Return to Civilization
Posted by Steve Bagley
As always, the return to civilization begins with severe doubt and the hovering thunderhead awareness of horrible impending doom crouched in the bushes of time like an albino tiger with smiling whiskers prepared to unleash its swift fury upon our fine established human ways, due in part to the nature of such quests that we in the Circle of Madmen have chosen to partake in as a defined (completely undefined) and nomadically headspaced way of life, lived with impeccable and sinister balance on the teetering and sailing edge of the Frisbee that is the human existential experience which, by no means, was ever assigned weighty meaning or scribed in any noble or fantastical Hammurabi code of ways so as to constitute the transition from the shamanic tree dwelling hunter of humble Buddhistic respect for the Element—towards the lashing and gnashing of the parasitic societies wriggling so nastily to become here in the primal slime since it requires not the disassembly of the conditioned ego but alas would rather dull the senses with distractive discourse; because you and you and I are pathetic and dribbling creatures with uncontrollable sadnesses. And fears of intestinal mutilations and the shredding of our tender warm blue souls which are vulnerable like soft pink cunts being charged by battleaxe wielding Vikings with thick knotty braids and the tongue-lust for dispensing brutal deathliness and pain so as to relieve that of which they suffer in their own dreams of being stabbed in the eye with a twelve-inch stainless steel blade and watching it slide intrusively into the very same eye which is being stabbed as the nerves begin to fire off with panic. And all the while the Circle of Madmen sees this whole bloody vision from their rocky mushroom perches amongst the wind-scoured trees of enlightenment high up in the crags—the lion watches a storm forming in the northeasterly ranges and the monkey is puffing on his marijuana pipe like Sherlock Holmes and is meditating on the big lofty clouds patrolling the strange peaks to the west—and they crawl down to the next saddle in anticipation of the next alpine zone where language is unnecessary once again since the mountains are beyond the necessity to communicate so as to establish or reaffirm a connection they think or hope might be there but of course always is but the mountains give no such fuck and only sit in deep trance humming “sssshhhhhhh,” and is similar to an explorer traveling up five thousand steps to a monastery in the Himalayas to so grandly inquire as to the weighty meaning of life where the Dzogchen robed Master, upon hearing such an inquiry, will just look at him and do a cartwheel, and upon finishing the cartwheel will throw his hands in the air, punctuating it with a good old fart—and the creeping return to civilized America and its to-die-for creature comforts like the swinging door in the trash bin at Dunkin Donuts and the neatly paper-wrapped straws for hygiene and the miserable convenient store clerk who would rather be fishing or smoking crack and the incredible ease which with gasoline can be accessed since America guzzles that shit like soda but she (America) don’t give a fuck, and I don’t give no fuck either because its funny and because America is the hot crazy bitch you will never impress and she’s got the biggest guns motherfucker. And there are tremendously fine things about returning as well like drinking gin with a fine dark-eyed female in a social setting two hours before her and I bounce her bed into the wall because we don’t give no fuck about the neighbors, but that is beside my point, the return to civilization, or whatever you call this, is, as we Madmen like to put it, a trip, and reminds us of the secret urge to hunt yuppies with compound bows in the woods—given a fair head start of course. Carrying heavy packs strapped to their backs with dirty tee-shirts wrapped around their brutish heads are such dirty soldiers of the Vision Quest who climb rocks, slurp whiskey and puff cigarettes and scare bears away as they boil water at dinnertime and communicate by eyes, and earlier in the day had stepped through the most magical of forests with perfectly spaced olden trees and lush ferns and moss and sunlight that filtered through the ancient canopy above like light through a stained-glass window in a Cathedral—and the return to civilization is to be dealt with quietly despite the ugly brunt of such a perverse ant colony—out in the woods I am the king of the shit and in the shit the trees bow to me with equal respect as I bow to them and in the woods the spectacular notion of not changing my Scooby Doo underwear is totally awesome and gives me secret powers but back in the world of civilized self-conscious woes I am just another meandering fool who just wants a little piece of the pie, and of course once I get a piece I will want a bigger fatter one, and I will step on your beautiful face to get it, you get what I’m saying? Of course you do if you are one of the five people I know who think like this, and if you don’t, well please slit your rists in streets—so we can drive by and beep.
