Bright white sun blanks out the blue of the sky, bounces off the pale desert sand, chars the tips of the cactus and only the black strip of asphalt, having no soul, can stand to fully absorb it. In the wilderness man has the conceit to think he has conquered, by imposing that black strip, the low growling tiger of pathetic internal combustion thinks it speeds across the conquered sixteen feet. The sun mocks its power and speed by its mere existence. But the tiny spark of consciousness inside, driven by the need to feel in control in the mighty presence of even a small weak sun, ignores the existence of any power greater than itself as it grips the wheel and cranks the stereo.
Dynaflow, Link Wray, Nietzsche, a .45 in the glove box. Not just all life but the life force itself… only the will to power. It can’t be helped, we have to strut across the stage, or be a spear carrier in the too long too short opera. Imposing our will by stomping the pedal, cranking the nob, and destroying the sanctimony and illusion. The cactus just has to grow, the coyote merely hunt, the desert rat run and hide, the spark …has to win.
Its not in the DNA, it is DNA. Thrust up or down to get it. Getting it making you want more. Getting enough making you want some strange. The spark wants food and gets it, then wants warmth and gets it, then wants ‘love’ and gets it and then wants toys. Or, the far horizon and a pedal to stomp .If it runs out of want it has to stare at death. So the spark creates the want machine so it never has to want. Rooms full of other sparks getting theirs by giving more want, always more, it makes death go away. Even when the more is others dying, one less, not me, more power.
You can never reach the horizon, you just have to buy a boat.
Nothing to condemn, nothing to judge, nothing to sneer at, the same for every spark. Wanting, fear of wanting, fear of getting, fear of losing, fear of not being able to want, in the end.
And still no path past judgment, the speedometer and clock of power, judgment is, that brings the ever shifting illusion of the horizon closer.
Want strive grasp, even as we crawl across the burning sand of the arena under that same sun, the lifejuice leaking out where we lost, looking to grab one more shiny thing before we go.
Unfulfilled, never fully getting it because the getting is not the point, the wanting is the point, the striving is the point, the crawling the last yard on your belly is the point. As the other spark, that ended us, stands above already feeling the emptiness from the getting, already wanting, already unsatisfied, already casting the net of desire of what to desire next.
The desert is clean. The horizon is satisfyingly far, the pedal is easy to push without even thinking. Can’t win anything. Can’t stop trying to win. Can’t think about it too long. Push the pedal harder, it grows bigger, but never big enough.
Can’t quit. Can’t win anything. Can’t stop trying to win.
“Even David Lo Pan cannot deny that all energy in the universe is created by the tension between the positive and negative Furies.”
The line in the desert, the line between the dark and the light. Only one is honestly crooked, only one rejoins the circle, not giving the illusion of victory over anything.
In the end, all that is left…is style.