(February 1, 2014)

Watching Batman. Never really watched Batman. Was about to turn it off when the Joker empties several buckets of paint–red, yellow, purple, green–onto a priceless antique table and then has his henchmen bust it up with axes. All this color and violence. Out with the old, he yells, and in with the new! His henchmen reduce the table to fragments and he cackles and cackles.

Damn, man, revolution. Anarchy. That was me as a punk rocker. Sometimes you need to destroy everything, I use to say about rock’n’roll, reduce it to atoms. Then start over. The excitement was so visceral. We took our axes and destroyed everything beautiful. All the pretty, all the luscious, all the sensitive we destroyed. We were the Joker’s henchman, smashing. These beautiful old things, pulverized, reduced to fragments. The very sound of the smashing thrilled us. The feel. The urge. The everything. We were the Joker cackling. The me then would hate me now. I had my time I’d say. I’d splutter in self-defense. Why me? I believe in you. I’m on your side. I’m a good guy. Down come the axes. I stand cackling over the destroyed me. God rot good men. The Joker cackles.

Worlds are rebuilt by fire.

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