Sitting in some place unexpectedly stuck downtown in the center of Chicago. A building wrapped around me that might be double my age being run by kids that might be a third of the same. Strange math to my usually timeless sentiments displaced. It all seems like the day before? A solitary buoy floating about in anonymous waters sporting Plexiglass panels of glowing reds and projector pattern greens promoting the consolation of a sixties bygone light show. The space that contains this quaint place, no doubt, having history. The beer on the bar, despite the pedigree of it’s label, has no nationality of its own to recommend its unsure taste. That inconsolable recollection of drubbing stout betwixt three Yorkshiremen from Leeds steadying this current brew. Their claims of life on behalf of the authority of grand old England turning the current domestic tarnish of the American Dream to a strictly British affair. A puzzle currently a matter of technique by piecing bits an utterance together at one time. Everything has its rightful corner of the universe.
Strange cargo for a misfit like me. This current emptiness can go along handily with relaxation. That wonder of life being an ever ebbing flow of bullshit that so many others pare up with one and another. Sad little constant discoveries through smart phones and their not so smart users. Frenetic youthful conversations conducted within unnecessarily lowered tones for what or for why one can only imagine? Glass covered Alphonse Mucha’s rule the dark from the vantage points of wall. Funny squawk tank voices of working twins. You sort out the difference between a balding Pitbull and a lowly Doberman. The eighties re-interpreted in a rehash of the tired bygone hits mouthed electronically by racy little ingenues copping off market Robert Palmer. “OMG”, being the the most trivial of repetitive gifts to mankind by this current generation seems over wiling. Why hate foreigners as they are caught mired in the same bullshit? The Isley’s tousle the manes of young women conducting their romantic affairs within the darkened corners of this paradise. I cannot imagine my underage father working in this South Loop neighborhood nearby tending bar back some seventy-five years previous?
The light of a misty morning’s grasp into extends its reach into this dusty old cavern incised within the westward face of the area’s tallest structure. Morning starts with the three nocturnes of a French composer. A mood of continued reverence is summoned for the absence of the former residents whose artifacts lay about still not displaced or fundamentally disturbed since their departure. For that fact alone this space remains theirs and not mine. I am merely a squatter come to rest in hope of resurrecting some fraction of the bygone past. The place for the most part the imprint of a foot within dry sand just as it has been left for so long. Music purchased from three decades past and played at different stages of my ever unfolding solitude. All my childhood fears no fully realized. An outcast to all worlds. The worst exile being from the long accustomed intimacy of my own kind. Everyone else, once friend and distant cousin, merely possessed of dry and distant familiarity as an acquaintance by virtue of the ignorance of so many veritable events once fresh within my mental register that now can no longer be so easily summoned past the blockage of that now darkened cavity of an empty disused heart.
How long will I continue this farce? To let the dust continue to accumulate in this museum without intervention. To water the other last living thing that knew life when the two of them did? These tiny insignificant trophies undisturbed about me that I view as parts of a now insoluble puzzle, the sense of same that I will lose by by bits and pieces with the decline of my mental acuity. When will that remaining breeze of life’s ignoble destiny fracture them tossing them off the edge of their current uneasy stability into the chaos of a pile of discards at the mercy of indifferent hands for mere pennies on the dollar? This collection of artifacts of some monetarily valuable mixed in with the humdrum of more trivial discards. Each bringing light in the mind’s eye in exhuming some long past everyday incident that shares a forgotten everyday task or reveals what became an unfulfilled heartfelt desire never acted upon. My remaining narrative of an extinct but beloved world. Fine cut glass bowls and vases once proudly offered as a heritage from past generations going back to a faraway motherland. Empty ornately decorated cardboard boxes simply containing collections of brittle rubber bands, bent paperclips and perhaps a scrap of paper with the scrawl of the day’s event recounting the anonymous shuffle of eras past. Tarnished silver services ever in plain view behind cabinet glass but never used. Out of fashion variations of everyday household items that were like constant companions in early childhood but have become forgotten in plain view until the present after they have outlasted their owners. So much that was embraced in necessity of everyday life but no longer useful to the paucity of of current sorrow bound existence. That low shifting shuffling of constant clicks from a small German wall clock ticking that is still reset because like a baby in its mother’s womb, I still refuse to live without the comfort of its distraction.
