The 101st Anniversary of the Opening of the Scopes Monkey Trial

 On becoming a man?


What use could crying possibly have for me now? What difference would wet or dry eyes make to this vicious cycle of waking up and churning through a list of tasks handed down to me -designed to enrich the lives of those near me, unnoticed. Unthanked. The few moments that are spare come with sickness or inescapable noise. I put things designed for the prolonged use of heavy machinery into my ears at night so that I can sleep, but it is still there. The noise, not so much, but the knowledge of it. I have met these people individually. They have limp handshakes, their breath smells of beer and ashtrays. Frames that would not serve them well in collisions or violence. Yet, they end almost every one of my days with the decibels of their lack of meaning. Am i annoyed more by them or that in a street full of people I am the only person to confront them? 


Once in a while there will be a moment -short-lived- at the foot of a mountain or by the sea. Every ripple of man evicted from the lake of existence. The teachings here are the heaviest to learn. The beauty that is not only unnoticed, but canvassed over. I stand here, not in togetherness with nature, but separated from the ugliness of my ‘fellow’ man.


Everything about growth has been stunted, and in securing man’s emotional retardation we have secured his ability to hack away at the life-force of everything else. A self-destructive, self-admiring parasite. A paradox. Void of character, but so very eager to discuss themselves. 


My dogs are all sleeping. Every movement I make stirs them. They are hopeful. We will not be walking tonight. Any chance of having to look another human in the eye is being put off until tomorrow. Hopefully some form of sleep and amount of cigarettes will make it feel more possible. I will be awake at 03:45. The last of the drunks will be unconscious, and the monotony of daily life will be a couple of hours away. The streets will be ours. 


Peculiar to think that it was manufactured this way. Something about ‘productivity’ I’m told. A great big unthinking machine convinced that it is made of separate parts. The reward systems are all hacked, and for the large part anything that you might collect. Anything that might give you some resemblance to ‘you’ will be bartered out of your hands. Unknowingly. You brag every milestone of your existential extinction. Everything is eventually given away to the most appealing cause of them all: forgetting how much is falling away. 


We should have shat ourselves when the spiritualists started doing it, but we celebrated it. Now the mind has become so expanded that it has become a vacuum. The scrolling of the finger, just a digital rotary dimmer switch leading to ‘OFF’. The individual -something I find difficult to believe in- has been convinced it deserves and is capable of fame, as it is. Rooms of purpose are now what would once have been padded cells, but not one of these fuckers would think to break a mirror. Every movement is documented. Every nothing is celebrated. This is the life that moves around me.


What use could crying possibly have for me now, other than a short stint in the spotlight? I start writing because I am not happy in this world. It doesn’t make any sense to me now. So i try to use it. A sudden downpour. The sound of it fills the spaces between the walls. I go stand outside for a brief moment as everyone else rushes indoors. The new rescue lays down at my feet, unphased by the rain. I smoke a cigarette. I sip a coffee. The rain will not last long. Not long enough for them to fully retreat. It is temporary, a few deep, starved breaths. We go back inside. The puppy lays at my feet, chewing some weird long-necked plush toy. It is something at least, that my presence brings some form of peace, even if I know that it is my very being as a provider that asks for nothing in return.   

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