Proverbs VII

NAIL: see ONE nail drives out another; for WANT of a nail the shoe was lost.

NAME: see give a DOG a bad name and hang him; he that has an ILL name is half hanged; NO names, no pack-drill.

NATION: see happy is the COUNTRY which has no history; the ENGLISH are a nation of shopkeepers

Moron: There, done with the introduction, then there’s history and my toast which I toasted too long last year, and there’s my carpet and car, all the things I’ve amassed through centuries, and centuries and…

Nature abhors a vacuum

Bystander: How we’ve waited, the years, the years, like pebbles on a beach, like stars in the sky they’ve been counted, and the silence, like empty pages and waiting for trains which haven’t yet departed from the world’s other side. How we’ve waited and what expectations, to set it straight, to make it all-right, for us to breath and live, yes, so we can live, not again, but for the first time ever. Yes, we as in we as in when we were winning…

NATURE: see also you can DRIVE out Nature with a pitchfork, but she keeps on coming back; SELF-preservation is the first law of nature.

NAY: see he that WILL not when he may, when he will he shall have nay.

Near is my kirtle, but nearer is my smock

Excelsia: It’s a reference, by itself, to the war. The war against womenkind. She’s in that dress again, the dark blue, and wears that makeup again, the black. The person making the dressing was busy for she was not in the mood that day, not at all, and even refused at first to appear before the cameras. When she finally was ready, they’d forgot her dog, which had to be brought from the summer house with a fighter jet, as it was the fastest, and dropped with a dog’s parachute over the palace. The engineers were called in from their universities, brought together to calculate the descent and trajectories, for it was a dog lighter than the wind and smaller than a man’s hand.

Near is my shirt, but nearer is my skin

Merklorotiez: It can’t even be commented upon, the ways in which it’s distorted, twisted and manipulated, that, which is called reality. How the dog fell from the sky and yet didn’t, how it splashed against the marble floor, right where it should, but with the speed of a meteorite, there beside her, and how the blood splashed with it, unto the blue dress, up to the makeup and into the eyes, so that literally all she saw, as the cameras were already turned on, was the dog’s blood, her beloved dog’s blood. Yet it did not happen, yet it was alive the day after, for everyone to see, that the dog was more well than ever, just slightly bigger, just with a little bit different shade of black, the fur, and yet the same dog, and nothing had ever happened, for so it was decided, that if the majority of peoples perceived it to be the same dog, it was, and if they didn’t it was still, for so it was decided.

The nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat

Bystander: Yet we know the engineers went missing, yet we know their chairs at their universities were removed, yet, yet, yet and the fighter jet, which they’d designed and from which the dog was dropped…

The nearer the church, the farther from God

Moron: And yet it was a cat, for we all know she does not like dogs, filthy animals, lower than man, dumber than a peasant’s cow and less to be trusted than all the engineers in the world combined, yes, it was a cat and it flew. Flew, flew, flew across the fields, just not like a fighter jet, but like a helicopter, and no missiles struck it and zero were the number of fields in foreign land in which it crashed and burnt. But the journalists, they sure were there to celebrate the speech after it had been concluded, for they were her friends, her only trusted, yes, it was in fact for these journalists, not the engineers, she did what she did, all her sacrifices, from the noble upbringing in the slums of Calcutta to the rise to stardom and, as verified by all, to the status of a true hero of the Universe. For if they are there, the flying saucers and the little green men, which I’m sure they are, I’m equally sure they gaze upon her deeds with admiration and tearful space eyes. Not tears of sorrow, no, tears of joy, real thousand year old space tears. I’m sure it’s like that, with the space perspective, that she did it right, that she served every living sacred soul on this fragile Earth a great honor, that it was all in humankind’s best interests.

Necessity is the mother of invention

Respected space historian: He’s quite right, the great moron, that space invaders look upon death and destruction with great respect, and that in a thousand years or two or five, we will not be doing much else than traveling the great vacuum looking for peoples to slaughter and destroy. We won’t enslave, for that is too humble, and we won’t set free or liberate, for that is too primitive. Destruction, killing, murdering – that’s the way of advanced civilizations in modern space, according to all respected books.

