The Faux Pas Rant #3: The Blame

02 March 2010

The Faux Pas Rant #3

The Blame

Jason Fresh

What do you get when you push everyone out? When you’ve eaten your fill? What do you get when you’ve gone to very bottom of everything and looked the toothed monsters of the Inferno right in the fiery eyeballs? I’ll tell you what you get. You get suffering. (I know. Doesn’t it get old hearing me talk about suffering? Don’t you get just fucking sick of the whining wannabe artist, fake motherfucker talking about SUFFERING?) Well, I think the only real way to deal with suffering is to talk about it - write it, paint it, draw it, sing it, fuck it, inhale it, or derail it. This is what you do when you’ve suffered. Why? It is because I’ve got no one to blame for the state of my life. Again, you may talk to those who have suffered, you can go to the smoke pit outside and puff away on suffering sticks, you can cajole every article of history you’ve stored away in the pits of the Inferno, you can try to erase the fragile line beneath the X of your self-righteous suicide but you are stuck with you. You are not some one else. You can never be. All of it is futile. The greatest cause of human suffering is within. If you see the Buddha on the road, put a knife through his fucking heart. You are not going to end suffering in some religion. If you go to the market place, fill up your basket and prepare for the future. If you find blame in the mirror, this is good. This is very good. The blame does not belong to your religion, your family, your kids, your circumstances, your pitiful looks, the classes you’ve taken. So, to write the great and arduous epic of our times, we must look no further than our own experience, our own dismay, the shoes you’ve purchased sit on your feet. The day, this day brought challenges for me; my friends have their challenges too. But damn. Sometimes the day to day pace and all the haters of this island can get to a man. I mean – I’m just a human, a human who does work for the military, a human wants to get his. You know what I’m saying? Why do I have to be a haole? Why can’t I just be Jason Fresh, the great American sage, the new Whitman maybe? I’ve been writing and writing this new play called The Nameless for the last year. I’ve been spending time with the little baby girl, Lola. (Some wonder why we chose this name as if it pays homage to the Kubrick movie or the book that other motherfucker. A lot of people, important people share the same name. When I think of some I will let you know, but for now, for this blessed day, she is Lola, the Unconquerable. So, I’ve got blessings in my life. A Jehovah’s Witness man once told me that you can’t be blessed if you are not obedient to God. Okay. What do I get then? If things are going good, and I can’t say ‘blessed’, what am I? Cursed? Shit, how does one decide? Are you blessed or are you cursed? What happens when your wife and kids leave you? When the bank calls to collect? When the skies fall before you? What are you then? A Denver omelet? A midnight rendezvous with destiny? I study fucking Chinese, I study Spanish, I study Portuguese, and we’re doing French now. What the fuck? Can a guy still be a guy? Huh? You live in the machine too, motherfucker (God, I love that word. Yep, and I can say all that I want because I’m free.) I’m the one you should blame. I am the Blame.