When a parent dies. One who you have been close to for the entirety of your life you go through a period of immediate grief. The world that you took for granted is on its ear and the compass governing your daily actions simply spins about no longer reliable of providing a viable direction. The firmament under you feet sinks deep into the bottom of the ocean like the scene on the deck of the Titanic five minutes after the stern has gone under. All creaks and groans squeezed out of collapsing superstructure. The life taken up at the ocean’s bottom becomes a murky entity somehow still connected to the remnants of the one surviving in a lifeboat far above waiting for someone from the world of the still living to rescue you.
As the next years progress, you find yourself back on land but in a place now estranged of that former sense of comfortable assurance that life goes on without interruption. Nothing has any sense of longevity beyond your memories. You find yourself walking around mindless of your own utterances. The dead speaking through your own tongue in little phrases and expressions of everyday parlance. A continual mental censure when lapsing from those once accepted ways of doing things giving instant pause to new actions errant or otherwise. Thoughts about former pondering’s augmenting former discussions left unfinished about hopes and dreams now left untended. The ability to conjure desired items that were never introduced but still yearn to be introduced. And then, there are funny thoughts like recollections of eras where men customarily put on their shoes and socks before hoisting them through their voluminous pants legs. The dead have taken over your being as if they had never left from your immediate presence to begin with. As with life so with its conclusion. Eternity being within your own consciousness alone.
Routine becomes seeing the same old faces plastered upon the same old bodies going back and forth to take their place at the same old locations doing pretty much the same old thing. Some cradle the holy artifact of their phones to try to re-imagine the all encompassing decorative space that serves as stage to this faux sense of reasonable rationality. Most sit somber faced in the regularity of measured conversations. “Otra vez una algo Hispana mirar.” “Yo soy una bruta!” No more fidgety Hebrews or overly bulky crippled Asians to cramp the view. As technically part of the aged all seem to trail in of their own accord to display their own particular set of lifetime flaws to display without any hesitation. Announcements come and go flaunting minor bits and pieces of forgettable prestige. A long unexpected wait ensues as the mystery guest delays their entrance. The swell of applause heralds the entrance of a young confident Korean. The performance commences as if one might have been convinced that the piano had at last been properly tuned to Chopin as the man bangs upon its keys flaunting an easy precision in squeezing out the right notes. His dexterity easily defeats the muddy performance of many previous performers. So peaceful and harmonious is the melody that one would have thought that the place was previously under sway of simply wannabes or well trained pretenders. Not this young impresario whose touch could seemingly bring peace to the torment of some poor unfortunate countryman stretched upon a rack just north of Seoul over the 33rd. He has picked up every trick it seems of the long list of celebrity teachers had to offer. Their continued noteworthy presences still known and not willingly conceded as falling victim to any sense of surrender to age or arthritis.
Once per week the faithful geriatric’s congeal here to find escape from the overbearing pressures of their everyday life’s defeats. The music inspiring a sort of perfection unobtainable in the chaos without. Noting in the firmament of closed eyes or down turned chins the performer with both envy and admiration. This muse communally devised within the chamber bringing to mind so many former moments of life changing opportunities missed. Capturing for another instant those experiences that were once loved but up to now have long dematerialized. But now, unexpectedly, at the program change this young winged Icarus finds wax and wane within the works of a genius of the past that lives upon a higher peak. Ignoring the natural intended counterpoint of opposing tempos, he clouds his rhythms with the unease of too much caution. Too mechanical, his fingers claw the keyboard, providing no understanding of emotional flow of hesitation posed against the abandon of unchecked exaltation. He lands with a thud in the swamp of his usual savior of measured precision which is defied by the intended emotion of the composer and the culture that spawned him. His confidence now mired in the morass of simply saving face before the inert sense of sonambulance of the crowd. They rise equally mechanically to their feet awakened by the silence at the piece’s conclusion. Such is the fate of the overly precocious. Never mindful that the one thing that they cannot be taught is the experience of age.
