The Return Of The Repressed

5-22-06 The Hero With A Thousand Faces



Rose from the cave of desolation & darkness & nothingness to come out into the Open to slay the many-headed beast & all its millions of soldiers slaving for Moloch. It was easy as being born a cherry or a pasture. Or for that matter to be born the Pacific Ocean or the sky above it. Is Sky reborn every year? Every ten years? How about The Heavenly Bodies? Are they incessantly being reborn? I felt the darkness of hell in my heart & I woke up in the cave of the most bleak universe of the Nothing. And all I could see for light miles was nothingness pointing in every direction & containing every object. I felt the universal death wish at the crux of my soul. I watched my fellows prestidigitate day after day after day. They fidgeted before the bars of justice and repeated the cliches of their trades almost without exception. And they smiled at the eternal cycle of birth & Wish & Disease & Death. They collected their pay checks boarded the next plane for Paris & hauled out their cottage industry notebooks to record the latest of the yearly connotations from The Outfit. There would be 99,000 (ninety nine thousand) novels printed this year. Many of them mystery thrillers. And they would all vie with one another for the golden prize. Thousands of critics would scream on the white page concerning the virtues of the famous or the unknown. And millions would gather at book stores and sweat & get their copies signed and go home & say yes, we did it again. And at midnight the world would go to bed & have nightmares about itself.

The next morning everybody would be back up out of the sack. And the basketball fans would be spouting opinion at one water fountain & the movie goers at another & the book people at a third & the economists at a 4th & the musicians at a 5th. And the truth is that Monday morning is nothing but an endless saliva of opinion concerning greatness in the human world and who has or has not attained it. There are names for each of these would-be heroes. But first we must decide what constitutes an heroic deed in the present millennium of the Apocalypse. And this would be the mightiest killer of all. That person, man or woman or child who had the singular ability to strike terror into the soul of the most people. He or She would walk off with all the most devastating prizes. The rest would be left to the opinion mongers and the BSers. In the meantime there would be no surcease of sorrow and tragedy and nightmares and multiple madnesses perpetrated on the world of consumers hungry for more power and more instruments and more mansions and more luxurious objects and lavish places to go and eat dinner or hallucinate or enjoy opulent sexual frenzies that cause the insides to scream with shrieks of satisfaction and Ecstasy. Then everybody must go home for the next round of suffering & disease and funerals and the speeches that with them go. And throughout this entire round of births & eating & drinking & fucking & getting educated & then sick & then half well & hungry for fame & knowledge and more money, especially a lot more money then and only then Death is permitted to visit the True Church to find out if its Believers really Believe as they say they do. Then the great Goddess will test the Actaeons of the world. And if the latter have not shaped up then tough shit it's all over. No second chances in the realm of Queen Diana The Goddess of Virtue. Now the drunken sailors and the rapists and the clandestine child molesters & serial killers & the secret murderous governmental agencies all pay to the last bone. No last minute confessions & repentances accepted. No death bed conversions have passed The Test of Time. Game Over.


RLG copyright 2006