The dung beetle has the stars of the Milky Way to guide it through the earthly night. It’s been proven, scientifically. Some guy in a planetarium did an experiment to find out what happened when the moon was absent. The beetles followed the stars of the Milky Way. I wonder what urban dung beetles follow, the nearest street lamp, or the flickering sign of the nearest bar, or petrol station? Think of all those dung beetles distracted from their mission to roll dung, by the phosphorescence of the big city lights. Country dung beetles know where the stars are, but city dung beetles, what of them, lost souls, every one.
I want to reread books I skimmed through in my voracious search for ‘the thing.’ Not books like Dharma Bums or The Electric Kool-aid Acid Test, books I wore thin in the living out of their affirmations, their road map like qualities, thou shall do this… for it is the path of righteousness, and a good story…No I am thinking of books like Cancer Ward, The Sot Weed Factor, La Debacle, or read such works as I have never even hoped to attain to, Moby Dick, War and Peace, and the rest. I am like that man in the Twilight Zone episode, who only wanted time to read and thought he had it after a nuclear holocaust wiped out humanity. My own personal holocaust was my kidney failure, I was free, free at last to read and what happens, I get a new kidney and am right back on the treadmill, worrying about death and taxes. I was already dead! Why could they not have left me in my grave? Conscious enough to enjoy the word, but incapable of movement, I was content, like a junkie safe in the womb of his fix. But no I had to reenter that insatiable need of humanity to move dung about. An unwilling Lazarus; please Jesus, I would rather not. Keeping the carrion warm at night is no longer an option. Instead it is back to the rock, et tu Sisyphus, a dung beetle? Would that I were Portnoy.
Tags: Life After Death