Good Morning, I suppose. I awoke, unfortunately, to the ringing of a telephone. Upon picking up the receiver, I mumbled a groggy "Hello," and after an unconventionally long pause, the voice on the other end uttered a similar "Hello." I immediately hung up because at this rate our conversation would go nowhere--it would be an endless string of meaningless greetings. I pinched myself to ensure I was not having another dream in which I am the sole performer in one of Beckett's lost plays. Oh how awful to wake from a sweet repose with a reminder of the world's vacuity! No doubt the disembodied voice on the other end was trying to peddle some of his useless wares.
I have grown sick of the world's money fetish and how money is our dreams and buys our dreams and how money buys other money which is merely money which is merely paper and ink. For some sick reason our Desire as humans has become this paper and ink, and the whole world moves like a mass of automatons, powerless over their collective fate, on metaled rails, in pursuit of this paper-desire, and when it finally achieves it, hoping it has finally found satiety, its desire paradoxically grows, and the mass of automatons builds new, bigger, better, more conductive metaled rails on which to ride in its meaningless, impotent pursuit of mass-produced paper and ink. And on and on it goes, straight into a sterile Hell.
And who am I to pen this blogger's jeremiad? True, my desires are not utterly tainted, for I desire Love and Creativity above all. But I wonder if it is because--through the lucky accident of primogeniture--I have so much of that paper and ink for which the common world longs (and I must admit I spend a great deal of it rather frivolously). No doubt I am a hypocrite. Damn this toilet-world, spinning and whirling down, down, down into the rat-infested sewers of which I am the king (or at least a powerful lord).
Oh well, I suppose I must arise and face the day, though I fear it has been completely ruined by that dimwitted telemarketer. My only consolation is looking forward to a suitable hour to get drunk. Let us say 10:00 A.M. (though I confess I keep my clocks a little fast because I often cannot wait).
Sunday, November 4, 2007
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I have not left the Isle's canopy since a feud with my father at age nine. Thankfully the Isle is a treed haven for a recluse such as I. Damn your cooky trenches that have extended my route to Balfamodha!
I know your darkest secrets Sir. I have observed your deplorable decapitation of Warren J. Gibbon. For I have made a study of these exotic lesser apes you introduced them March last. They lit up my weary heart and the dull foliage of this forgotten Irish Sea jetsam. (I have also seen you masterbating on the roof clad only in unmatched socks.)
I was surely surprised on the Ides when I happened upon Bitey fornicating with Lucy. Their ensuing shrieks and battery of me nearly dislodged me from my perch. I had not been so shocked since Madam Mayweather's lorikeet escaped in '92!
Over many months I studied and integrated myself into the troop. Ahh these marvelous rascals are masters of brachiation, swinging from branch to branch distances of up to 50 ft. (They can also make leaps of up to 27 ft.) They are the fastest and most agile of all tree-dwelling, non-flying mammals according to my observations. On the Southeast quadrant of the Isle at least. I have employed their techniques with such precision that I have expanded my accessible territory greatly.
Well you will certainly rue the day you murdered my friend Sir! Your shameful unrequited display of vengeance for that blonde hussy will not go unpunished. Perhaps an apple from Reginald's Estate will contain poison. Perhaps a cable will be cut, and dangle, and spark a fire on your thatched roof while you slumber, nearly-dead, from that green drink of which you are so fond. Perhaps a heavy object will collide with you impeccable hair, traveling at terminal velocity.
- Baron In The Trees
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