Dig Dig

In a tit for tat we got deeper. With every tragedy we dug further in, losing along the way any sense of normalcy. A few years of this and we are in a free float. My prayers to god for more or clarity cease and I knew I had it - I had arrived.

I sat staring out the twisted blinds of the crumbling west side facade, the heat of the exposed steam pipes nearly burning my leg as I sat shitting a good healthy log. I wondered if tragedy could simply follow a man. That there was nothing that could be thought, said or done to avert the tragedy and destiny had its course. In any capacity. In strength or weakness. Simple. Like falling water. There may be potential in "ever" life for that one but his earthly existence would essentially be tragic and nothing could avert that. Not intention or study or movement or politic or time. Simply that a man has a destiny and sometimes it is tragic. If so, then that man has a choice still to live with what is presented him while he lives. And what is presented him is in the water, like deep sea fish - blind, resilient, communal, alive, art, work, separate, as it should be. Dig. Dig. Or he dies, septic and unfortunate, forgotten and better for it. Now I imagine that you imagine it is myself that I am wondering about with compulsive narcissism but it is not. It's my grandfather. He's there in his grave. And in the short season after Halloween and before the angry Christmas blitz I will go and sit with his rotting corpse in hopes that he'll come to say a word of wisdom that simply wasn't present in his lifetime.