The restless world without refusing to stand still, menacing this waking muse. And slowly this once expansive abode begins to look like small dingy little rooms essentially no different from so many others within the larger inventory of another two hundred units within the structure housing essentially the same. This longstanding arrangement within my corner simply just another collection of artifacts of multiple eras distinguished only by the fact of having been anchored here undisturbed for a few decades more than most. Inevitability to at some point soon throw all into disorder, as must any sandcastle in falling prey to the evening’s relentless wind and water’s tides. The chill of the same driving contemplation back from that timeless missive of the ocean and into a smaller personally inspired world of the appreciation of one’s own life such as it has become. Stillness and the rising chorus of unseen ethereal sylphs that seemingly have forever hovered about the edge of one’s dreams taking custody of what once was, but now has eroded away fully into nothing. All those lasting sorrows and grief heavy sufferings waylaid into inevitable forgetfulness. And eventually, death, leaving these inculcated experiences to fly about anonymously within an endless universe of all the other invisible grains of sand that have composed every enterprise of humankind in great cities ground down to dust upon the relentless mill of time.
So let me ask you? When was the last time you found anything uplifting and entertaining int he endless repertoire of drole films? Not only do you have to be a social scientist but at this point in present tense you might even question why you need a social scientist at all to tell you that the same barometer of the cinema is killing your canary. Nothing officially managed or distributed by that cloudy amorphous overbearing entity of corporate run governing is functioning properly or more exactly in so many cases, at all! Go into any public situation from plane to train to waiting room and you will see most of the occupants cornered by a little electronic device floating enigmatically before all faces ala Rene Magritte’s little green apple. People seem hopelessly handcuffed to the abstraction of having to conduct their lives through some form of electronic conduit that nudges out the influence of their fellow humanity beside them. To work in the corporate realm is to be bullied by endless monitoring and fearful of being summarily replaced. Those old enough to recall times when more personal independence reigned as an everyday experience are belittled on the airwaves as a cynically deranged and misguided generation not deserved of any credence or respect. In fact the whole notion of respect and being mannerly has been deposed by a snap to attention sense of intimidation when encountering those officially designated as authority figures by the current bureaucratic ruling structure. The concept of education has been demoted to downgrading common intelligence down to that of dysfunctional illiteracy. No one likes anyone if for nothing else for some historically imagined slight or transgression performed in redacted historical narratives favoring divisive ongoing narratives obsessed with reparations and enlarging the power base of the latest most trendy permutation of a victim underclass. These tales being shoved down everyone’s throats 24/7 in every accessible publicly broadcast medium. If one ever wondered in the past how Communism worked in the last last century, they need not look any further. American culture among many others have been conquered by the rot from within. The same people who bring you the ongoing poison known as Zionism whose forebears devised the global deceit of Communism and previously fostered the advance of enterprises like the Sugar Trade and the Bank of England have won out with the enslavement of the entire world through commerce. Well now the wonders of the data streaming, firewalls and sorting algorithms, not to mention the incessant abduction of national resources to foreign locales have brought this process of enslavement to new heights of effectiveness. The rolls of names on every important office both here and overseas bear this out. The general content of the popular cinema reflects the utopia as handed down by the upper echelons where everyone takes their daily cues from a fleetingly mercurial message center that dissuades all from embracing any other opinions. The notion of dissent coupled with that of socially disruptive insurgence or patent insanity. The alternate universe offered being a constant flow of eye candy suggesting an existence of currently unapproachable prosperity inferring that unreachable bobbing carrot of “one day”. If one wishes to see daylight one might consider powering down their phones and going outside into the fresh air to take stock about what your life is really about.
The world is not changing. The world has changed. Whole new generations have been indoctrinated with that distinct flavor of Socialist occultism. Those mostly anonymous ‘few’ have found an all engrossing methodology of controlling the rest of us through a covert infrastructure actively destabilizing individual experience through a well measure balance of Psychology and deceit.
Had I been a refugee bereft of the company of my fellow man waylaid upon a sandy ocean shoal, I could not be more alone within the current level of barely cloaked social hostility now evident with the city that I have all my life called home. In the background of this auditorium drones on a sanitized form of representation of common core reality for the sake of purposely kept ignorant children. The current line of bullshit favoring a redefinition of rote reality by properly schooled adult interlocutors redefining the real time visual experience of subtle minds to keep them from operating unhindered and out of control. This current world where the current party line predominates over any sense of former tradition as being fundamentally flawed and out of step with current thinking. A mental picture of the irony of true unblemished human freedom nested in the role plays of mass media torture porn where the participants under duress act out their inner most forbidden desires. The last gasp of self-expression posed as an unholy exercise of social deviance permitted for the socially deviant behind their own closed doors but no further. The moral clarity of a cesspool considered the norm.
