Oh Jungleland

11 Dec

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing…”

I always try to tell the universal truth. They’ve pegged me into corners and painted me in. Look at me. Let me be a lesson to you. Let me be only a label. But always know that I am objective and unreliable in my narrative. I can squeeze through a crack in a fence at dawn and run out into the fields of Nephilim. When men began to multiply on earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of heaven saw how beautiful the daughters of man were, and so they took for their wives as many of them as they chose. Then the Lord said: “My spirit shall not remain in man forever, since he is but flesh. His days shall comprise one hundred and twenty years.” At that time the Nephilim appeared on earth (as well as later), after the sons of heaven had intercourse with the daughters of men, who bore them sons. They were heroes of old, men of renown. I know that by heart. I can walk in between raindrops in a thunderstorm. This is what I hear inside my head. This…that I put forth here, is Nathaniel Thurhurst, son of Brynn and Luster Thurhurst. I was christened at nine months and I remember walking to church and being put inside the silver container while my mother was forced away from the altar, screaming, through the nave. Before, she had tried to rip into the reredos in what the priests thought was a fit of devilish rage, but it was only the idea of leaving her baby son in the hands of the Church that pushed her to step behind the altar. I am incapable of surviving much longer. In the end I will succumb to the corrosion of traditional morality. Others will go on and favour the futility of modern helplessness. They are flawed too. This is me on the inside. This is how I think on the inside. The other part, the one the others see, is that of a thirty-eight-year-old idiot. A man-child who likes fire and cuts his own skin from time to time with a pocketknife he keeps under his mattress because he cannot be understood. Later, they will label it mental retardation or autism, but now, in this time, I am an idiot. Only they cannot hear all this on the inside. The decline. Documented seamlessly and clearly in a unified loop; a metaphor for everyone else. In another story, I break the hands off the family clock on the wall in order to escape time. In order to escape the Idiot. I’ll tell you that later. I know this: virginity is merely an invention by man. And the structure of life, my life, yours…is fragmented, despite the elliptical rotation of the system. A man is the sum of his mis-fortunes. One day, he thinks, they will end, but on that exact day time becomes his misfortune. We are time-bound. That has always been the curse. This invented measure, is not really a measure of anything. Birth, life, and death, each take place on the hidden side of a leaf. A woman will one day write that in a book which will be banned from the bluest eyes of schoolchildren. Oh, Jungleland, deliver us from evil and enlighten us to build a home. We are of God, but the whole world lies under the sway of the wicked one. This is me…Nathaniel Thurhurst. On the inside.


2 Responses to “Oh Jungleland”

  1. Anonymous 12/12/2007 at 4:15 PM #

    Unbelievable writing. This is truly awesome. I love the Biblical references and the Toni Morrison shout-out.

  2. (S)wine, Inc. 12/12/2007 at 6:32 PM #

    Thanks. I have to re-read “The Bluest Eye.”

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