Saturday Notes

Yes, the season of pollution, 5,000 years in the making all washed up on our shores. So much swept under the rug it’s mountain climbing getting to the door. The activist talks but does almost nothing. the artist regurgitates his heroes.
Road. Old. Tired in a new way. Some days you just keep on walking ‘til it hurts. Nothing else makes sense.
I am tired of history and the future won’t make me smile. Legacies. Contracts. Grandfather’s debts and the timeless gringo’s corruption. Black skies for steel town. Black love and Moloch.
Pittsburgh’s changing me into something. What, I don’t know. Either a curse or some strange Yinzer magic. Steel voodoo. What else can I expect from a place that treats a drop forge is a graven image.
Hell’s bells. It’s going to be a strange year. I can feel it already, like the swelling from some invisible wound.
Pittsburgh wants to be Steel Town again. A city of descendants waits to step into their grandfather’s shoes and pour the steel. The attitude is “whatever it takes”, for the Steelers, for the Penguins, for the mayor and each other. Whatever it takes. Jobs. Cash. Whatever it takes. No excuses.
Old white guy bullshit, tried and never truer than a parish priest.
But it’ll happen. Rest assured. It’ll happen. They want it too much and nobody bends over quite like the West PA steel boys. Nobody’s got to tell them what to do. Just repeat the appropriate slogans. Nobody goes for the party line quite like the beef of labor country.
All for a reason: this is industrial country. That’s the fact. The rest is an immutable standard. It’s legacy, and it’s damned hard shouting down a city’s ghosts.
By comparison, the influences that guide me have been put well in order. I don’t think about them anymore. I don’t feel that urge to emulate the old ways. I want my world, not Hunter’s and Mencken’s and Wilde’s. I am myself, an ultimatum to the gods:
The law, contrary to Crowley’s nonsense, is not love. The law is truth, because it’s the only form of Darwinian cruelty that can be justified.
It’s a road, though. It has its complications, and no matter how much I rant against the millennial kids it never comes out quite right. Cyclic history and periodical journalism don’t mix. So you pull towards the fringe seeking answers. It’s unavoidable at first. Every male journalist for the past forty years has wanted at one time or another to be Hunter S. Thompson. You can’t help but hate that after a while. It’s hero worship, and the pursuit of truth permits little if any of that garbage.
Man is flawed. That is all. Goodnight, industry. Hello Sarcoma Park.
How many times can you say it before you give up? SUVs driving by. The machine winds down. The air reeks of stale lizard frenzy. Boys and girls drinking to blind the eye. What do you see but infinite stupidity in a finite space?
We all become brothers down in the park, and brothers are a jealous breed.
Bah. Utter nonsense. Can’t think today. Tapped out and lifeless. Take a hint from the zombies. If you’re going to be dead, be the walking dead. Nothing worse than a lazy corpse.


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