Dead Daisy Chains

By: Rosalind Black

Objectivity is leaves, dead leaves. It exists only in movie fragments of stock footage like shopping lists for oatmeal and armoury. It is the lie about how we speak, and the coherence between the written trauma and the verbal assault. It, it itself, is nothing but the mechanical bull paid to attract the major demographical flavour of the week to watch the major objective flutter-speech of the weak. It’s been cut, re-edited and wrapped in satiny ribbons of nice words, nice statistics and nice robotics. It’s no longer human.

The victims, they were human enough; so were the correspondents at one time. They are when they go home. Like us. Like the goddam victims. We were human; we jump in and out of that skin like snakes. We re-enter it all however and think it new.

And this is how I talk. Always. If this is arrogance, it swims from a conformity of sorts. And if this is fakery, it swims from a congruity of sorts. And if Hunter S. Thompson and Doris Lessing and Jack Kerouac could tell the truth as it was, and make it exciting, sexy, hot, ( if they could create their own realities) then why the fuck can’t we accept the fact that absolute objectivity is an artifice?

It is dead leaves. It sprinkles itself down to rejoin the elements of humanity. It is a gargantuan poseur of metonymy, yet the foremost giant of synecdoche. It is applied less than alluring alliteration and is ‘more inconstant than the wind.’

Await us the inexorable proof of death in life? Listen to a fucking war story! A fucking tragedy or miracle story! Relate to the living heat that burns in the nitrogen alongside the oxygen that we slaughter. Relate yourself to something other than drones in suites who read electric signals of emptiness. Leave your house! See and smell and touch and hear and ache and burn and love and fuck and kill! Do it! Do it if you must to attain any level of perspicacity, to understand why the fuck you bother! Why don’t we all just take the funds of the city-states to build a giant oven so we all can stick our heads in it? This is the goddam ugly synecdoche! This is the small reality of objectivity before it really becomes an object, because everything is a subject. This speckle of grey frigidity is our use of the planet. These dead leaves, this mulch, this shit,this is used to grow Venus fly-traps. We feed our own apathy, our own ignorance, our own disgust and horror at the reality of a subjective universe, and yet we trust those shining boxes. We trust what is cut and freeze-dried and reheated and packaged and sent to brilliant screens as the truth. We support analyses without looking at what they reflect. What we are in them. What are we? We never cease to lose our shreds of humanity, because we ignore them when they self-represent.

This can only mean that every one of us is a silent tragedy. We are all waiting to have our wings torn off.

Speaking of wings, maybe I’m Icarus.