Meta • Ta • Fizzy

by Jason John Bartholomew
Sometime in 2015

Let’s be clear…I did not go looking for the metaphysical; it came to me. Literally right through my front door and set up in an old armoire. I was a-gasp, intrigued, terrified, angry and, in general, not at all amused as it started to unravel my entire sense of reality and my place therein; I hadn’t a clue what to do. The only possibly workable option seemed to perhaps find the straight and narrow and hunker down by the old rugged cross and hope, by remorseful repentance of my carnal sins, less remorseful for the carnality than for it having come to this in the end, I might be saved from demons and voodoo queens and a whole range of “otherness” I had the good sense to know I didn’t truly understand. And even disregarding a fair amount of confidence that my most primal frame of reference, that of my low-brow fundamentalist Christian upbringing, was unquestionably, woefully incomplete or totally misdirected — even disregarding that — fashioning myself as that sort of repentant, as that sort of Saul to Paul conversion, full lock, stock and barrel, on a dime, so to speak; well, that just wasn’t going to happen.

I might make a small concession here or there; I might expand my frame of reference a bit; I might occasionally try to practice a reverent moment in different ways than I already practice reverence at the beauty of the great natural world and universe, but, basically, that was it, and, even then, I was only going to agree to maybe. I take my freedom of thought and expression and action quite seriously after all. I take my choice and even my right to astounding foible quite to heart. And, most certainly, I take my pleasures…well, I take them when and where and as often as they present, and I was not, am not, at all willing to turn myself into some despicable, raging hypocrite just yet, as that most certainly would be how that would go, my capacity for glibness and my impulse control being what they are after all, the devil himself be damned. And that’s to say nothing of my fondness for my self-fondness, that is, yours truly’s hearty ego, robust showmanship and certain flair, n’est ce pas, for the dramatique.

Misfortunately, one finds one’s stubbornness leaves one with a rather dwindled set of options or tactics, and, thereby, armed with little more than shiny hubris against, for all one knows, the whole of hell’s dark legions of evil and, perhaps, even the voodoo queen Madame Lavaux herself. It wasn’t likely to be much of a contest, but it certainly should make for delightful television or some such sensational entertainment if anyone dared intervene in time with some idea how to pitch it. Regardless, it seemed obvious, hope and penny charms aside, I was about to swagger off to my bitter end and that would just have to be the how of it, so long and adieu, for really what else could I do? Turn tail and run or go hide in a cloister in a new cloak of piety, tags still on, as I recited my prayers with one eye open? So, it seemed, die I must. At the very least I was losing my mind.

Turns out perhaps Satan, despite a few clever and rather impressive tricks and sleights of hand, is also in possession of little more than boisterous swagger himself; occasionally simply resorting to yelling through a megaphone from across the street; more annoying than threatening after a point and that seemed revealing. After all, how hard can I be to take down? I’m armed with nothing but a handful of salt and my pompous ass is well exposed.

Of course, a great many diversions, excursions, recursions have occurred by now in this ever perplexing and evolving drama which looks to be one part masquerade ball, one part Nancy Drew crime mystery, one part fantastical conspiracy and a great many other, random parts as well perhaps; which may, or may not, include the psychology of social engineering, hacker anarchists gone wild, technology-simulated paranormal phenomena, hypnosis, flesh trade, secret societies and hermetic orders, genetic engineering, the alphabet soup agencies, the threat of human sacrifice, and, every now and again, the occasional something that might actually border on mystical like remote viewing, voodoo, thought forms and, well, …incense. Nancy Drew apparently leaves no stone unturned, but, to everyone’s relief, has occasionally learned to keep at least some things very much to herself. Besides, occasionally Nancy Drew hits the old bong a bit and even little Miss Miss knows to throw a big handful of doubt on any perception fires proceeding directly from a big fat hit of Sour Diesel.

Of course Miss Nancy has also had quite enough, right up to her dental work, with the more or less constant abuse and is discovering she’s doesn’t give half the two shits she thought she did and maybe actually really did once upon a whisper, and, despite some obvious, at least to her, obstinate acts of bird flipping, “do you like me now?” satire….well, she’s pretty much done; that being my cue as well because I’m just done. The field report will simply have to conclude there is no there there however not quite accurate. There certainly does not seem to be anything here for me I can make use of and what there does seem to be is a great deal of preachy criticism that does not hold up very well to the stink test, the hypocrisy test, the inquire further test, the clarify and verify test, the squint test, the mirror under nose test, the ear to the chest test, the halitosis test; although in the interests of due process and science it should be duly noted that a proper breathalyzer test was never performed. Still, it’s just all bullshit it seems mostly. Almost, but not quite, on point and thereby off completely and not worth the spit. Disappointing to be sure but whatever. And if that makes me some unbalanced, silly bumpkin, sure fine …again whatever. So long and sienarra and you have yourself have a nice fucking day.

Because, you see, I’m quite comfortable sticking to my guns on a few points I have no reason to abandon and have heard none given. The truest of these I think being A) kindness feels like kindness, even when its gruff and covered in splines. And it’s corollary: A2) bullying feels like bullying, even when its smiling ear to ear. B) teachers produce knowledge; no learning=no teaching. C) blindly following is never a desirable quality and D) there is a nuanced complexity to life and black and white, mutually exclusive thinking is indicative of dogma or a small intellect; thereby neither true, nor wise, nor useful. And with that the devil, the apostles, that big-donged voodoo queen, and the vapor or whatever that’s still very much alive and scratching around inside the box …they can all pucker up and blow a soap bubble air kiss up my pale, dimpled milk maiden bum. Air fart kisses all around, both checks, very continental.

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