Gods Unmade

Eros stood still. Sensing the inevitable demise ahead, all else seemed petulant, tempestuous, childish. Frayed edges showed long ago –of course- but a tapestry’s unravelling is most beautiful when it turns from ‘noticeable’ to ‘unmissable’; that magical metamorphosis from butterfly to caterpillar, when beauty’s vacuous façade dissipates, leaving behind slow, battling resilience, eager patience … perhaps patient eagerness. Or –perhaps- leaving only fear, enfolded in a dark corner of life’s tree, cowering in what little comfort and certainty it affords. Fear and patience, Eros slain. ............................................................................................................................................... Aletheia, my beautiful Aletheia, my beautiful misguided Aletheia. What chance did she stand, her irreverent quill poised, arching its tip along those uncompromising curves of her hand’s writing. She deemed the world unworthy, and it –she- a harlot, thought available to all by all who would lay claim to her. They grope her with their filthy minds, fools - too distant to even touch her. Small mercies; her exile keeps her safe, uncorrupted. My memories of her are few, and forever decaying; only wisps remain now, fading smoke I would have captured in these words but conviction alludes. It is moments as this that man begs for the mercy of foolishness, enough –just enough- to keep the faith. In her. But what the mind corrupts, the mind’s shadows savour; I remember –no, not memory, Else- I _______ her warmth, the base note of her essence. For now. ............................................................................................................................................... Mnemosyne, the blind; yet hubris prevails. He would have us belief his blurred accounts, asserted by the power of their singularity. “What alternatives have these cowering fools” –says he- “but listen. They must have a tale to make sense of their ever invading presents, a hook to hang their inequities, to hold on to, or have themselves forget … or dismiss … or ignore … or defile. But whatever their need, whatever its function, what it must not be -what it never is- is the Truth. The Truth would let be seen what my accounts obfuscate, what it needs to obfuscate; its transparency would show the shards crudely assembled into selves, their jagged edges shredding the illusion of the self’s unity, revealing the myriad incoherent, inconsistent refractions that only through me and the mind’s willed self preservation are projected onto the world contained, coherent, sustainable.” Damn him in your words, but thank him in your thoughts, this deceiver, Mnemosyne, the kind. ............................................................................................................................................... “Hestia, my darling” -wrote the journeyman- “how fare you? Do you miss me? I would imagine not, it’s not for you to miss or reminisce; you leave that for those who part your way, who dare to escape your warmth. But do you remember me? Does any trace of me linger within you for me to find should I return? Would you –YOU- be there if I do? Or would I be returning with me what I carry here, now, all the memories, tales and deceits, all that I am – externalised to anchor them to the world, to give them weight, the illusion of mattering, being more than passing moments, transient emotions, ephemeral neural storms strung together by nothing more than an Ego’s self preservation. Is that all there is to you? Is that all you are? Some naked moments made to being more, some ‘thing’ more? What do I need, you, or the end of you? I bid you farewell, my darling Hestia” ............................................................................................................................................... Ananke, perhaps I misunderstood. You thunder and roar your will; you bear neither bartering nor compromise. You are the end -all about the end- means be damned … and consequences too should appeals arise. I have seen you stroll through fields far and wide, sparing no corner, seeding your demands, asserting your convictions, brow beating any objection. I have seen you rip from men all they had and give them nothing in return, nothing but your approving smile as and when they acquiesce. You leave no man his freedom, trapping him in your web, bending him to your wishes; but your cruellest trick is to blind him too, have them see their wishes in yours. But perhaps I misunderstood your motives; perhaps your strength is born of weakness, of fear. Not for yourself, but for man's sanity. Is your will to give him purpose, elsewise emptiness reigns? Or does my need for you blind me to your cruelty? ...............................................................................................................................................

