Living a Slow Death...
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Regardless of his complaints about the porch, the "liberals," or the
academy, he had to admit that in sum this environment could be described
as "comfortable." However, there was a peculiar atmosphere in this place
that could only be defined as silence. Not only a silence of the spoken
word ("No double-talking allowed!"), but a silence that went to the very
core of the mind itself. He had always thought that if he could only speak
with individuals crossing the threshold, meaningful conversations would
emerge. Although he was persistent in taking the first step, he was always
disappointed when his comments were returned with flat and rehearsed responses,
as if a bad actor were reading a bad script.
Theseus could give a damn about these others, but had become very fearful
that this silence had begun to creep into his own mind. He had heard of
a degenerative condition, peculiar to his own species, which can best be
described as "a monkey with a monkey on its back." He had seen several
colleagues slip into this psychosis, never to return. Some argued that
the degeneration was hereditary, while others believed it to be a by-product
of living in the environs of the porch. In any case, he dreaded the thought
of this happening to his own mind, and the thought of it bent him further.
It was a horrible demise for the afflicted porch monkeys. They were He realized that he was hearing voices from the inside of his skull
shouting: "Fuck the tools! Fuck the house! What about the goddamned
porch!" He wondered if his colleagues had heard these screaming whispers
at the very beginning of their own illnesses. He knew if he were to shout
these taunting verses out loud he would be pummeled immediately by the
"conservative" authorities, which also happened to be buzzards. They would
swoop down on him and those things he wanted to proclaim. They would drop
a bag on his head and the dudes with the white coats, white caps, and no
discernable faces would take him away. "Oh yeah . . . all those sonofabitches
were in on it together!" He shouted these words aloud, only saying them
to himself. |
reduced to something just above nothing, all of them muttering for days
on end, in some padded single-family residence somewhere: "The master's
tools cannot destroy the master's house."
