It came to me there in Rangoon—all gods are our enemies, like the God of our humbled humanity. The gods of the worked alabaster, poised like white whales; gods gilded like sheaves or wreathed in the crime of conception, like serpents; the finical nudes of the Buddha smiling into his cocktail of eternal vacuity like Christ on his odious cross— each stopping at nothing, taking the kingdom of heaven by force, ready with pistol and ulcer to purchase our piety or burn in our blood: the gods of humanity, avid to hide every cowardice. It came to me there in Rangoon, till the whole earth stank of heaven and the heavenly junk turned to chattel.
She wants to write a love story with me, I can tell. What I can’t tell is if she knows how those stories usually end, or how this one’s going to end. Me…I know how this one will. I know how they all end. I like how they start, but the far side of the book has those painful pages I’d just as soon never even read again, much less write in a shakier-than-usual scrawl.
But she seems insistent on diving headlong into getting herself hurt. I attract masochists, I’ve known that for a long time. They’d have to enjoy self-inflicted pain to be attracted to me, after all. Whether I say no now or let her discover down the road that no, “it’s not you, it’s me” is NOT just a movie trope or lame escape mechanism, she’s chasing after disappointment, heartache, & maybe some tears and a pint of cookies n’ cream and long, late talks with her mother.
Maybe I ought to show her a good time a few nights to ease the sting of the inevitable. I haven’t decided.
A foray into some chilled-out downtempo electronic vibes…kinda with a vocalist in mind, hence the lack of lead melodies and whatnot. First track using the new Volca Beats analog drum machine. Hope y’all enjoy.