“I remember the pattern for that day, the day she broke up with me, and I remember how it looked like a pony’s head, and it seemed to be reaching out further than it ever had before, right before she broke up with me, and rode away with my heart bleeding on the floor just like the pattern before me.” -Unknown High School Student circa 2022
I remember blood. That’s something I would remember, and as I write this I wonder why I would remember blood. Is it a natural thing for me to remember? Sharks can pick up the faintest traces of blood from miles away. A billion million scents in the ocean and they brains which are four hundred million years old remembers blood. There is something in our blood when it comes to blood. Our recent cultural fascination with vampires, both good and evil, centers on beings who consume blood. When Charles Manson bent his will towards the final destruction on civilization he had the words written in the blood of those murdered.
Car crashes are a good place to start if you want to understand the volume of blood the living possess. A gallon of blood, more or less, for each person, which is worth about twenty-two miles a gallon in gasoline on average for a pick-up truck, and that is all we have. Maybe High Schools should take a gallon milk jug and fill it up with red water then poke it with a pencil. The time it takes for the jug to empty is how long it takes a life to disappear forever when there is a bullet hole in the wrong place or a car crash bad enough. But then again, life can be snuff out as quickly as a candle in either case.
But the gallon of red water on the floor of the gym…
The blood puddle is quite large is it not? The liquid in the middle becomes static while easing the outer rim towards a lower center of gravity. The edges reach for the center of the earth they will never obtain in their current form. Were this blood, all the hopes and dreams of its creator would be gone now, and the liquid slowly becoming an odd solid. The Creator Of Blood, a solid container for the liquid no more, would return to the earth, mastering the containment and the fluid process of circulation no more. Our blood puddle in the middle of the gym floor lies in mute testimony of a life ended. There is a level of thickness, a certain degree of spread, a certain pattern, and a final state for our puddle just as there is for each human life. Our admiration for life is capricious and arbitrary. Were we to admire the blood puddle on the floor of the gym it would be in the same sense we see what we do in a Rorschach test. Line up a hundred High School students to view the puddle and you might get a feeling for what they are thinking, but what if you did this for every class of students, every day, for a hundred years? Would some patterns be more memorable? Would there be some sort of culture developed around the shape of the blood puddle? Would students lie to one another as to what they had seen? Would some patterns be given names and other seen as signs of some sort? In the Teacher’s Lounge would they say to one another, “I could tell by the pattern this was going to be a weird day, couldn’t you?”
There would be that day, the first time a student took out a cell phone and snapped a photo, and made a tee shirt out of it, and there would be memorable patterns from memorable days. The dead the school principal was found dead in his home, a more and a bottle of pills by his side, would be immortalized by the pattern that spread out on the gym floor, and some would say it was a fitting memorial, how the liquid flowed that day, and how he would have wanted that sort of pattern. An art student would repaint the pattern and it would be hung on the library wall and in that world, where that sort of thing happened each and every morning, witnessed by all, it would make perfect sense that this would be a way to honor someone.
As odd as this all sounds we create for ourselves and others patterns out of a lot less and our own rituals make as little sense as this one when it gets all down to it, and it does. Look at the Catholic ritual of drinking blood and eating flesh, yes, I am well aware it’s symbolic but so is the blood puddle, remember? I’m speaking here for symbolism. What else is there to speak of if we are to speak of such things?
But sharks are not symbolic creatures. They care not at all for patterns, except, perhaps those magnetic patterns the earth itself forms, and those fields generated by creatures whose blood the shark has detected. Ah, patterns again! Are we subconsciously seeking patterns and blood when we watch some inane movie in which the living fall in love with the dead who feed off the living who love them? Suddenly, when put in this context, the blood puddle makes more sense than some of our popular culture. Again, patterns form because we form them, and we have to ask if we seek those patterns we create because we have lost the ability to see those nature has created for our survival?
The time we once spent surviving we now spend expending time doing things, like writing, which are not matters of survival. Or do I have it all wrong, once more, and we are evolving to see those patterns that exist in the universe outside the drive for food and flight?
In what I write do you see a pattern?