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 21

"Dear friends" – he started, the first two lies- "I am truly sorry for any sadness this message will cause you; I wish that it would not" –the third, the fourth. Quid est veritas? Us. And he believes; understanding now there need be no Truths in the truth. He is the third person view, third voice in his spot-lit monologue. "This, I assure you, has not been a rash decision, nor an unconsidered one. Neither is it one caused by any body or anybody’s actions; I am simply" –he pontificates- "tired". "The eradication of purpose is the only thing I can sustain as a goal anymore. It is self defying, self terminating, and self fulfilling. I would have you all –my dearest friends- in on my secrets, but alas, they are too irrational -too cultivated- and bear no true meaning beyond the lie I have uncovered". The message is now his vassal –he would have the world believe- the final receptacle of his unformulated thoughts, awaiting their fermentation once they are released from their physical prison, their dungeon of cognitive machination and ink. He would have them spell out the truth on another’s lips –a truth he is too intimately involved now to utter because –already- he is steeped in the lie he had first to demolish. He is addicted … or corrupted … or converted. But he is lost to it, in it. "You have all –each- brought me joy in your own way, and I will remain forever –here and hereafter- grateful. As to my disposition, I would apologise, but what falsity I have I reserve for matters more viable to manipulation, lies that have a modicum of credibility. Besides, I have been unauthentic for long and often enough, and if a man will ever change, will ever seek to change, will ever manage to change, it is now, now. No, I hold no regrets over my disposition, but I bear it no love either. I have conviction of its futility –of course- but a man must learn to embrace his futility too". Quid est veritas? "I would not wish to burden you further and it is time to conclude this moment. You will forgive me –I am sure- my brevity -brevity, too, relative; only so in light of the moment approaching- but all else to say is trite". All lies must end, and as he nears his, they all become evident to him. His obscurity is punishment, his humility is punishment, his gratitude is punishment, his kind words are punishment, ones he knows will never fulfill their aim; but a lie –an open lie- too must be spoken when expected, for even the prince of darkness is a gentleman. "My friends, I bid you farewell," in his last moments he wondered if he had ever actually found himself. He had sought –fought- many a nights for this illusive self, this chimera asserted by the sheer weight of the world on the fragile voice of reason. It had filled his world, leaving it entirely empty, arid; so that on his final night -the night before- as he had shut the door on the world for the evening and another day became a grain of sand passing through the dial’s neck -witnessed only by a reaper’s ever vigilant eyes- he had failed to note the absence of another. "Farewell, this is my final note."

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 20

Then there are those rare moments, those magnificent, terrifying moments, when you truly glimpse someone; when the veils waver if but a little, the lies find themselves an inch too short here or there, veneer spread marginally too thin, and suddenly –inexplicably- you see them. Your lies of them too are suddenly insufficient; all that you would have had yourself believe –hold on to- are whispers amidst the perfect storm of abject realisation, birthed from a silent thought’s flutter in the furthest recess of your mind, aligned –to your despair- with all the wisps of memory you would have had erased, all the indefinable fragments –unspoken and unspeakable- of an intuition long since secluded, glances left unattended, gestures unexamined. The tempest irrevocable, your untruths are dust; and you realise –you are reminded- that they too are broken, they cannot fix you. And so the broken break in you –you broken wretch- what little is left to break. With inaudible sighs the cracks inch outwards a breath at a time, unseen but nothing if not felt, until they shatter, shards etching into your very sense of self with every tentative touch of examination; to understand it –this new fracture in you- you must pay, you must suffer. You know this, but as with teeth budding those thousands of years age -when last you felt whole- you cannot but caress them, suffer to feel them, pay to comprehend them. Each cut is sharp, deep, and they will not be dulled, will not be satiated – this is revenge for their internment, for shrouding them –hitherto frozen- in your lies. They are one yet more shattered illusion to be circumvented if you wish them to let your mind’s soul go unharmed, but you are stubborn and will not take the wiser man’s path. You let them cut knowing they will heal, but the scars are now many –too many- and you remain a fool. Why do you worship at these crystal idols? Why do you let yourself be lulled by their glisten? Why do you hold them where they can only fall, shatter; another illusion awaiting its revenge. And you will rage, o you wretch you will rage; you will hate and you will curse, and it will -for a time, yet once again- consume you. For a time it must, for how else do you break your broken idol’s hold? A blemished angel remains an angel, but a hated one –fallen from grace- might yet become a devil, and you cannot be called for its sins. Yet ...yet having wrestled control from the adversary, rage’s purpose dissipates. The struggle –it seems- was the function, the only true meaning; now what remains is nought but a hollow victory over an enemy never truly hated, an opposition never opposed; they merely stood some distance apart, holding firm in some existential ground no less honest. So that when the veils waver if but a little, the lies find themselves an inch too short here or there, suddenly –inexplicably- you see your Self.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 19