A fundamental pillar of time honored social control of domesticated populations found in the fostering of a mindless proletariat in situations of endless competition with each other. The more trivial the identification with social castes, the greater the level of angst and political paralysis inspired. Aggression redefined to capitalize energies and prevent them from being turned against the ruling class of the state. Social harmony being preserved as a concept where the special privileged few retaining hegemony by virtue of the continued manufactured ignorance as practiced over long successions of decades presiding over those they tightly control.
Myopia to macular degeneration to blindness to memory loss to mental degeneration to a final lack of acuity of one’s immediate surroundings. The first strain of tones from the featured performers ring out. As they practice their rarefied art forms upon the stage in improvisation before a much less than impromptu formal engagement of same commences. The seating of that class of elderly femmes who favor wearing swatches of intricate patterns at odds with the rest of their outfits continues. The twilight sunset of the gray hairs come to relive the bits and pieces of a former appreciation of what culture was once defined as. The procession into the hall continues. Those of a certain royal bearing deferring their arrogant glances when directly challenged by an unexpected stare. No customary pleasantries once held as polite to be enacted. The drone of an otherwise hushed commerce of private experiences shared in tightly supervised groups buzzing away beneath the dome. This ancient cyst of bygone aesthetics rearing up in anticipation of another ritual of foregone tones and melodies. One has to wonder what the rest of the world outside will be up to in an equally measured time from now into the not so distant future.
The performers abruptly causing a stir of applause as the unexpectedly approach the stage once again. Their appearance posing the conundrum of why today’s musicians have to look like corporate executives as opposed to artists brought to the fore. A floating decidedly Claude Debussy derived melody now drifts lazily across the stillness of the auditorium. The anonymity of the composer’s homage enjoining an atmosphere of mental repose. Then a sudden sense of frenetic cinematic pacing along the lines of a Gershwin or Max Steiner. A commentary some ninety years too late upon the drama in darkened halls of silent cinema? A brief round of applause rings out as the air from the balloon of the current composition runs out of steam. Ode to ‘Les Six’ in a slower ‘Pacific 231′ rambling amidst a cautious clarinet caught in more melodic contemplation. One feels a tragedy coming on. An elegy tot he double staff of Hermes emblazoned in glass tiles incised in the wall opposite. The hairy fellow turning the pages one handed in diffidence to this event’s routine-ness. Like any good workman he rests his clarinet in both hands reflecting upon its qualities as if it were a hammer. His taciturn accompanist sanguine in an ever dutiful flow of uninterrupted melancholy as denoted by bars and staffs fifty years previous. A few small instrumental utterances mumble forth stirred by the Rabbinical stirring rod chugging out a high peaked registry of bird-like entreaty. The grand piano merely a subtle anchor of this flight giving the music a more artful flair overcoming the notion of simple public disturbance.
The final selection plods forth celebrating another rambling tread of notes by these pall bearers in dark suits repeated over and over in a manner sympathetic to the awkward confusion of a hastily assembled Roman triumph or the inherent chaos of a standard composition by Varese. Both practitioners tight in their tumbling tempos counterpoint. Meandering in consort over the audience’s sensibilities. A passing siren from without interjects its Dopplered presence into the performance. A contribution unexpectedly appropriate to the mournful mood of the piece. Another padding of darkened notes descends the mental staircase the the basement of the piano’s bass. Silence no being now routinely interjected perhaps as a means of inconvenient punctuation? One has to wonder about the mental state of the composer in his frustration of not sustaining creative themes long enough to avoid these pauses? The simple pasting together of so many indefinite passages almost mechanical bits and pieces to avoid partitioning himself from audience approval. The undeveloped attention spans of out current era somehow aligned to these artifacts as mere electronic samples from a software based modern folly. The afternoon transitions its illumination as the light of late Winter now substantially past noon has retreated to partial residence over the art glass dome hovering overhead. The licorice stick player rhythmically entrancing the audience in an ethnic Ashkenazi verve setting up like some middle European Pied Piper for an unexpected fall into errant mischief with the well-practiced delicacy of this hypnotic tones. A crash of silence and audience rises to its feet hands encumbered with staccato praise.
