Testo Ed King Missile

Ed

Ed was at the end of his rope, an expression he detested. "There is no
rope!" he would scream at the laughing walls. "There is only the end.
No hope, no rope. Ending is better than mending. Doors of perception,
windows of opportunity -- these are illusions, like the killing floor."
Ed spoke in a squeaky whiny voice with perhaps a slight tinge of glee,
but this was only because he couldn't be bothered to try to develop a
manner of speaking that truly reflected his mood. "This is a vaccuum.
There is no air in this room. Despair is no fun anymore. Nihilism
knocked three times on the ceiling, but the rosy fingers of dawn always
inserted themselves in the nose of unfulfilled promises. Angels sang
Heysanna Hosanna, paralyzed prima-donnas danced in the streets all day,
but when darkness came, everybody went home. I was ready - everyone
else was asleep. And while it may have been a relief to see that I was
right all along, here I am still: alone and trapped, awaiting the
endless end. And I can turn it all around, and laugh at it and laugh at
myself; I can laugh louder than the walls, the halls the waterfalls,
louder than Charles de Gaul or Fulton Mall, but I don't know what I'm
laughing at, I don't know just what I think is so goddamn funny. I
don't know why I don't just shut up and give up and lay down and die.
What do I have to complain about anyway," Ed asked his Picasso, "I'm a
millionaire!" This wasn't exactly true. Ed's Picasso was an obvious
forgery, his three Rothkos had just been singled out in an article in
ARTFORUM entitled "The three most insignificant paintings of Mark
Rothko," and his Barbara Kruegers had been irreparably damaged by Rein
Sanction and a few other bands from Gainesville that refused to
acknowledge the value of art.
"Come to think of it," Ed mused to the laminated roadkill coffee table
that he had purchased when times had seemed slightly less bleak, "Come
to think of it, not onl does art have no intrinsic value, but my
collection has no extrinsic value either. I know I'm not a millionaire,
but that's no reason to complain. There is no reason to complain.
There is no reason to do anything. I don't believe in reason, objective
reality, or collective farming. I don't believe in public speaking,
which is another reason why I'm here alone. I don't believe in life or
death, I would kill myself, but I don't believe in suicide." Ed put on
a red shirt and took a quick walk around the block while whistling
softly to himself. He reentered his apartment screaming, "There is no
life on this planet! Jehovah-One replaced all life with machinery five
centuries ago. the so-called industrial revolution was just another
hoax and we all fell for it, 'cause we were all programmed to. Even I
fell for it, I believe in the steam engine, even though I don't believe
in anything. Logical inconsistency is the Mr. bubble I bathe in each
and every evening, except for yesterday evening, when I rollerbladed
over to the Masonic temple to play pinochle with Pope John Paul the
First. I really had no choice in the matter." "Ed certainly could go
on and on, and he did, and he would, and he will, until you or I or
somebody does something about it." Senator Sterno of Arkansas announced
over closed circuit television. "And as long as he continues to
pontificate pointlessly, I will do nothing." Ed walked away from the
program feeling fortified and stapled. His brain was buzzing, the was
it always did just after Jeopardy. He loaded up the microbus with
Atlases and poseidons and headed for Pope county.
"I've had it." He sang, "I've had it with puns, alliteration, russian
literature, Italian neorealism, meaningless cross references and laundry
lists of nonsense. I shall dive without a license, without clothing,
without direction and if I make it to Louisiana, fine, and if I'm
running late, if I'm running a numbers game, it doesn't matter, I shall
keep on running. Yes, this is the answer. This is the ending, I shall
keep on running, because a body in motion tends to stay emotional, and
it's better to feel. Pain is better than emptiness, emptiness is better
than nothing, and nothing is better than this