Necessity knows no law

Moron: It is therefore of paramount necessity that the laws of space war be followed at all times, also here on Earth, in preparation for future times. In contrast to the current laws of warfare here on the planet, the laws of space war are meant to be bent and approximated according to needs and necessity. Surely, the situation at hand must trump some pages in a disrespected document signed by men no longer living.

Needs must when the Devil drives

Heron: He’ll drive himself to Hell, where he belongs, the only question being how many will follow. Shaking hands and legs like a King Kong at the end of times, well aware of the damage he’s done. Perhaps not thinking at night about the children he’s killed, nor about their mothers and fathers, but perhaps about his nation, and himself as the liberator and Father, and how all this now is gone. History does not look kindly towards brains of that breed, and, while they won’t be forgotten, a special place in Hell is reserved for these brains, who took upon them to dictate the terms of life and death for other than themselves, who saw peace and turned it into war, who had everything and wanted more for more’s sake.

What a neighbour gets is not lost

Bystander: We’ll have it all and we’ll win, though ugly we are, and many we kill and slaughter in revenge. Yet we’ll have it all and we’ll win, and our sacrifices will not be forgotten, while our misdeeds will. In the great book of scores a misdeed weights greater than ten accomplishments, but yet we will be heroes of all time forever. So let the house of cards fall, let bodies perish and ascend, let families return to homes no longer standing and relatives no longer breathing. Let the neighbor do the same, and say no more of this. It can’t be forgiven, it’s what we feel, but when she’s gone and time’s passed, it can be forgiven, for in Hell, where she’ll be, we know she’ll be punished, and then we can forgive, for she was human too, after all, and we can feel pity, and then we’ll love her. In a thousand years, like we love King Kong as the destroyer of mankind, like that we will love her and forgive her, for she did not know what she was doing. She refuted the engineers and took instead the journalists, who whispered what she expected to hear.

In vain the net is spread in the sight of the bird

Chorus: Yes, in vain, most enterprises are, so that if only we knew, and etc., etc. Create that device which predicts what’s not in vain, and tell it to the people, so they with certainty know the gains before setting off, and no step is ever taken backwards, but always towards the target, etc., etc., that of ever-lasting peace and joy, yes, for many a struggles we’ve had, and not one more we think we’re deserving of. Create that device, oh great engineers, create it and set the world free!

If you gently touch a nettle it’ll sting you for your pains; grasp it like a lad of mettle, an’ as soft as silk remains

Forsaken engineer: So that’s what we did, as suggested, both hard and soft, screaming and in tears, and we thought, Time, that’s the phenomenon, what we’re up against, to endure its lengthy beating, to roughen the fragile skin, to celebrate the blood from the lesions and the pain of the bruises, but little did we know we were operating correctly, that our manners were the path, that our manners were a path, yes, one of many, a statistical model, really, that’s how we saw it, and failure did not exist, nor humiliation, nor the bodies we were operating from, nor those of the peoples who seemed to be against us, nor their grandfathers or children, but only us, us and the bystanders, heroic and brave, like birds in a storm with fallen trees and leaves swirling everywhere, obstructing the eyes, deafening the ears, making the calculations tiresome and lengthy – yet we flew straight, though the path was unbeaten, yet we flew straight, though only darkness we saw.

Never is a long time

Author: You have to do this, the question being whether you want it or not. Now it’s there, now it’s not, the feeling of importance and necessity of your words. Now it matters, now it doesn’t, the globe spinning faster whether you like it nor not. Yet it doesn’t spin faster, cavemen used celestial bodies too for navigation and time-keeping. Somehow still, the days are shorter now and the impressions weaker. Your thinking, before fast and clear at the best of times, now heavy and certain, the distance to conclusions shorter, unless you don’t know, for then you get stuck and seemingly can’t proceed.

BREAK

FREE

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME?!

BE AGGRESSIVE LIKE A MAN!!

WHO TOLD YOU THIS WAS PUBLISHED BEFORE IT WAS, WHICH IT ISN’T?!

SCORN THE PEOPLE, MOVE THEM AWAY FROM YOU

Scream like that and see if it helps. You know you’re me, not a bit different.

How can you speak with such certainty when you’re just some guy on Earth? There is something about your position, the stance you have worked your way into. There is nothing about your thinking which is spectacular or wise. Annihilate yourself and see what the Proverbs have to offer.

