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Hoses of the Holy in the Parallel Universe

April 13, 2005

The Remarkable Rocket and other metaphysics


Sometimes you hear songs in a minor key that feel as though they want to become the soundtrack to your life for a time. They get you thinking about things best left alone in the dark place.

Did you ever catch yourself sitting there, thinking, "if only I knew how to unravel it all. If only I could make it all simple again like it was at first"?

Like a job you've held for more than 18 months. Like somebody else's misery. Like the electronics chapter in a physics textbook. Like anything else that's all ragged with loose ends and distractions.

And like a computer that's been running too long: if only it were possible to purge the registry and remove unwanted applications without having to reinstall the OS.

But it's not like that, is it. Time makes our lives like one way streets. Or disposable cameras, hardwired for single use.

And if you drop your life onto a stone floor, or expose its film to light, or waste all your shots on your drunken mates getting their arses out in Yates's on Saturday night, or however else it gets all fucked and tangled up, it is just tough.

You just happened to choose, inadvertantly, to light one of the damp squibs in the existential firework display.

But maybe all the squibs are like that. And maybe all the cameras in the box are flawed seconds.

If so, maybe that is an elegant and simple truth in itself. Maybe there is an ethereal "so fucking what?" floating through everything.


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