Hydra (Part 1)
The memoir of a many headed monster...
Hydra
Definition from the Merriam-Webster dictionary:
a many-headed serpent or monster in Greek mythology that was slain by Hercules and each head of which when cut off was replaced by two others
a multifarious evil not to be overcome by a single effort
a southern constellation of great length that lies south of Cancer, Sextans, Corvus, and Virgo; and is represented on old maps by a serpent
any of numerous small tubular freshwater hydrozoan polyps (Hydra and related genera) having at one end a mouth surrounded by tentacles; via Latin from Greek hudra, “water snake”; named by Linnaeus because, if cut into pieces, each section can grow into a whole animal
An electric fence is just a psychological barrier for a cow. The wires run along the wooden posts holding a voltage charge. Ours was 16,000 volts. It was supposed to be enough juice to stop a bear. A cow is a vast behemoth of a creature, thousands of pounds of muscle and bone perched on powerful cutting hoofs. A small cow could trample an electric fence with little effort if it was willing to suffer a shock. But the cow falls to the path of least resistance and avoids pain as much as possible. This is how humans keep cows contained so easily.
I watched a tiny goat walk straight through an electric fence because he had the understanding that if he just took a bit of pain there was freedom waiting on the other side. A goat made a cost vs. risk assessment right in front of me and came out the winner. That’s how smart they are. We called this particular goat Billy Houdini, because every night we would pen him in somewhere—in the barn, inside of a mesh of wires, behind locked doors—and every morning he would be standing in the courtyard waiting for us to come and play with him. Somehow, as if by magic, he’d escape.
January 17, 2021
It’s red wine tonight. That’s not even my style. I usually drink white. I don’t like to stain my teeth. I’m too vain and it doesn’t look good on camera. I gotta keep the dream alive. It’s peak COVID outside and we are in the midst of the second lockdown. I am trying to outrun my depression with art, driving myself back to the keyboard to make another attempt at writing this godforsaken book. What do I have to lose? My power to be right, I guess. If I don’t try, then I can’t fail. Or, truly, I can’t succeed. The belief that I am defective and bad fits me like a Skyn condom fits a man about to give you the business. I had to drink just to get here because I know that this time might be the time. The moment when I dissect myself for the sake of exposition. Expose my defects for the sake of art, science and a chance to do something that matters—maybe just to me. But it’s my dream at stake here. It’s my life on the examining table. The sense of meaning and purpose that comes from writing something is just too fulfilling for me to approach sensibly. I have to get a bit buzzed first. I know that there is something brewing in the abyss. Something crawling in the dark matter of my private universe that is controlling this outcome.
I just spent the last four hours jerking my literary clit to Henry Miller’s pivotal book, The Tropic of Cancer. It was as good as I had expected, a book that is mostly a feverish dream caught on paper. I let the subtle savagery of Miller’s writing work me like a prostitute of the English language. There was a sinister familiarity in the words that wrapped around my brain and infected it with imagery like an aggressive STI. I am still trying to shake off some of it. It was too good. Too vivid. It might give me nightmares.
It is my goal to write the shittiest book. The worst book in the world. I will try my hardest to write the shittiest book I can. Then I would be doing a whole lot more than what I have been doing for the last 25 years—just starts and stops. Nothing is finished. I just keep practising. I keep rehearsing for the main event.