[OCTOBERFEAST is the greatest celebration of the year, a revelry dedicated to pop-culture’s most nutritious Halloween detritus. Plastic screams and artificial sweeteners have never been more bountiful. In the old country, villagers refer to the extended party as Satan’s Snacktime]
(I volunteered to help Rendar out today with a post, so sorry for the drop in quality inc.)
Thomas Gray’s true pimp of an elegy, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard is an appropos son of a bitch for this month of the Spirits and Rot. It contains one of my favorite lines in all of the classic British Literature I’ve read throughout my days, and it reminds us that just as the leaves decay and spiral down to the ground below we ourselves continue our march towards Oblivion. Smile, you’re only dying.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Some say that Spring and Summer are their favorite months, but to that I say an emphatic Nay! Fall in the Northeast is my favorite of months. Spring comes mush-mouthed and baby-toothed. The brightness returning is complimented by a dampness, and allergies. I spit snot and bemoan my ailing sinus cavities. Summer brings with it a laziness. We become languid, and bask in the sun. The Fall brings with it a razor through the comfortable sweat pants I don in the evening and a chill that reinvigorates my mind. And as I said, it also reminds me that I’m dying.
Remember good friends, that the path of glory leads but to the grave. Gray spits the line that can inspire melancholy, but it is through this melancholy that spurs me into motion. Even if theoretically, while I once again masturbate compulsively and refresh the same five websites again. No, no. Death is not the worst. Ennui and apathy and lack of movement is the worst. While some people see beauty in the Birth of All, I find comfort in the Glorious March towards my perpetual decay. Death is the Great Equalizer, but it can also be the Great Motivator. Another grand motherfuckin’ poet spat another profundity, never forget that there’s Wood To Chop Before We Sleep.
Movement! To arms! To pens! To something, my friends.
A fitting acknowledgement for the month where spirits dance and ghosts ghoul amongst us. Former souls, freed to the ethereal. Every once in a while I dwell once again on these lives. For contemplating the Eternal is too much to handle on a daily basis. With the skull-drudgery of the modern day, we forget that are in fact withering. But read these lines and let them spur you to action, or at least appreciation. If you are reading this – you’re either an enterprising Ghost or a meat-sac bound motherfucker like the rest of us.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave, and our approach is persistent. Take this opportunity to suck in the crisp air, appreciate the glory that is participating in This, and let it motivate you. Or eat your weight in ice cream while withering under the Weight of it All. Keep your chin up though. Remember death is not the end, only a transition. That we all share.