Welcome to the word game where the euphemisms which are carefully reconstituted daily to suit the necessity to confuse and correct on behalf of the reigning social order. It seems the historical fate of world empires to fall into decadence and rapidly degenerate into decline. One might ask what are the chocks shoved under the the wheels in the hope of preventing this dissolution? The simple answer being the official redefinition of words. The argument behind the evolutionary migration of the the thumb to the fingers aside it is the systematization of human experience to the point of minutia that drives our notion of knowledge. If the unique experience of a single individual can be cognitively known then it can either become the province of the arcane few or the public domain of the mob all by the careful imprecision of new or reconstructed terminology. This process operates to a level of the extreme where the same acronyms serve a myriad of different definitions depending upon which guild of tradesmen employ it. The castes are defined by their own unique slang broken off the major root of human self-expression known as language. Learning then takes on a variety of guises from teaching the children of the elite to explore their own mental resources down to instructing the rest of our offspring on what to touch and what not to within the communal warehouse of human resourcing.
The standard definition of contemporary social norms seems to follow the pattern of the stigmatization of past terminology. Means of expression once thought benign are routinely demonized as socially counterproductive or outright banned. Not for any inherent flaw in their quality to properly describe but for their usefulness to demean the era and the groups where their currency was once of a high value of employ. This can happen with any term not matter how technical it may have been intended to be considered. Consider the terms, “Negro” and “Jew”. Essentially being intended to be descriptive of color and ethnicity in terms of understanding. The shifts in political power and the redefinition of special alliances of special interest groups demanding that these generic terms be considered stigmatized and grossly impolite to use. The reason behind same in part to fracture any connection and understanding of past power groups that wee once considered adversaries.
“PUS-SY-FOOT”/ˈpo͝osēˌfo͝ot verb - act in a cautious or noncommittal way – to move stealthily or warily
Politically Correct Psychologically Derived Definition
– a derogatory reference to actions or speech inferring an association to female qualities that do not bespeak equivalence to those of a male – a sexually derived analogy for improper sexual acts – an anti-feminist utterance
The current Frankfurt School Comintern definitions of society now in force demand a reshuffled sense of inferred hierarchy ordered in terms of officially sanctified levels of authority and respect starting at the top with Northern European working its way down through African America Urban males through their feminine counterparts to the seventh circle of Hell where European heritage males are portrayed as pathetically lumbering mindlessly about. The end run of the propaganda efforts of Globalist controlled mass media seeking to defeat all their enemies not on the battlefield but in the theater of the psyche. State repression consisting of a whole list of improper behaviors that were once considered simply as natural impulses but now dangerous to express. The application of euphemisms the exclusive province of the state controlled mass media who runs roughshod in the international court of fickle consensus. The model of mankind being transformed from resourceful self-aware groups of individuals reasoning out the problems of the day equitably to a nervous school of fish ever fearful of being found truant in mindlessly changing their communal direction on command.
The idea of a society where all manner of sexual deviance is tacitly permitted yet politically defined in mixed messages rather than simple everyday common sense seems historically significant of some many previous empires. The continued state of subversion of once rock solid principles guiding rational behavior being transmigrated into their opposites and defined as social norms a reliable rot by real insurgents who have infested what were once considered the halls of power. The current seat of absolute control being tele-communicated instant by instant in those little devices that everyone seems inclined to stare at addictively when not engaged otherwise in properly directed state authorized tasks.
How far we have come! The news media broadcast now consider the traditional family as a deviant proposition. Sir Elton, “The Queen” is laying down the law from the foot of the other queen that taking it up the butt is a mater of natural law! And the foundation of this whole premise comes from a very loud whiney boycott of some poor ‘shlub’ currently less than Gay Italian homosexuals who when interviewed had the audacity to say that “XX” and “YY” ‘families’ who rely on donor sperm are not authentic.
“The unmitigated nerve!”
What does this all prove? That the general public are considered a bunch of suckers by the corporate powers who\ would just as likely have them stand on their heads in a pile of cow flop in polka dot and plaid while telling them the overwhelming health benefits. It is called “Political Correctness.” That meaningless prattle that politicians tremble at and fear to cross. That outgrowth of the legendary trek from their hometown of Frankfurt Germany by the same Comintern of the Communist International that helped turn their host country into a flaming hell a half a decade later. And at present, is doing a pretty good job of accomplishing pretty much the same thing here. The rule of law has been dissolved by “the Blob” of ever mutable Hollywood driven consensus that dissolves everything but that which is officially sanctified by the mouthpieces of the International fiat money boys and girls.