As always, the return to civilization begins with severe doubt and the hovering thunderhead awareness of horrible impending doom crouched in the bushes of time like an albino tiger with smiling whiskers prepared to unleash its swift fury upon our fine established human ways, due in part to the nature of such quests that we in the Circle of Madmen have chosen to partake in as a defined (completely undefined) and nomadically headspaced way of life, lived with impeccable and sinister balance on the teetering and sailing edge of the Frisbee that is the human existential experience which, by no means, was ever assigned weighty meaning or scribed in any noble or fantastical Hammurabi code of ways so as to constitute the transition from the shamanic tree dwelling hunter of humble Buddhistic respect for the Element—towards the lashing and gnashing of the parasitic societies wriggling so nastily to become here in the primal slime since it requires not the disassembly of the conditioned ego but alas would rather dull the senses with distractive discourse; because you and you and I are pathetic and dribbling creatures with uncontrollable sadnesses. And fears of intestinal mutilations and the shredding of our tender warm blue souls which are vulnerable like soft pink cunts being charged by battleaxe wielding Vikings with thick knotty braids and the tongue-lust for dispensing brutal deathliness and pain so as to relieve that of which they suffer in their own dreams of being stabbed in the eye with a twelve-inch stainless steel blade and watching it slide intrusively into the very same eye which is being stabbed as the nerves begin to fire off with panic. And all the while the Circle of Madmen sees this whole bloody vision from their rocky mushroom perches amongst the wind-scoured trees of enlightenment high up in the crags—the lion watches a storm forming in the northeasterly ranges and the monkey is puffing on his marijuana pipe like Sherlock Holmes and is meditating on the big lofty clouds patrolling the strange peaks to the west—and they crawl down to the next saddle in anticipation of the next alpine zone where language is unnecessary once again since the mountains are beyond the necessity to communicate so as to establish or reaffirm a connection they think or hope might be there but of course always is but the mountains give no such fuck and only sit in deep trance humming “sssshhhhhhh,” and is similar to an explorer traveling up five thousand steps to a monastery in the Himalayas to so grandly inquire as to the weighty meaning of life where the Dzogchen robed Master, upon hearing such an inquiry, will just look at him and do a cartwheel, and upon finishing the cartwheel will throw his hands in the air, punctuating it with a good old fart—and the creeping return to civilized America and its to-die-for creature comforts like the swinging door in the trash bin at Dunkin Donuts and the neatly paper-wrapped straws for hygiene and the miserable convenient store clerk who would rather be fishing or smoking crack and the incredible ease which with gasoline can be accessed since America guzzles that shit like soda but she (America) don’t give a fuck, and I don’t give no fuck either because its funny and because America is the hot crazy bitch you will never impress and she’s got the biggest guns motherfucker. And there are tremendously fine things about returning as well like drinking gin with a fine dark-eyed female in a social setting two hours before her and I bounce her bed into the wall because we don’t give no fuck about the neighbors, but that is beside my point, the return to civilization, or whatever you call this, is, as we Madmen like to put it, a trip, and reminds us of the secret urge to hunt yuppies with compound bows in the woods—given a fair head start of course. Carrying heavy packs strapped to their backs with dirty tee-shirts wrapped around their brutish heads are such dirty soldiers of the Vision Quest who climb rocks, slurp whiskey and puff cigarettes and scare bears away as they boil water at dinnertime and communicate by eyes, and earlier in the day had stepped through the most magical of forests with perfectly spaced olden trees and lush ferns and moss and sunlight that filtered through the ancient canopy above like light through a stained-glass window in a Cathedral—and the return to civilization is to be dealt with quietly despite the ugly brunt of such a perverse ant colony—out in the woods I am the king of the shit and in the shit the trees bow to me with equal respect as I bow to them and in the woods the spectacular notion of not changing my Scooby Doo underwear is totally awesome and gives me secret powers but back in the world of civilized self-conscious woes I am just another meandering fool who just wants a little piece of the pie, and of course once I get a piece I will want a bigger fatter one, and I will step on your beautiful face to get it, you get what I’m saying? Of course you do if you are one of the five people I know who think like this, and if you don’t, well please slit your rists in streets—so we can drive by and beep.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Wednesday, June 28, 2006.
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