Yeah, I’m feeling aggressive. I’m feeling like saying, fuck it, like running my fist through a thick wall of glass. I could do anything I wanted to right now. What’s more, I want to do nothing! That’s the paradox. My hands are soft tonight, like a child’s. The light falls softly on my face. No, I’m not really feeling aggressive. I”m making myself feel aggressive. I am listing, or lilting, or wilting, I’m dead, and I’m dying, and I’ll yet never die, and so on and so forth like so many verses in a ballad.
My teeth are chattering; I let my teeth chatter. I am ready to lose feeling in the cold. There shall be no gas heat, this winter. I will pay no heating bills. And when the sun sets, I will set with it, and into darkness, deep and dreary, let my spirit sleep. If I only I were a bear, and could hibernate. What if it had been bears, instead of little apes, that became people? What if they had culture and tools and depression. And what if they, too, hibernated… The first wave of frost is alarming. I am caught by surprise one morning, arrested in the tremulous dread of new winter, of the next icing-over in a long and long-lasting line of icing-overs… They get shorter and shorter every where, but they take longer and longer to wade through. No – there is no room for the weak. It is bad to be weak. Weakness… unbearable. I bear with it! Do you see me, baring?I am a terrible mastermind. I am the start and the end of it all, the sum of a world unbelievable. Where does it end – don’t you know that its ending? And I will end with it; that is, it with me, in the ending.
I summon up demons with a glance or a smile; a flick of the wrist, and a thick veil of purplish smoke, doves and balls of fire – picture this: a scene in a beautiful forest. Thousands of glass spheres suspended in space, hanging from tree limbs and leaflets, caught in the gold filtered light of a young Autumn sun in the evening. You have a gun; you hold the gun steady; you shatter a thousand glass spheres.
Asperger’s, yes, it’s something like that (if that’s even real). And so is it everything else – capitalism, Carl Jung, the hound of the Baskervilles, Warren Buffet, Captain Kidd – It’s something like Ishmael, from that book about a whale. Speaking of Ishmael – what was it he said? He said it quite nicely.
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. ”
Sure, I’ve been sailing – I’ve even been on swords. And where has it gotten me? Back to my hypos – back to the rear of every funeral I meet. You will see me at the rear of even my funeral, if you happen to meet it yourself. You will see me standing there.