Take all you once seven plus deadly sins and invert their significance from anathema to everyday usage in order to affirm the rights of some specially designated degenerate minorities to lie, kill, steal, sodomize, usure, loaf, boast and piss all over the grass next door because it might be a little greener. Anybody called something like Christian is now considered on a level parallel to that of an ISIL fanatic preparing to take an unscheduled head count. What is the matter with the world, and the USA in particular? It’s that the big ‘WE” are not responding fast enough to being conned into being total sheep to the whim of a very small minority of deceit driven ‘ubermenschen’ despite the best efforts of faux tragedies enacted by crisis actors focusing on the most useless of easily obtainable scapegoats. The song as they say, “remains the same!”
Personally, “I would tell Sir Queen to kiss my . . . but then I know exactly where that might lead.”
The moment he saw her he realized it was an oil and water situation. He was some lumbering ungainly hatchet faced white man. The flesh of his jowls hanging off his face like a hound dog. And this she being a tiny toy oriental gone all pruney standing before him with that cusp of an obligatory half-smile in default of a longstanding heritage of genetic inscrutability. His emotional icebox heard the muffled rattle of ice cubes but he still bought a round of coffee and tea. He looked back from the darkness clustered about the counter back into the glare of the brightness of the day outside obscuring the vision of what he already knew. Certainly no Medusa, he began a climb up a stair into the atmosphere of his best version of projected enthusiasm. Perhaps he felt that his own cold washtowel response was not entirely fosted by the fact of her presence so much as his own romantic heritage of mixed emotions from so many consecutive failures at lasting happiness with past femmes. So many times in the past he had joked that the taste of sausage had no appeal to him though finding fresh clams had as of recently become a dilemma. A flat deflated statement with litle useful irony at best considering his declining personal attachment to the human racee in general. Routine had replaced any possible hope of future expectation. After all, nothing could be expected from the bleak horizon of life past the recent death of the last of of those who had any meaningful significance to him. Perhaps, at best, a watered down version of association with a short list of semi-anonymous creatures who might pad past his increasingly ramshackle temple towards the approaching dusk at the far end of the tunnel?
The halting Asian occasionally mis-prounounced pigeon version of English brought him back from his own musings to the present task. A lofty peak to climb to wrest some measure of understanding from the question and answer session ahead and the corresponding need to determine if there was anything here beyond face value. Her broken English did not bode well for the possibility of any real understanding beyond the next hour or two no doubt declining into a correspondingly awkward ending. Though, he wasn’t totally unsympathetic to her ownership of a respective plight. He could not sense any overwhelming desire flooding forth from her quarter either. They both hurried over to a more convenient arena of a table and chairs near the front windows along the long brick faced wall. Each positioned themselves in the best possible orientation in balance with the disparity of the unforgiving nature of this unlit room to the glare of a bright afternoon sun.
The ensuing conversation found himself catching himself several times from falling into an act of fawning interest over the complexity of her rambling somewhat enigmatic self-narrative. He mused silently within the cloistered backdrop of his own thoughts and impressions as to the equivocated pinnacles and failings that life in general seemed to dole out to all. So much of what she related could, by default, be extended to any human experience stripped of the arcanity of language and cult. Both of them, it seemed, had had many decades of pursuing their own form of adventure within the confines of the large once geographically mobile world culture. She with a business that had her trekking from the Himalayas over past the Nasca lines swinging over from a nascent start in the land of Siam. He with some fortune found in corners of Europe over to the far flung continent of Australia stopping briefly in the land of the Pharaohs. Though to his taste she seemed decidedly unsentimental, her sense of present tense overturning any notion of past linkages through latent material attachment. The ritual of same he was still undergoing and was likely to for some time to come. There was no mistaking the fact that in her way she was just as human and vulnerable to the unruly sea of life overwhelming her dykes. But she seemed less prone to arriving at the knee jerk solution of just plugging up the holes of things as they had always been. This lack of empathy on her part putting him further than arm’s length from any further possibility.
The seance came abruptly to the thunderstruck verbally offered conclusion by the cusp of his own admission. Romantic love had run its course with him and he could only admit to that terrible vague notion of ‘friendship’. Something that no doubt, neither had in mind from the start, but served as a pleasant ending. She made an equally reactive pledge and request that from the lips of female to male comes as a sort of eternal curse of, “will you be my friend?”. And he like a Marshall Ney, finally cornered and brought to final frustration of any further possibility offering his own version of ‘Merde’ in an acceptance of her empty offer. Both jumping up in convert as the mood had unexpectedly been transformed into a need for mutual exit. The chit chat up to and past her car substantially insincere as two future adversaries pledging their stranger-hood in all future dealings. He walked a block pondering his own emotional exile from romantic consideration by the opposite sex. The residue of his long held painted grin defaulting into the relaxed facial lines of his most typically unknowing perpetual frown.