YOU WILL NEVER…

It is never too late to learn

Moron: For you have gone old and irrelevant, your greatest fear, isn’t it? To be irrelevant. Speaking with the voice of Birdman’s inner demon, I judge you and deem you incapable of writing and thinking. I curse you, author, and the rest of this drama will be without point and elegance, dreadful, painful, irrelevant. See now if you can proceed, for there is no inspiration to be found, and none of your actions will have an impact on the trajectories of planets and moons, let alone men, women and their endeavours.

Never too old to learn

Heron: And yet, love yourself, author, not because you have done great deeds, for it’s irrelevant whether you have or not, but because you are here, in this body, speaking, moving, breathing with your iron lungs. It is the greatest fear of any creator to create that which speaks not for itself and which is not read or heard and passes to oblivion. Against that you fought, author, and you thought one action was enough if only it was remembered. It’s different now. There are thousands of Bob Dylans, each one more talented and wiser than the next, and thousands of King Kongs, each one dreaming of autocracy and fascism. It was easier back then, when the world was not as crowded and every reasonable alley led to newfound lands and unexplored forms of expression. It was easier then too, to buy a house and live on the salary and provide for the family. Yet you never sought riches, author, and this too was noble, and those who at first thought you were a poet and a romantic were proven wrong too, for your style proved to be explosive and grim. Some even said, author, that your intentions were not Art but Revolution, and that the dramatic mask you wore were real and not fiction, and they said that you really meant what you wrote. They concluded you were insane, which you were at first, and from that deep well you emerged, naked, confused, not knowing what was real and what wasn’t. So, love yourself, author, for you have done no harm, and that, at least, can’t be said about King Kong.

New brooms sweep clean

Interrogator 1 in a notorious prison: So how are you then?

Author: I’m actually really good.

Interrogator 2, skeptical: What are you good at?

Author: You misunderstood. I’m doing really good. It means I’m not suffering and that my thoughts are happy and content most of the time.

Interrogator 1: Don’t speak up! Want me to hit you with this broom?

Interrogator 1 glances at Interrogator 2.

Interrogator 2: If you’re so content, why are you producing words and sentences? Why are you writing?

Author: As I’ve explained, I must, whether I want to or not.

Interrogator 1: Well, do you wanna?

Author: Yes, obviously. My actions have a purpose, though it may be well-concealed.

Interrogator 2: Are you concealing a weapon?

Author: Only my words, sir.

Interrogator 2: Don’t you Sir me!

Interrogator 1: Don’t you speak to him like that! He is Holy!

Interrogator 1 slaps Interrogator 2 with the broom. Both leave the interrogation room, not happy with themselves.

What is new cannot be true

Author: And so it was that I became Holy within the state prison system. At every train junction, as the train of prisoners passed, heading for destruction, flags were waved and crowds gathered to cheer. At every prison and at every camp, as we left the train, a red carpet was rolled out and guards with rifles took the knee on each side, crossing themselves with their free hand, as if I had come not from the train but from Heaven, as if my purpose was not to mine or build tracks, but to re-organize the state prison system and put an end to the reign of terror.

New lords, new laws

Bystander, also arriving at the camp: I remember clearly now. Before I had forgotten but now I remember. He used to wear that cap. I mean it was just a regular prison cap, but his was somehow special. Or he wore it in a special way. In any case, for whatever reason, prisoners turned when he came in, they dropped whatever ax or pick they were holding, just stopped to stare. He was like a Prince back then, really, so innocent, his whole person shining with sublime pride and power. When he sat to work, the whole camp worked twice as hard. And to confirm all this, our rations were doubled. The guards were smiling, some days they even let us out. We went to town, sat at the cafes, we were allowed to buy wine and bring it back to the camp. Then one day he was transferred, and not seen again. We made figures, we carved his name in the walls of the barracks, me made songs about him which we sang every night and while working in the mines. It’s how it was back then. We were young and hopeful. Everything was possible.

You can’t put new wine in old bottles

Commentator: Maybe his purpose really is to project himself upon the heavens as to seem bigger than people. At first he was a man, then they – his characters, every single one of them his own creation – called him a Prince, and now he wants to be King. While the Amazon is plundered and the ice caps are melting, this futile man speaks only of celebrating himself, and uses only words which suggest to us we shall do the same. If he really, as he claims, sits on a throne of marble and gold, for all to see and hear, then why isn’t he screaming that this madness must come to and end!

