I am Dead; Long Live I

I am not a King, except in the sense that we are all Kings or Queens of our own lives, our own fates, our personal, day to day realities. Perhaps instead of King, we could substitute God. Except that, either way, our power and sphere of influence are limited, even within our own, tiny realms.

And yet, I feel the echo of regime change echoing through every corner of my Corpus Kirby: “The King is Dead; Long Live the King”

It hasn’t been a very violent revolution – thank mercy for that! But it’s been a revolution nonetheless. The internal peasantry has grown dissatisfied with supporting a regime that thinks only to preserve itself, and that cares nothing for holism, or for giving the minority interests room to breathe, or for “culture”.

It’s the middle classes that have paved the way for this revolt. They have rejected stability and routine and have welcomed the anarchy of the rabble, who on their part have overturned furniture, started fires (with no real purpose to burn anything down, but mostly to upset the fire department and to be entertained by the sparks and the dancing flames). And this rabble has played loud music and pigged out on junk food looted from the reserves of the business-as-usual community. And the policing forces have sat this one out, waiting on the sidelines to learn which way the pendulum is swinging, ready to impose a cease fire before all goes to hell.

Actually, this pending retirement/revolution is lots more fun that what I’ve suggested above. When you do one of those ‘stress inventories’ that are to be found in self-help magazines, it’s always suggested that good changes are just as upsetting as bad ones. Which we all know is bullshit, of course, though the point can be acknowledged: we are creatures of habit, and change makes us feel that we’re losing control. What’s overlooked is that we never have control to begin with, if control is taken to mean safe, predictable and according to plan.

Not only have I never had that sort of control of my life, I haven’t really looked for it. The miracles and the bogeyman-emerging-from-under-the-bed scares are way more fun, and productive, and stimulating. I don’t mind at all that ‘I’ is dying, and that finally ‘I’ get a shot on the throne. ‘I’ will do a better job than ‘I’ ever did. That’s for sure. Because ‘I’ isn’t about just holding on. ‘I’ is about moving this train, is about exploding things, is about forcing those way overdue, embryonic dreams into screaming, breast-feeding Life. (And isn’t breast-feeding the most passive yet kingly, take-control while surrendering, BEING HERE thing possible? I think so. In fact, I’m sure of it!)

So roll over and bend the knee, inner planner, sensible self, ego-man. Be a child again. Thrive, as you embrace this good night!