THE OBJECTIVE STORY OF MY SUBJECT
BY DAVID ARTHUR WALTERS
In my beginning there were no objects, then there was something, then there were many. Something was right, something was wrong, and my original sin was to know it, to be an “I” in this hell on Earth. Yes, there was nothing but now there are many things. Aha, this thing satisfying. Here is something right for me and something wrong for me. Both somethings are not me and, alas, I depend on them, therefore I shall do something about them because I need to persist. I need to grasp the right objects, to act on them. I need to make a living.
I have been severely disappointed by objects. First of all, I lost the most important object of all before I got on my feet. Then, time after time, everything pleasurable was taken away all too soon. If only I had never felt pain, if only my every need had been immediately satisfied, then I would know nothing of this objective hell called reality.
Nothing is sufficient to begin with and in the end nothing will suffice – that is the alpha and omega of it all. I blamed the objects for my discomfort, especially the good objects snatched away from me – I must throw them away before someone has the pleasure of making me suffer again. To hell with things! l shall dump that junk! burn that trash! get down to the bare necessities. The less the number of objects desired and the more things put off, the fewer shall be my frustrations.
As repulsive as objects might be to me, I need a few objects to get me by. Even as a creative author who creates things out of thin air, I need some quiet objective space to fashion my phantasms and to lay out my favorite subject of all, the best subject of all subjects, the human subject that I somehow am, no matter what the object of my discourse might be. Let us face it things, let us be objective, let us admit it – objects are ultimately for subjects, meaning for you and for me as poets, as makers, as high priests of our selves in which all ends meet.
And here is some virtual space, an oceanic of digits into which my micturition is added are of no moment – the very grandeur of my insignificance, however, overwhelms me. Here is a place that can stand the full extent of my vanity, that can bear the full brunt of my denial of all those things which exist for me yet deny me because I am not them – I am a negation. I have made a habit of denying things and I have come to love the process – some say it is cowardly, but they fear losing everything.
Please, sir, or ma’am, please give me another bowl of gruel, or otherwise patronize me – I do need the basics of life – but please do not worry about my sanity – I am just screaming, that’s all. People who read my virtual screams sometimes think I am clinically depressed and about to go into a fetal position or off the ledge of a cliff; they would be astonished to know how happy-go-lucky I am in person now that I have nothing to hold me down. I see no conflict in that. I am being as honest as I can be. I am a high-spirited, optimistic pessimist. I am not a desperate member of the Pursuit of Happiness Club or a neurotic Positive Mental Attitude fanatic. It is just that I have my pet peeve – objects. The cluttered-up world starts to get to me in between screams. A department store looks like a junk yard to me – I hate shopping. After about five minutes in any superstore, I feel an overpowering urge to start screaming bloody murder. In fact, just the thought of it makes me want to scream again. After scream or two, I feel great. I used to scream under the viaduct where almost nobody would hear me, but now the wonderful new information superhighway has provided me with this little place to scream.