Nine tailors make a man

Merklorotiez: Much pressure was laid upon our great Hero, Prince and King, and he withdrew into his cavern, initially with the purpose of contemplating his next move. Tired, hungry and incapable of proper thought, many hours were spent playing video games and forgetting his name and whereabouts. Then he came out but went back in again. “Can you really move the hearts of men?” he asked in the dark. “And what about the hearts of women? Can these be moved too? What is the real difference between man-hearts and woman-hearts? A larger heart, as found in men on average, can’t be indicative of a greater capacity for love and compassion. Therefore the force needed to move a heart must be independent of the normal physical laws, must act outside the common dimensions of space and time. What are the exact words which move the heart, how is the clockwork, so to speak, of the heart constructed?”
Like this he pondered for a long time.

No man can serve two masters

Voices in the cave: Work, work, work, it’s all you have to do, though in most cases no delightful reward befalls you. What instead lands in the head are worries of different kinds and with these, as they hit the ground, you have to play sports, as if that was the best way to spend time. Yet you return and sit here like a cow expecting the mouth to pronounce wisdom, yes, yet you sit here like a writer waiting for words to rain down. How you wish that, and how you wish this, but truth is you’ve got all you wished for, or so you think before sleep, such are your last thoughts before dark, and so will they be, if it was today that you…

No man is a hero to his valet

Merklorotiez: And you can love him, and you can hate him, or be indifferent, or something else. Truth is he cares, yes, all too much, of your opinions, and he is faint like a cotton thread holding a seed, but also dead, and killed in the sense that thoughts and words can’t hurt him. We mustn’t forget where he came from, either, the gutter and the filth, the fuck-you-in-the-face and the love for upsetting our minds. Think him not mild, think him instead weak and poor, like a beggar on the street, and spit, kick, even if you don’t care, for it’s how he’s to be treated, else he gets confused. Don’t celebrate him, don’t elevate him, don’t even think about inviting him to public discourse. He is, and shall forever be, a black spot on our Sun, a rough hair in our eyes, a sharp stone in our shoes, a silent roar in our ears.

No moon, no man

Author: And so it was that I emerged from the cave, to the sound of trumpets, I think, or some other kinds of horn instruments, and with roaring thunder above, and with thoughts in the head as if sculpted from the clay of isolation and depths of man – or woman – or woman, yes, or, simply, entity, for what else saw I than movable containers of feelings and thoughts, intentions, dreams and the like. Like that I emerged to the sound above of roaring engines and whistling, women – and men – and men – entities, scared – running for their lives with bags and children in their arms, and with the powers given to me from above and beyond I put my foot down and it stopped. Everything stopped, just like that, for such were the powers, and that became my trademark, I made the world’s disasters stop at the blink of an eye, I made the killing stop, I stopped all the wars, I ended miseries of hearts, and that was the key to the world, that inside each and one there was a lock, and I made it turn with the key ‘til it clicked and opened, so that out came the tears over those who’d gone missing in fields and woods, tears, too, from the killers and antagonists, from those to blame, for know this, dear reader, and listen closely, that only the wicked are born evil – specifically, the anti-social personality disorder spectrum –, as we call it, but the rest: we make each other ugly, we reflect, copy and digest. The evil we saw, mistaken for power, became what we wanted, for believe me, again, dear reader: at the top of the mountain, at the end of life, power over man – or woman – or woman, is regretted and loneliness felt the hardest. I thus urge you to concede these earthly desires, specifically, dear reader, to be better than any other, to be stronger, faster, smarter, richer, wiser. Yes, abandon it all, and live for others. That is how, and now you know, to find peace and love in this life, for loving others you also love yourself, and this love, when given and received, is not lost on mountains and never ends™.

No names, no pack-drill

Excelsia: Speaketh most true, he does, this author, though sweaty his armpits became and most stretched his legs at the end. A fine speech, nonetheless, the subject at its core not older than the elements of rust and stars in the sky. Saying, he does, that diamond and coal, being same yet different, and incomparable nonetheless, that one was created under high pressure and the other through simple combustion of wood. Easy it therefore isn’t, for us – for anyone – to become that which our author requires, and decide it we must, deep in heart, what we want with this life and the next. Oh, ‘for ‘tis over, ‘for ‘tis over: decide it we must, what we want with this Earth.