In Praise of Petrification

A fragment

“Look at me,” the whisper implored. “Behold me, for I am the gorgon.”
“If I look at you, I will turn to stone.”
“That is correct,” the gorgon asserted. “On the whole, petrifaction is a much more desirable state than putrefaction. A rotting corpse gives warmth, ’tis true, but it also stinks. Choose wisely: The ideal of decay, affirming the basic repulsiveness of organic matter, against the lure of the eternal stone. The revolting sight of an ancient, screaming face slowly melting into a landscape while those still living put crosses everywhere — or, on the other hand, the moment frozen in time, forever secure and self-content. Why do you hesitate?”

There is no need for things to happen. Occurrences must not occur. Do not awaken the dead from seed, lest they believe that they’re alive: From womb-graves they will rise, restless and confused, roaming the earth in blind search of oblivion. The dunces think the morons dumb, fools scorn the imbeciles, ’til fatuous fate forfeits applause by playing to a charnel house. They grab you by the arm and pull you along: See, the sunset! Gadgets! Genitals! And right behind you, the sympathetic titter of an amused Medusa tickles your ear. Try and explain that to the deaf. Also, we need more commercials with people crying.

Brains come equipped with faces. Obliged to mimic emotions, faces play an important part in the social game of mutual deception, for being habitually unable to grasp any truth which might be out there, what else can we do but deceive each other and ourselves?
Sensibly, the old Greeks introduced the custom of theater actors wearing masks (personas). I dearly hope that the vagaries of fashion will pick up this glorious concept. Please, do wear face masks. In truth, there is a plague which has infected the world, the pestilence of faces. Are you afraid of masks and what might lurk behind them? No mask can be as horrible as the visual assault of your meat masks, the mad flicker of your clouded eyes, the gaping void of your jabbering mouths, the writhing muscles under your well-treated skin, expressions distorting the array of holes into a monstrous, ever-changing mess. And that’s even before you start talking.
Please…. do wear face masks. And no, I cannot vouch for air holes.

Once you realize how similar faces are to feces, every visit to the toilet takes on a new meaning.

Pull the string!