he was late. you hoped he'd still catch his period.
- is it morning or is it afternoon, sir? all the clocks have stopped, and spring has sprung!
hey, kids at home. it's cpt. drottin. say hi to the kids at home, cpt. drottin.
- hey kids at home. don't go with any nice men who raised you out to a gilded altar, or even a good hard flat stone out in the desert. you are not special. your needs are of no concern to anyone. you are energy condensed into matter and will be given back to the universe when the noble patriarch deems it worthy. the vision of universal love is incomplete without the act of premeditated ritual slaughter. barbarism isn't something we can escape - only continuously negotiate, as the contracts we sign with our demons. the sin of lawyerhood is the sin of the accountant, for to mediate the minds of people is the price of autonomy.
cpt. drottin, the topic of today's symposium is one dear to your heart – one which you yearn to wring from the pulp as you crush it in hand and feel its heat splattering around the rim of the bowl. today you will lecture us about the agonies of love, and all corresponding stupefactions which would be more effortlessly resolved by the bold plunge of a knife edge.
- sir, the assertion that love isn't real is as false as the assertion that flesh isn't real. love is an idea as flesh is an idea, and both remain real, though some ideas are easier to grasp by virtue of their being perceivable?
... all which we see is the bombardment of light off form into the photoreceptors of our eyes, as all which we hear is soundwaves doing like – sick kicks and leaps off shit to funnel into our ear canals like a lubed-up finger after you got me tied to the frame of a weight bench?
... an act of love is perceptible, but you have no way to know what motivates the act, for ideas are mediated through the body. there's always a loss of substance in the transition from one medium to another, as a flash of inspiration must be translated into subvocal speech and then converted by the larynx into sound, which in turn must be processed by the air over external ambient noise and unpacked by another's synapses, it is not unreasonable to assume that only a fragment of the intended communique could ever be received.
... love is itself the act of struggle, sir.
... love is what underlies the will, for love is what motivates the will to be itself manifest in its most perfect state as action.
... as will is the prerequisite to power, so too is love the base of power – and maladroit power simply an incomplete or deficient love. as bodies may be deformed or mutilated by chance or circumstance, so too is love. as you would never accuse a man maimed or sickened beyond recognition of not being flesh, you can have no qualm whatsoever saying the same for men of deficient love. a man who can love only himself still has the capacity to love, but he is trapped within his own limitations, and may grow leprous in his bindings as he would in any comfort.
... you want none of this gone, sir. none of this world which has shaped you and which you've in turn had a hand in shaping. you did not hone your mind and stack your body into the jutting illuminated ziggurat that you are for you lacked in love, sir. quite the contrary – you recognized what you've been given and what you have to give, and optimized your love by squandering it not on tasks for which you were not suited.
... to insist that love ought manifest in the same shape across all men is an act of violation. it refuses accountability to the endless reconfigurations taken by the diversity of forms. if you feel entitled to your love and all which bares fruit upon your branches, it is only the impulse to abnegate past trespasses. should love turn cancerous or self-devouring, it is only for it has turned tainted, as any idea may become diseased when crippled by a virus or duplicated in incomplete form.
... love may purify itself in solitude and expenditure
:-- ~ o7 ~ --:
as any body would.
he caught you in a good mood. he was lucky.
- i make my own luck, sir. it's not a complicated recipe or anything, i just um – really like baking?
steamy as an apple pie. he made the crust and tincture from his own flour and herb.
- um, though i quiver for your fingering with alacrity sir, i didn't make the universe from scratch? there were a lotta big heaving chunks i had to hack up and boil down to stock before it got a smooth and aqueous consistency?
tomorrow, using only your infinite ingenuity, you will compose a pie for me using only the base elements, and it will be flavored to one which was grown from the water and the fibers. the sweetnesses hand-plucked from the trees, ashen with the crunch harvested of the heat and grain. free of the syrupy corrosion which was the maize i have defiled. you will do this for there is nothing which is beyond you, and you strive to please me.
- i strive always to let you down. it's why you keep coming back? you're gonna get a fine tea of boiled appleseeds and you're gonna like it. not even gonna call you johnny grasshead – for what sprouts from your eyes is a vine of toxicity far more potent than mine, but you will swallow up all which i give, and disperse my poisons to the deepest fibres of your being?
you would always notice him – he liked that about you. not many did.
