Yeah, whatever. I was perfectly happy a half hour later, of course. I just decided to stop moping, and told Her so, which made Her ask Me what specifically I was moping about, which made Me fumble around and try to relate a lot of the preceding neurotic babbling so as to make it sort of seem to make sense, which it of course didn't, so I was happy again. All this as We traveled to downtown Fairbanks for to see the plentiful sights, like for instance drab desolation, plus twelve dozen over-priced gift shops full of crap. My favorite site by far was the storefront adorned solely with a sign saying "cards;" visible through the tacky decaying Venetian blinds was only a single card table and four folding chairs. Scary. And as We sprinted across streets to avoid being struck, my knee would once again cry out in pain. As We sauntered through shops in which there were far far more breakable items than customers, I resisted the urge to begin flailing about in a Godzillean campaign of destruction. As We made Our way into the combination art gallery/health food restaurant that Her apartment-mate had recommended, I was entranced.
...Not by the art on the walls, which was okay -- mostly photographs of fish -- but the placemats, which were made by laminating pictures done by children from the local kindergarten. And not all the placemats... Some, in fact, were just your standard flowers-in-the-sunshine sort of pablam... but there was one, which was not originally at my table but which swiftly migrated there, which I found most interesting. It was a story of sorts, a comic, but the setting was unclear and the characters less so. It seems there was this DOG, or wolf, or maybe a small dinosaur, that was looking into a window at some people eating. And then... well, the rest is unclear. Did the people change into cats, or was that a picture of cats where the window used to be? Why by frame three was the DOG-thing sitting at the table being served by a waiter, or was that a cat? And what was with the table being scribbled out in the same frame with a different waiter, one with knees that bent both ways? It seems this second waiter entered, and the DOG (who by this time looked much more like a weasel) somehow hid itself as the subject of the painting hanging near-by (a wily ruse), and then escaped carrying many bundles of food. Then there were various scenes superimposing wilderness imagery with more windows with images of, perhaps, the angry Lamb of Revelation gone about with mighty horns to destroy the world in an orgy of fury, and at the end, the DOG-thing lay asleep while other, smaller DOG-things feasted upon his booty. I knew at once that I had come upon some truly archetypal material.
Yes, too vivid and universally applicable to have come from such a single young human, these images must have come straight from the Collective Unconscious, that theoretical entity posited to explain the regular occurrence of patterns that are so prevalent, are so stretched across a variety of disanalogous contexts, that (absurd as it may seem) they must a common source. Yeah, whatever. Forget about the source for a moment. Who cares. There, right there on that placemat, was a message sent directly to Me that will be a major turning point because well, hey, the "plot" just can't go that much further in this direction: Yes, DOGS compete for human affection. Yes, they howl for loneliness and all. But this is basic: FOOD is the DOG-GOD, dickweed.
Of course I had known this. I had known this from age five when I dropped a chicken leg on the floor and Maia (X-She) instantly devoured it whole. I knew this in the recurrent conversations with my sister about how I betcha that if you cut off the DOG's leg and put it in her dish, she'd eat it. I knew this when Gorbachev came into Her apartment and acted very very very affectionately for the sole purpose of getting a cookie or six. So how had I forgotten? How did I get my symbolism totally wrong? How could She seem that important? The Form of the tragedy, the Love Triangle in its particularity presenting itself to Me as the abstraction and objectification of the common tripe that unites us all, does eat... I mean... If the symbols lose their peculiar sort of clarity, they lose their ability to inspire religious fervor. Power o' myth, ya know. And without that to instill with purpose and direction... and self-destruction... I am Me, I had always thought; and I was Me before [whatever Chick was at issue] even entered the picture, and that was fine: I could breathe, I could eat. Why should now be any different? And it's true... And you know it so well you can taste it, which means you're doing it to yourself. Why? Because on some level, probably several levels, you love it. You love to bitch; you love to have something to bitch about.
I, of course, never do that but do only what I must do given the pressure of external circumstance and internal drives. So He's doing it to Me. And I don't know what you mean by intimating that I'm getting sort of confusing with pronouns, because I told you I would, and this is all part of the fun, so SIT. Good boy/girl/God.
I desecrated some Jung just now, so I should say that at this time in the story I was about two days prior to beginning to read bits of the only book besides the Bataille (and this one) that I'd brought to Alaska: The Portable Jung. Specifically I read the last selection, entitled "Answer to Job," which seemed so immediately relevant as I thumbed through that I started to read its whole hundred more pages, which I have now finished. If I may now make a suggestion, I think you should go read it right now so as to have an advantage over the remainder of this book, which will steal and pervert many ideas from it. Plus you'll know what I was talking about with that "four pillars" crap in the last chapter, which I'm not going to explain. If you're not willing to do this outside reading for me, then you're lazy and I want nothing to do with you, though I will conveniently forget this desire out of loneliness and hunger: I will take you in as confidant, friend, and lover, and while you are asleep, I will eat you.
What is the point? How does it all connect? What does it mean, or may I say, symbolize? I don't know any more, or yet, or whatever... and that's good, as far as I'm concerned. Now go to sleep brooding and feel my magic work upon you. Yes. Yes! YES!!
|© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer||[ Contents ]|