Just as the constant increase of entropy is the basic law of the universe, so it is the basic law of life to be ever more highly structured and to struggle against entropy.
Václav Havel
Entropy Gradient Reversals



Bad Science, No Pictures

I must be more fucked up than I thought. I had a dream last night that I was a kid again and my world was falling apart. I was pleading, begging for it not to happen. There weren't any people I can remember. Instead, there was this intense purple electricity. Whatever was going on, it sure seemed important. I woke up angry. I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of being scared. It makes me angry.

Maybe it's all just in my head. Always a winning bet. Maybe I'm locked in some lifelong fugue that doesn't relate to anything outside itself. Never sees daylight. Turn it back in, wrap around the wound. I get this psychotic image of an animal suddenly caught in the headlights, eating its own entrails. Hour of the wolf is a fine game to play, an outstanding role -- long as the wolf's not really dangerous, not somehow broken or deranged. But then that's usually the central question, isn't it?

I pretty much know how the world works. I just don't like the way it works. The world is its own darkness. But it disguises itself as clearest day. The way it is. The way it's always been. It's only you and I that just don't get it. Because we're damaged. The logic is seamless, almost beautiful. Almost. All it really needs is something like baptism, some kind of assurance that yeah, you're fucked, but it's not really anything you did. As long as you don't look back, into the darkness you crawled out of, the bad place that birthed you and left you hanging. Umbilicus, omphalos, whatever. Quick, pretend you're not stranded! Even though those strands are all you've got.

What I believe -- sometimes, on a good day, which this is not particularly -- is that I am healing myself of this madness. It is not real, but it's not a dream. Not something I can just roll over and wake up from.

What I believe about my writing -- sometimes, when it's not just flatulent exhibitionism -- is that it's a way to turn those headlights on myself. Not to shock anyone, but to cease ignoring, fearing, hating what I am. After half a lifetime doing that, one day fourteen years ago I stopped. And right before I stopped, I got truly angry. It wasn't anger born of fear, for once, but of understanding. Understanding how I'd been complicit with whatever it is we go along with, buy into, lay on ourselves and othe