oceans, wolves, & women
from willa beale, Alistair Lovelace, & Nashoba-tek
I. thesis
we cannot recall whence inspiration struck needless such is a thing we cannot extrapolate but only condemn in striving for a best expression such is the ocean that rain is fated to become again such is the wolf that hunts to death to its own death such is the women that seeks herself amidst continuation what is the role of an artist if not to be useless?
II. antithesis
I hate the idiocy of the intellect—I loathe God. When I read willa's words, I hate willa and Him. I hate what I cannot latch my fangs upon. What I cannot seize and suffocate in a fat heavy hand. The ocean is a bore: a boring giant frothing, retarded. The wolves are forgotten, sardonic, capsized by nature. The women is nothing: Ineffable power is meagre, sinful. You do not like me, I know, because I want you to disdain me. And doesn't that make us both most hateful? willa is arrogant like her benefactor, like her namesake. I am not arrogant. I am like an honest God: I do not love you. Go and study. Go get the hell out of here. Do not claim a sacred turmoil in the effervescent ultimatum of a new dawn. I cannot stand such spurious acclamations that confound you.
III. synthesis
what isn't? we return to nothing and find nothing is no nothing. no thing. no nothing. we tire. we try. we condemn, recollect, respire. the ocean is a deep mother beyond reckoning, haunter of existence, hunter. the wolf is a deep mother beyond reckoning, haunter of existence, hunter. the women is a deep mother beyond reckoning, haunter of existence, hunter. what isn't? we could speak a thousand miles and nothing matters. some call it nihilism, a silly word that signifies nothing. we call it Source, the anima of nothing, the deep mother of reckoning. we prefer the grass to ideas because we can eat the grass. such it is that some things are so simple. when the young children of the village come to me, singing, we do not instruct them on their voices. we only write meagre poetry for their children to contest. we only sing meagre songs for their children to oppress. we ken to proffer little more than two notions: this is never final. you are unattainable. now, be free and go and get the hell out of here— like oceans, wolves, and women: study and forget.
Author’s Note
we invite you to sing in response, sweet witness.
No. We dare you—Sing!
sing. we are listening.