Heavy Lies the Crown and a Short Short Story

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And now, back to the show:

by that time it was clear as day that survival beyond, say, ten, would be impossible, or, at the very least, extremely painful. by day fifteen, you'd be a sort of gooey meat smoothie in a wrinkly bag, leaking plasma as you sloshed around distastefully towards oblivion. by then, the Government stopped trying to calm people down - or just generally it stopped being a bother. It, that is to say Government, stepped down from the position of a vaguely unsettling abstraction and became people again. It was pointed out with odd, grim hubris how it took an apocalypse to bring that most desirable change about. 
i suppose, at the root of it, money was as valuable as cooking pot tops - actually no, it was less sonorous, and therefore of no worth at all. I mean, of course, it had always been rubbish but we stopped pretending otherwise, you see, and that made all the difference. although, admittedly, it made no difference at all at that juncture. 
i personally played a cooking pot top to great effect once the skins on musical instruments politely, but not gradually, vanished. much to my father's chagrin. chagrin is the kind of word you come to recognize way before you learn to pronounce it. the latter you learn by happenstance.
you would assume incidents of mass looting or people holding hands and so forth, but no, not really. In fact, one of my best sisters went to a room that wasn't - in some ways, at least - even in our house, and did not say why, did not come back, did not laugh either. how do i even begin to explain this? i imagine there were throw pillows and colour, but that could not possibly be true since i went there and there was only a petulant shadow spreading its arms and lengths over all things - as if to say, 'mine!'. It conveyed nothing. 
i went up there with my friend - i will not pretend to remember him - and we met a man who sniggered, an older cousin who knew exactly who we were, once we told him who we were, and who got it all wrong for a joke, i suppose. he had muscles and smoked. at that point it was OK. 
we sat there in that room, talking about this and that, waiting that interminable wait for the inevitable sickness to set in, waiting for symptoms to become manifest, rather like waiting for a drug to begin its effect - the nervous excitement that entails being very aware of your own breathing and sensory etc. and somebody said we should probably go see what mother was up to. we found her strolling in the garden at night. she met us with all good humour and smiles and with parched lips said she wanted to go to the park. since that was where i was headed anyway, it worked out well. 
there were many veiled and sweatered women in the park walking in the brownianest of motion it seemed. identically attired, they were trying to be as disconcerting as reflections. i enjoyed their cheerful lady size steps as they traversed and conversed in "hello" and "hello" and were all exactly the same. that was the first time i realized that in every woman's closet there must be at least one ensemble that every other woman also owns. this could've been said better, but it wasn't supposed to be an aphorism. aphorisms had failed. 
i remember watching the state police drag a man all the way to somewhere between two motorcycles held aloft like so. almost as if he were being helped over a puddle it seemed. i was always a little concerned about being stopped or asked questions - but we drove in our lane and we turned when we were supposed to. my mother and i and driver. 
there was not much traffic. a fast car would pass us by like an arrow. but it meant nothing except a peculiar kind of lonely. it was just silly. perhaps, and it is quite odd to think of it, but my sister's self exile into the unroom was what made me feel that the entire planet was marked by a profound sense of loss. or perhaps that was just the apocalypse. she wasn't angry at us or anything like that. that is, or was, i suppose, how she wanted to spend her time. that time was quite unequivocally hers, i'd assume. perhaps that is, or was, what she had actually wanted. she was quite the dreamer, that one.
i remember staring at my mother's fingers as her rings turned black and nails fell out. and i won't deny that it repulsed me and i won't lie that i did not hold her hand anyway. because why the hell not! my father disliked the noise of the cooking pot top. but he put up with it - barely, like a bear. he was relieved when the skin had melted off the percussive (this is how i avoid saying tabla - in fucking italics!) instruments initially but then this master told me to sort of hold the skin and stretch it over to play on like a weaver ant holding leaves, but eventually the skin just dripped liquid and so then the cooking pot top was taken out and i beat out this really nice melody that made the master speak in elaborate sexual metaphors. that, perhaps, more than anything else, bothered, no, no, it was just the sound. he hated the cacophony, my father i mean.
the identical women in the park in their identical periwinkle knitted sweaters with identical patterns and their (the women's) dull grey veils walked in brownian motion around objects that turned, well, green. the kind that glows that is. and nobody fought. in the last days, everyone was looking inward and seeing out. it was patiently and desperately expected that someone somewhere would suddenly wake up and the nightmare would be over. someone else would wake up, you see. that was the key to a good last ten days. the quietest of desperation. the kind that stares.



.

A Song:

 heavy lies the crown
the king who wields the weapon
yet cannot command without
a clown to run his kingdom
he'd take the banners down
and hope that in the end there
when his story's coming round
there will be words of wisdom
At least a word of welcome
though perhaps devoid of sound
but someone must've said
Hey, look! how heavy lies the crown!

heavy lies the crown
upon the brow that furrows
everytime he puts it on
though heavier sleeps the conscience
of the ego of the proud
a stroll there with the queen
to go survey the royal grounds
and look beside the courtiers
there are eyes that can be found
eyes look but do not see
appraise but cannot feel
that though light as light can be
just how heavy lies the crown.

And now for the news:

I do not understand smart people who are not smart enough to know that sometimes the smart thing isn't the smartest thing to do. (vote pti):

I

i wanted all points of view - perhaps because i wanted to know the truth or because i was afraid of being wrong - and for that i had to begin somewhere; so, i began with what interested me most. 
you and i doubt if beginnings of this sort can ever be objective because etc but still, you and i understand that a beginning etc. 

II
points of view are very hard to gain. they require you to scoop out nearly all your internal organs every time, set them all in rows in front of you to be stared at till they begin wriggling of their own accord and then you must patiently wait while they inch their squirmy way back into your body. this was a metaphor. also, those who begin with, "I for one..." will rarely not disappoint in their private capacity as organisms of interest. this is a point of view - but for some reason, not a good one.

III

some points of view are contrary to reason - which is not to say insignificant - and harder to stare at. their wriggling seems diseased. they are unsettling points of view and yet for you to pretend that they are steeped in stupidity, is stupidity, but a valid point of view - maybe.

IV

some points of view are just as valid as others and a choice between this one or that must be based on some brand of faith - which is not a dirty word. some points of view are unacceptable. you cannot have them. therefore you cannot have them.

V

Rocket Man is a brilliant song that was billions of evolutionary years in the making - as was Hips Don't Lie. And which of your Lord's favours will you deny? so many points of view. it is like a mattress full of fluff being shot at with an automatic weapon.

VI

because all points of view cannot be had simultaneously, we must huddle together, suspicious and perhaps obnoxious, and be alone.

V

honesty is da bezt polici.

VI

at any given time, you are a hero, the answer to the question of life, and also a complete fucking moron. this is a point of view.

VII

you are somewhere.
this may or not be where i am.
let us converse.

That's All Folks!