Whether you believe in myths or the physical embodiment of a longstanding system of belief one thing remains true. You can’t keep a good man down. With so many points of view to choose from encompassing the notions of voluntary riches to rags for the sake of higher consciousness, living through a virtual forever in a multiplicity of guises, taking the reins as god’s prophet, suffering the indignity of being one of god’s chosen, or just coming back to life just when your rivals think they’ve finally done you in, it is hard to think that all the possibilities have not already been covered. The big thinkers who seem to retain permanent lifetime employment in using their impeccable logic on the rest of us tell us that it is all beyond human comprehension to figure it out. Even those prolific, ‘live for the moment‘, atheists and agnostics of our who would quickly dissuade you from worrying your little heads any further and get back to work in the ‘here and now‘ of our communal little material sphere draw a convincing blank beyond some primeval cosmic fart. The message is definitely not housed in the current mediums as advertisers get quite pissed off when their little game of slow indoctrination of the purchasing public is distracted from the latest bobbing carrot before their head. No one seems to have time for anything larger than a blog length paragraph or two (present company accepted). But I would counter that the secret lies in plain view of the invisible ‘me’ that all of us humans carry about from cradle to grave. Maybe it is something that seems perpetually unobtainable yet naggingly close by? Perhaps it is an unfavorable persistent truth that one ever attempts to escape from its constant shadow? And then again maybe it’s that tiny little cute kid drooling away in the perambulator that reminds us where we started or that saintly but somewhat ‘out of it‘ old man that seems to be caught smiling benevolently at everyone and everything that tells us where we are going to end up. No one wants to die but does everyone really want to go on the way they currently are forever? Your house pets generally know where their next meal is coming from and what they have to do to get it. It is too bad that the rest of us don’t seem to be as smart.
What to do if the gun that you are shooting runs out of bullets? Or in case you haven’t noticed the phrase, “I feel as if I am being slowly starved to death!” Plenty of unacknowledged historical precedent around the world for that. Not only of food but of finding possibility in the future. There seems to be no room for the dreams of the aged in a world that can barely support the aspirations of the young. Many quietly ask themselves, “Does that mean that I am to be put out in a deserted part of the forest as a meal for wolves?” Metaphorically speaking, or maybe much more viscerally so, I believe that most of us have. The material obsessed corporate world doesn’t cotton to media designated losers or high waged non-producers. It daily writes a script that gets to call the tune as to what is fundamentally reasonable and what is lightheaded folly. Most days the logic of the two are purposefully reversed with the express purpose to confuse and create uncertainty. Better the consumer experience controlled uncertainty about the same old products re-dressed in thinly veiled colors than the other way around where real competition changes their business plan.
There is a certain amount of safety in numbers. If you are part of a tight knit group one increases their odds of experiencing a lesser degree of disruption. That is, unless you make it your business to let it into your life. Check out those rusty junkyard boom boxes with temporary plates that circle those doubtful paradises of urban ghettos as they stutter blame and discontent upon the mainstream of society. No doubt because the handouts afforded by ‘Big Fat Momma Welfare’ have been a bit more meager that usual. The alternate experience is of course anything considered comedy or drama on networked TV where the guy who still is expected to bring home the bacon each night becomes both boob and butt. His life experienced by howling primitive rituals of envious others who can only find their own personal solace in denigrating his at ever opportunity times two. The fact that the latest television monitors sold to “John and Mary Q Public” watch you as much or more than you watch them speaks volumes.
Part of the experience of life’s conundrum of existence is finding a certain degree of passion within the experiencing of it. A goal or a purpose, however trivial can act as the motivation for a life plan. The problem comes when the plan is no longer valid or no longer holds any attraction to the one that devised it. In a land where triviality has replaced the focus once afforded to common sense the devil is in the suspension of detail. Conveniently transparent soundbyte packaged scapegoats come and go every few days and the continual task of picking up the pieces of ceiling strewn about the room from the sky falling in on those occasions leaves one with a brain fraught by mental rubble. Clear thinking becomes impossible when daily existence is mired down in empty headed minutia of sports and who is wearing what and fucking who. The projected mirror of consumer identities also known as the movies is no longer designed to fit the expansive proportions of what was once considered ‘normal’ expectations for a comfortable life. Like a bad suit of clothes marketed at a Costco or Target contemporary existence is currently designed for someone of perfect Asian dimensions but not for the traditionally bilious proportions of older Europeans.