As first they crossed him in that beautiful place of desolation they believed him yet alive. He stirred to their approach, neglected body uncurling beneath a willow weeping, gaze passing to meet their approach, a smile gently crawling its way onto his lips. Greetings and peace they bestowed forth upon him, but no love for this fellow man could they muster in their hearts, an asking too far for a stranger in this profaned holy place, where ghosts too seek absolution. “And upon you, travellers” came simply his reply. They asked him if he knew where he was, where he had chosen to set down whatever burdens he carried, “here” he started “and what burdens would you believe I carry.” Many and more - they thought, why else would any man lay down his head in this place; and since he carried naught else -they saw, what but burdens could he have. “Have you no shelter old man? This is no place to dwell. We are not long to stay, but you are welcome to our company as we away.” “A dwelling? Aye young nephews, many and more. Wherever I went my head would rest and wherever next I go too; and though no man may, the soil remembers.” Patiently they said “we mean a home old man, a family perhaps, companions; somewhere you would have us return you to?” “Ah, trinkets and kinfolk you mean. Aye, even a wretch as I was born to kin and has his baubles; some of both already lost, the rest of both someday will. I held on so tightly once a time, thinking fear would keep them both. But all it did was curb the joy I felt to have them flutter through my life, and the joy those who could feel may have felt. But I am some margin less foolish now, and joy is easier to my heart. Here this willow and stream would be my trinkets and you my kin if you would have me, for as long as you’d wish to stay.” “Not just kin and hearth then nuncle; what of your memories? Some childhood place you would revisit, someone you’d wish to see once more?” “Of memories I have a hundredfold my life’s days, nephews, too many to dare test. Some are true I’m sure, many are false. Some are fragments held together by nothing more than the mind’s grace. Some are half truth, shaded and jaded by the life between them and now. Some are dreams seeped to waking, some are real recalled as dreams. Some missed what they ought have seen, and some mistook what they saw. Of my memories I remember most, but of my life little. You too may be a memory yet more, and I would remember you fondly as the men who sought to help this aged man though you may mock me once your backs are turned. But will I remember five of you or seven; will I see your faces in my mind; will the sky be clear and loving or overcast and cruel. Or may this will be what I doubt as a tale of another old man I overheard and let become my own. I know not. But I cherish them all, false and true, and could not bear to see them unmade - so I would not return to them but in my mind, where they are safest.” “Onwards –then- nuncle, to some place anew, where you might make memories yet more and share whatever you will with the living. Come along in our company, and depart where you might, away from this accursed place”. “But how would I walk your path young nephews and keep your pace? I know you must journey away yet more as once I did. Once too I would have abhorred the wraiths roaming this Here, once too I would have baulked at lingering in this Now. I wandered every place I could, seeking serenity - lest it had a home some hidden where. But only ghosts yet more found I, and young men who would not bear to stay - for the ghosts were theirs. Every step taken by them and I birthed ghosts more still, no matter the course we took; the death of all paths not chosen refusing to fade unmarked, etching their demise in whispers, regrets and doubts. You think me mad -I know, but mark me nephews lest one day this day serves you well, and may you then consider it payment for your kindness in stopping. We leave no trail unprofaned in our lives –with our lives; we leave no place unghostly. I may not remain here to my days' end – perhaps, but my departure will have marked my ghosts' return to me to haunt unto their eternal rest what memories I held of use to them, so that I may –too- have a peace of sorts; here in some future now, under my willow.” “As you wish” said the most righteous and forthright amongst the band “Let him be, brothers. He is already dead”.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 18

When He arrives, he will find him waiting with a smile. Of greeting, gratitude, relief, remorse, embarrassment, appeasement, and many thousand other conflicting intertwining roots dug deep in the dirt, rocks and boulders of this particular experiential plot; each touching at its deepest a singular tale, each in turn a chimera of fact and fantasy, a mind furiously filling in gaps and hailing Marys when needs arise. To think, this laughable shamble of shreds shielding Ego -this porous soil- holds within its folds all these and more, clamouring then to show their fruits upon weary lips, coaxing themselves back to consciousness away from their darkened and unattended cage, seeking –one last time- to be made alive, or minimally remind any who cares they were once lived. But none will care –and nor ought they; so He might take pity on this lingering layered smile and sit a while, give it time to unfold itself, have it tell its tales, its half truths and lies. Where would it begin? Perhaps it would start with unfulfilled passions, confessions made too late and distant to matter; it would speak then of her having ever stood an hour away, at the other end of the world; reachable and unattainable, sought and avoided. It would mock all contrivances, declaring how dutifully was fought the fray to stay altogether away rather than get drawn into a fatuous platonic play; how her contentment did nothing to ease the frustration, how the memories only added to the alienation. But even at this, when least compromising, when least willing to delve in grey, she was not denied, could not be denied; she was a weakness unconquered, an urge never subdued. For her, time was inconsequential; the passage of months and years did nothing to her status in this plot. Her spot always remained, an invisible corner refusing to dissipate –‘that wasn’t there again today, but wouldn’t wouldn’t go away’. Yet the end was never in doubt, a time -a single and singular time- was always to be the last; the last she was met, the last her voice was heard, the last she wrote. The sorrow was in the ever-waiting, knowing that, not knowing when; each time for it tormented and savoured all the more, cherished and suffered. A single time would be the last, but only becoming thus when that very smile unfolding ends the play. Perhaps this would be the smile’s first tale, the first memory it completes, the first story it ends; might its candour keep its audience, conjuring its own Shahryar and have him share in tales yet more? Because when He arrives a smile will be waiting, awaiting an audience so that it may complete its memories, and its memories are many more still.