you open you eyes, you see it laying there with tubes going in and out of various orifices. There is a waxy sheen upon the face. It’s not the sort of yellow you might use to brighten a kitchen.
The present bed ridden state of the departing age is neither lovely to look upon, nor pleasant to occupy. You feel bad for the age and you hate to be unsympathetic but a part of you wishes, more or less secretly, that some compassionate soul would slip into the room in the still of the coming night and put a pillow down, firmly, upon the desiccated features of one who has long overstayed their welcome. Like, hit the road already! It’s not that those of us hanging around, in order to offer a hearty series of bon voyages, replete with waving handkerchiefs and one or two slow moving crocodile tears are there in the room hoping the age will say something about legacies and wills. It’s not like we want any of this shit even at fire-sale prices. That’s for the junk bond ghouls and vultures who break down companies and sell off the parts as if they belonged to Palestinians killed for no other purpose in that massive organ harvesting zone we call Gaza.
I thought I heard a baby cry not long ago. We’re a good distance from the obstetrics ward, here in the geriatric, final moments wing. They don’t like to place death too close to life. The chances of contracting something unpleasant are always there in an allopathic kill zone. Most of us who avoid these locations like… well, like the plague, do so because we are well aware that if whatever sent you there doesn’t kill you, that environment surely will.
As we know, Mr. Visible is a serious public servant in a certain respect, having made himself into a chemical testing laboratory for the good of the human race; trying and testing compounds to see if this one or that one, “shall long endure” in the altered state of whatever consciousness shift it was designed to bring about. So it was that our intrepid explorer of the internal super highways, half a dozen years or so ago, happened upon some amount of Fentanyl patches, following the termination of one close associate of a close associate and their goods being up for grabs, so to speak. In moments like that, Mr. Visible’s attention often turns to the medicine cabinet of the departed (grin), accompanied by the thought, “What might I find there that could benefit the human race?” I probably don’t even have to say this, assured that the reader knows all about Mr. Visible’s altruistic bent. So it was that Mr. Visible launched forth upon a series of 3 day Fentanyl patch excursions in search of an epiphany.
It was during this period that the aforementioned Visible first ran into Lord Ganesha, dancing from hill to dale in the mountains of Umbria. “By Jove!” He thought, “this is keen”. Little did Visible realize what was actually going on and it was only when he arrived some days later at the Summer Solstice event that he routinely visits each year (if you’ve got a tent and a sleeping bag and are anywhere remotely close to that part of Europe you might want to think about attending this year) AND… as is his wont, more often than not, he ingested some psychedelic and an hour or so later, climbed a nearby mountain in order to take an inventory of what’s what. It was then that Mr. Visible understood the real purpose of Fentanyl. Visible was still experiencing the effects and so, with the added insights given by the psychedelic, he was able to see, deeper than he might have wished, into the essential intent of this cocktail. It’s death is what it is and it was unmistakeable. I could clearly see that this is what they give you when you are dying and in a lot of pain and it acts similar to a pair of concrete overshoes or a concrete overcoat, sucking you down, more or less willingly, into that oblivion from which few travelers return, not in their most recent form in any case.
I cannot accurately transmit to you the horror I experienced when the realization of this item’s purpose dawned on me. Perhaps a little further detail of this compound might prove useful. It is considered to be an artificial morphine and it is something like fifty times stronger. Junkies and those of similar down head attitude take that last Ferris wheel ride all the time from this item and you can read all about it at forums designated for the discussion of such topics. As I was tuning in to the suffocating pull of death upon my being, one of my invisible friends stepped in and said something like, “So, now you know. This and many like substances are intentionally constructed in order to help expedite the passage of those who are no longer a good bet for returning to the ambulatory to and fro. It is unfortunate that you have to experience this plastic unpleasantry but… you wanted to know and so now you do. Sorry about the quality of the acid. It’s all that was in the neighborhood but it’s done the job, hasn’t it?”
I had to endure the sticky, plastic and difficult to breathe episode for some while, as penance for my indefatigable pursuit of knowing first hand what would have probably been obvious to a more balanced seeker after truth but… the truth be told, until recently, balance was not one of those conditions one would associate with the shooting star mentality of the writer of this piece.
This is all to let you know that this passing age is stoked to the gills on Fentanyl and will soon be scuba diving in the River Styx (sans oxygen tanks), unless I miss my guess.
Yow! I just walked outside for a moment. Shiver me timbers! The wind is howling across the tundra; metaphorically speaking. There will be a hearty fire started shortly in the woodstove in Mr. Visible’s residential construction zone of a living quarters. We are installing the last of the insulation today, so it might actually have an impact. One of the things I am learning is that insulation is a deal more expensive than I had originally imagined. It’s a good thing you only have to do it once but… I digress.
I must say, I’m impressed with the, by increments, speed of our daily industry, me and my visible friend and we let neither hail, nor sleet nor snow, deter us from our appointed rounds. Wherever you are AND we hope that is somewhere warm and free of tornadoes, that you are glad you sent this vanishing age a sympathy card and some flowers. Its time has surely come round at last and a great many of the more vile players in this epic drama, are presently awaiting their own passage out; David Rockefeller, George Soros, Donald Rumsfeld, Henry Kissinger, Rupert Murdoch, George Herbert Walker Bush, Jacob Rothschild and sundry are all holding that particular pink slip. They’ve been ‘given notice’ as it were. We send those of you destined to remain and to see the glorious arrival of this new age, a bouquet of roses to bloom upon your crosses (“may the roses bloom upon your cross”). We, here in the land of visible and invisible friends, send you our enduring best wishes for both sanctity and security of transport. Buona fortuna!!!