One might notice that the ultimate goal of those leaving youth from adolescence is to get all inked up sporting a rock hard six-pack. A perfect analogy for a future lifetime of continual diminished expectations and life under corporate custodians that consider all others as marketable ‘human resources.’ The state created revolution of the Internet providing the ultimate Judas goat for societies foolish enough to post all their resources upon it’s butcher block platform. Life expectancy of the human mind will continue to plummet towards single digits as the modern urban primitive movement for nose rings takes virtual hold. The slippery hard rock of morals will erode to dust that will blow back and forth solely governed on self-interest in a manner that continues to appease the powers that be. If your offspring are lucky they may be accorded the occasional honor of prize bull or calf held at the annual culling of the herd. Perhaps at this point those Ranids known as our reader might notice that their limbs and torso are beginning to boil over a bit. That is because the fingers controlling the burners below the pot might be getting a bit more anxious for their nightly portion of cuisses de grenouilles!
While in the perfect world, everyone should be accorded the same rights, in the current media directed one those who don’t conform to the currents of the moment are subjected to a media cannonade that would make the artillery barrage suffered in Verdun during the First World War look paltry by comparison. The is highly ironic as the liberal crowd that have been attributed with a consciousness that would hardly dissuade a blade of prairie vines from interrupting a superhighway have no tolerance for anyone of longstanding opinions that may predate their own. It seems the media artifice of what is touted as the irrevocable mass consensus of public opinion has become a virtual artillery piece to rain down scorn and derision upon any who hold to the right of differing opinions. We are not talking about withholding the last cup of fresh water in the midst of the Libyan desert but unconscionable abuse through denying a few pizzas and wedding cakes. How is it that the current sense of good manners precludes bringing up embarrassing issues about why our Muslim and Jewish neighbors engaged in a longstanding conflict cannot settle their differences without continued staggering financial support that grassroots middle Americans have been indirectly emptying their April bank accounts on behalf of at tax time since WWII? If it comes up to the question of numbers of people butchered needlessly back and forth then the Christian body count far exceeds by factors of ten or more, the combined totals of the latter over the last couple of hundred years. Or how, somehow the people that are paid to put on blue uniforms and the right to carry a gun are abusing a segment of the population that have a historically high rate of violent crimes of every description upon members of their own and other races. Now it seems that holding beliefs formerly considered mainstream has become an anathema to the few and must be overturned so as not to offend. I seems to recall somewhere in the history of that same time previous about ‘brown shirts’ and ‘black shirts’ in two not to far away lands demanding the same level of uncritical deference?
When you have the power of total control of the press and the persuasion of perpetual hard economic times at your disposal, I guess it is easy to keep the published opinions of your commentators firmly in tight lockstep. Wasn’t there some fellow, originally named Blair whose pen name was Orwell, who used to work at the BBC in London after WWII who wrote a novel about a journalist locked away within some fantastic world supposedly set in a not too distant future in a place called Airstrip One? How clever it must be to frame your cameras at the thickest parts of small crowds and prune a couple of convenient sound-bytes that stand in for the fabrication of overall public outrage? After all, the general public won’t lift their fingers or their butts to complain nor bother to stop buying the poison and substandard less than durable goods sold to them by spokespeople that in no way represent them or their default sense of culture. So they deserve to be led around on a leash and forced to swallow and insult or slight that some well-paid media ‘junk hound’ on either coast can think up. Heaven forbid that any consumer say something bad about a sponsor’s product! Especially if the parent company far up the chain of subsidiary has common board members with the network. The lessons learned from seventy years back when the forbears of the current empire wrecked a good part of the world so that they could clear the decks of competitors and call it a “Good War” have led to better breeding practices. Now if your outlandishly Gay Boy Scout leader demands your son or daughter accompany them on a long camping weekend, you should not’s dare to complain if they comes back home with an inverted sensibility for the taste for snails or oysters. If you have been asleep for the last seven years like some character spurted forth from the seminal pen of Washington Irving then its time that you understand what “CHANGE” really means! Your forward thinking body tattooed Gay-bait sons or daughters not having to pay for non-existent children to attend the colleges or universities that their underpaying low end jobs would not support anyhow. Have a nice day, S-U-C-K-E-R-S-!
“Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!”
This is a line of dialogue that I feel compelled to recite mentally when I think of the society of morons that I am compelled to live amidst in this age of intellectual deconstruction. This primate jungle of howler monkeys who hop up and down before brightly colored jersey coated members of their own species while drinking poisonous beverages that demean whatever possible cognitive abilities to the minimum. The same ones who sport their notion of conventional wisdom happily as trolls born of a modern age favoring lumpen agendas of tribal acting out before the blue fire of televised broadcasting in all its many forms. The seeding of all available offspring with offbeat destructive notions of a world on its head moving its feet and quizzical as to why there is never any form of detectable progress. Had some perverse mind of centuries past in a dark cave somewhere came out into the light and suddenly recognized the sun and an ego bound balloon of their own distinct ‘groupthink’ and then went off running to tell the rest of humanity how they alone created the universe. What kind of fools entrust their offspring to these nincompoops? It is a hard task to find common purpose in a world that is obsessed with chasing its own tail for less and less, thinking that it will somehow discover more in the process.
There is a palpable reality that one can feel in some sort of fundamental animal way that bad times are with us to stay. The moon stands alone high above in an endless inky doom. The stars have long ago been expunged by the vapors of a universal human civilized waste. The dominant nations on earth seems a haven for material greed and the business of its enforcement upon this lonely little globe that we as corporeal entities rest upon. One wonders if we as temporal entities are but merely bubbles that are summoned from a much greater form of Gaia like effervescence? Yet, magnates who take the title on of masters of the electric circuit that NikolaiTesla channeled from some strange ethereal entity in times long past direct our daily existences enforcing their rule through a religion of shock and awe. Human eyes are blinded by the bright glow of portable thought lanterns that suppress more than they communicate, inspire or educate. All seem entranced by a demonic magic that bind the many as if one. And like our fellow primates we are easily influenced by that thunder of the chest of what seems the biggest gorilla on the block to barge aggressively about and lay down the laws as to whom in the tribe gets food and who gets poked the end of a sharp stick. Much is made by the crier monkey cults that ape a philosophy of an endemic indoctrination of unreasoning fear of every other species as if they are collectively the cause of the very actions that are wrought by the influential in our name. The night is alive with this endless mischief that keeps the entire jungle on edge.
But what of the fact of that tenuous sense of some mysterious belonging to a much greater unseen river of endless existence? The daily obsession with material exchange that occupies almost all of our waking consciousness having been methodically displaced as if by design. If there is not belief in something greater still than this present incarnation as tireless wage slaves simply seeking immediate forms of physical gratification then is not one simply a dumb beast that has been bartered away from a deeper connection more personal and ever eternal. What of the proffer of ever less insubstantial rewards its reality existing only within a less expansive reconfigured mental prison supporting a collective hive mind guilty of enrapturing but not enriching all who are so unfortunate to be within its reach. The notion of the contract and one’s good name defamed in a bad deal that one goes along with in a bovine acknowledgement of enslavement within the herd. The ultimate portal for the forcefully unknowing being that of the cessation of physical existence which is understood only as an inconvenient interruption rather than a periodic form of transformation. Few seem to ask the most basic questions about themselves as to the subtle barely detectable mechanism behind the larger purpose. If intelligence exists within those reciprocating engines of duality that by union offer the birth of individual personality as congealed in a species then what sort of universal presence sets it in motion and why? Is there a greater sense of larger unknowable identifiable self that rests uneasily within an endlessly troubled sleep that dreams us all up? Or perhaps, is this everyday waking fiction naught but a distinctly separate reality an escape from the awareness of something far above the trivial nature of what is so loosely refereed to as everyday reality?