and in the end, the love you take
is equal to
the love you make
Now it sounds catchy coz it’s the gets-insufferable-the-more-you-get-to-know-them Beatles, bugs chameleons and creepy crawlies, but it really makes no sense. It’s marketing for propaganda that sold records from 1968 to just last Saturday. Imagine that.
I can still hear the jingle in my head but have managed, through the newly renovated electro-shock therapy treatment which can be found via your smartphone app upside the head, to block out the actual name of the song. I just remember the end of the song and the lilting melody which always leads me to the beginning of the next song with begins with “This is the end, beautiful friend the end…”
Pre-cursor to a moment
Truth be told, I wish Mad Men season whatever starts next week episode 1 (is it season 6, 7, 7A or just give up numbering them already because just like Cher’s retirement, there may be a finale to the finale after these final 6 episodes) started off with that song. I don’t know why but that’s the vision I have in my head for DD walking (we just see his pants leg and shoes, somehow entering the building in a way we haven’t seen before — remember we last saw him, gleefully almost, putting his head down to work.
Inspired by the redemption he received in the most unlikely of places, he had been humbled and had regained some sense of dignity in knowing who he was and what he was destined to do, no matter what his legal name was–this was a man of wrenching soul-twisting dimension and the identity suffering that was stuck to his generation like a fly to sticky paper hanging from the rafters was crumbling before our eyes as he outed himself, self-imploded for it, sobered up, got lucky, got smart, had a fucking character arc where he realizes what he ‘owes’ protege Peggy and why he needed to change or die, and went to work.
As Burt, who became a bit of a curmudgeon old fuck who was way too harsh when the chips were down, tap dances and sings with dancing girls, “..the best things in life are free…”
After seemingly developing a comprehensive amnesia for what fuck-ups bring to the creative empire, choosing instead to harp only on the misdeeds’ cost to ‘his’ bottom line, preferring to coast which is the one thing you can never do in that business, the work of advertising which marries the muses to the mercantile, and that alchemy requires that the crazies will always have a desk somewhere, even if it ends up being under the fire escape in the alley peddling roses from a card table in 1996, to cover for the downfall of the American Dream.
People need to dream, not a dream. They need poets and fixers and men to tell them pretty lies so they can get up the next day and go on with the majority of the mundane things that add up to a collection of lives not worth living if itemized.
Yet liltingly beautiful when left to its own messy devices and corroborating on stories no one ever told to imagine a new world order where nothing manages to matter, the meaning devours the method and the cacophony controls the chaos.
The Anxiety of Influence is not covered by your plan
I don’t even know who I am replicating but it’s definitely someone, Hunter S. Thompson was more measured and pointed — before he wrote the word, the thought, more like a voracious essay with novel-like cadence (if the novel happens to be on peyote, coke, ludes, bennies, benzoes, harlequinn romance novels and sedate, pretty toed princesses about to be in for the shock of their lives when they wake up in a Malaysian prison (of future scripts, capturing an over-arching theme of what it means to brave this new world as we see the world of a girl reading Rolling Stone and reading Vogue in isolation in a by now, not-so-gallant South.
That was some paragraph of rolling rambling synapse crushing logic-craving creative chaos thinking that really was just about the end of a Beatles song cutting to the beginning of a Doors song, which to me somehow would represent the next chapter for Don Draper, who is so well-crafted as archetype and character that it’s scary-genius and I want to keep that kind of story going.
So I guess I will go across the universe to ask for a ticket to the resurrection, perhaps there’s a way to tie into the anniversary of the crucifixion coming soon to a parish, pulpit, platform near you.
That’s Easter. Three days, like detox, rising again. Lazarus testament to re-birth, a concept that will come back to haunt every man thereafter, like a badge of inferiority, worse than Moses’ parting the Red Sea, Noah navigating 40 days and 40 nights of raging flood waters, Job managing not to scratch his skin off and jump out the window screaming, or Judas’ taking the hit for some conspiracy that needed to give man someone to blame, it was the perfect set-up, the perfect narrative that man could accept whole-heartedly, for the most part, until we got past the Middle Ages, into the Enlightenment, then back and forth between advance and barbarism for the rest of our time as stretched out amoebas of misery on this glorious place called Urth. Who named it Earth? What is up with planets’ names? Where did they come from? Definitely aliens. And if that’s the case–why are they not talking to us en masse now? Why would an enlightened being deal with the human elite propaganda machine in place? Unless the alien race is evil and manipulating mankind but for what? An awful M. Night Shamalamadingdong movie staring Mad Maxx or Marky Mark chasing down bad CGI monsters who are allergic to water or eat all the trees and air. I prefer the slimy Morgellons’ Medusa-like algae mermaid monster who rises out of the pool at a cheap motel on the California coast and then eats her way back to Long Beach where she stars in an X-Files sequel.
All these thoughts actually have context but not as put fully put forth in aforementioned connectivity of thoughts. I have had a stressful day of highs and lows and am just ready for something steady and a place where I can re-group, restitute and move into phase 3 [or 4 or 5 or 5c or III] or my life.
So this I will revise or delete if I can find no merit here, but this was automatic, unedited, backspaced (unless for spelling errors, but never for grammar, syntax, sense or meaning — that can be whittled out once the brain has spewed forth enough fragmented thought to mellow out and chime in on things that matter not chew on other people’s problems with someone who just needs a break, not a bashing–that’s gonna take therapy, I figure now, to bring to a complete end).
and in the end
the love you
i always want to reverse it
that’s a post in and of itself
for next time
this is the end
the only end