What happened in the Hawks Game? Blazers lost? Atlanta executed at will? Blazers looked out of sorts and missed a ton of shots? Okay, great.
I watched the game on mute tonight, so I could just be alone with my thoughts. I meditated on the horrors of life and basketball.
The Blazers really go just openly allow two pointers. They see the machine for what it is. They exploit it for gain at the cost of their souls. If a soul even exists. Maybe we are just alone in our bodies.
Aldridge shoots and scores.Again. He misses, again. Life is a menagerie of meaninglessness. We truly are dust, nothingness.
In the Blackness, a light, when Giannis strips Aldridge and a crappy two man game. The world is wire, and the only good wire can do is occasionally generate electricity. Giannis breaks apart another play, hammers down an alley-oop on the other end. For a second, I feel a spark of something like life. I am disturbed by this pleasure, for I know that, eventually, it must be balanced by pain.
Meyers knocks John Henson down and throws up a shot that rims in. A moment of immense absurdity, yet it is as natural as the blooming of the day lily. Why does the lily bloom? To live? But it has no mind. Perhaps we have no minds?
I propose that if we were cut at the stem, and placed in a vase, for the loved one of some big plant with a different consciousness than we, that it would not be a tragedy, but a show of power on the part of the big plant. I do not want to believe that power is the driving force of the universe, but here I am, watching sports.
The Blazer have fallen behind early. If they are destroyed today by the Bucks, it will be a victory for youth and beauty. SHakespeare, the poet, playwright, and scam artist, would have you and I believe that this is the movement of nature, and the only good thing that can happen.
A Lillard two pointer, the effort of a drive to the rim, is countered by a Knight three pointer, created with a mere flick of the wrist. Can you not see that effort is fuitile?
An impressive shuttle pass to Henson becomes foul shots. A flower, turned the sludge, and we reward and celebrate it. Basketball is, like life, a perverse excersise. that rewards no thing in particular, not morality or aesthetics. It rewards only strength. We should regards all sport as pornography and keep it away from our children.
I will not celebrate basketball, or life. I will celebrate only silence.
A turnaound jumper from Kris Middelton slides into the rim. The Blazers are down ten points. They have come back from larger deficits, and lost with bigger leads. The future is not mine for the telling. I look into my basketball ball, made from glass, etched with runes, and I call upon a power that does not exist. I ask the ball, “Ball, what will happen in this, or any game?”
It replies “I will dell you, but I can only tell lies.”
“B-b-b-b-but, I thought…”
“Haha! Ball doesn’t lie!? Hahaha! What an absurd article of faith has been installed in you! It disgusts me, I am ONLY a teller of tales, a weaver of lies! The only truth is silence!”
Matthews slips underneath the rim. 27-15 Bucks.
Giannis makes a move on Dorrell Wright and takes a foul. The only thing that contains the young man is limits in his mind. When the wall comes down, he will breaks bodies, minds, spirits, sex drives with a bere blinking of his eyes. The whole sport, NAY, the whole world will be at his mercy. We will submit and serve. Giannis will be the only thing close to a “God.”
An airball from Steve Blake. He submitted to his illusion of control instead of passing and letting some other person try to feel themselves into thinking they could manifest a destiny for themselves.
When a players shoots a ball, he is making a contract with his hands, a contract that says “I have given my life to making you do as I command, you will fulfill my orders.” What he, or she, as it may be, does not realize, is that the world, the external world, does not respect this contract, and will seek to void it at any cost. When this happens, the player assumes his hands have violated their deal, and punishes them, my making them work harder later, or by cutting them with razorblades. What an absurd dance, the tango between hand and basketball player!
A Lillard bobble forces hm to post up on a fast break. His enemies swarm. He struggles, and misses his shot. Lillard is a man in a maze, who knows he can get out, but at every turn, there is more maze.
In a way, we are all in the maze. What waits for us at the end? I submit: death, and only darkness.
Lillard collects a rebound. His legs spread as he rises for a dunk. Then, he tells me to go to a used car dealership. I will not relent to his demands. I will reject used cars and new cars, for they take my feet from the earth, and the feeling of the ground on your feat is the only way to truly collect knowledge.
The Blazers have begun to even the contest. Wes Matthews makes a three pointer, and the score is separated at four. The Bucks are committing a lot of turnovers in the paint. They are still like a baby faun, the sons of their totem, clumsy and ill-coordinated. They must find the source of stability to succeed. But then, will ther loose their essential fawnness, and turn into a hissing, spitting deer, like the Blazers? Would it be worth it?
Is success a curse? An addiction? Winning makes only a demand for more winning. Give it up, and see how free you become. A Blazer team that lost all of its games would not charge for tickets. I would regard this as a fair trade-off.
The half is over. The Blazers have closed the considerable first quarter gap. 45-42 Bucks.
Thomas Robinson starts. Meyers, Robinson, Robinson, Meyers. What does it matter? Terry flips switches and the light is still blue. He keeps flipping in the hopes that it will be yellow, or red, or, for christsakes, purple. But it’s always blue. The blue light cascades over his face, unceasing, a symbol of his sadness, his struggle, the whole hole he can’t climb out of. When will you be satisfied, Terry?
Robinson blocks Giannis at the rim. He will be the first to go when the barriers come down. He will have one eye and do The Greek King’s bidding personally. “Thomas! Bring me grapes!” “Thomas, bring me a knife, to peel the grapes!” “Thomas! Bring me a bowl for these grape skins!”
Giannis does a windmill on the fast break. It is the only moment of life, of joy, of light, in this or any game. Life is a game, the most joyless of all games. It is like Monotonousply.
Batum’s shot rims out. It was all the way in, then all the way out. I propose that nothing exists. Or I have proposed it, I ought to say. But in this nothingness, there is a ghost. The ghost has chosen to torment Nic Batum for crimes committed in past lives. Batum was once Napoleon. He was once a general in the Norman conquest. What I am trying to say is, he was always French, and always cursed.
OJ Mayo is shooting foul shots. The Blazers lost ground, then made it up again. They have been in striking distance for a long time. Unfortunately, there is no six point strike one can make. The only way to get six points on a single possession is to get a four point play that makes the other team so mad they get two technicals. Mayo hits a three to take the Bucks up seven.
The Blazers surrender a three pointer. They are tired, broken men. They will soon see the absurdity of their task and disband, leaving the Rose Garden, now profaned with a name from an arbitrary construct, empty, except when the Globetrotters are in town. Bucks 76, Blazers 65.
This is a special time. The Fourth Quarter. But if it’s so special, why does it look like every other second in our lives? FOr instance: OJ Mayo hit a three pointer not five minutes ago, and he hits yet another one. What if every basketball quarter is the same? What if every 12 minutes of our lives are the same?
The Blazers are forcing shots. They sense destiny taking the game out of their hands, and they decide that wrestling her is the only way to get it back. But they under estimate her power.
Jared Dudley hits a three to make it 87-69; the light gets smaller. The Blazers reach out to touch the light. It hits the front of the rim. They are tired, so tired. Another shot rims out. A strip. Twenty point deficit. Wes makes a stepback three pointer. Valiant, but a shot borne from struggle. Climbing the mountain by cutting off your hand, welding a chain to it, and throwing it higher up the mountain.
Lillard takes another very long three pointer when the team is down, heaving in vain to get the guys back on the train. It’s like water, the harder you grab, the less you collect.
Starters don’t get pulled. I weep, for conceding is the only rational thing a person can do.