There seems to be a delicate balance between animal desire and human logic. The determinant factor in one’s own activity seems to take on a seriousness that defies same when measured against eventual mortality. What is the point of adding further suffering to that which is unavoidable. Even worse, when the generation of self-inflicted pain becomes more pleasurable than its opposite sensation. The extreme of either a sign of what might be termed as obsessive instability. The amassing of all one’s energy and focus for little or no resultant recompense on the basis of altruism a ruse by the power elite designed to maximize the utility of effort of their workforce. Here at ‘ground zero’, abject perversity reins. A whole Earth full of ‘someone’s’ need us to build a new ‘pyramid‘. The need for articulation, insuring that old ways of being must fall before the necessity of global organized rule. Machine based enforcement eliminating all the’ tall reeds‘. The ‘big we‘ have released an apocalyptic ‘Armageddon‘ of technology. All this meaningless invocation as directed from this paranoid preacher’s pulpit. Raw random opinion based upon personal fact. Saying exactly what our masters have intended in knee-jerk clown-like cinematic utterances as being , “All part of the plan!” Who here among the vast ocean of ‘the rest of us‘ does not bear this increased tension upon their strings? This whole utterance of itself, spreading generic flames of crisis to an unwanted fire from first consonant to last paragraph. Holding to your own despite being the best course in a storm tossed world no doubt of your own making.
How much emotional pain of loss can one possibly take without an irrevocably damaging effect? It seems impossible to believe that one ever had a life of any independence without the grievous missing involvement of those now deceased ‘others‘. The hollow holidays of life, once repetitively celebrated grudgingly as a matter of course, now completely absent from one’s experience. That enforced personal policy of routine distancing practiced in the past, now regretted in the flickering light of bitter hindsight. Dreams of finding one’s self dressing in public places oblivious of the experience of any nakedness of the type that the rest of the world seems equally indifferent to. Each moment of knife thin instant’s of now, providing bare shelter upon the endless plane of a night bound desert island in turn offering no possibility of shelter from the stiff wind of inner turmoil. The only dreams currently possible being that of how one might crawl under a rock biting hard upon a bullet. This emotional shutdown mere quivering cardboard within a last redoubt posed against a final collapse. Tough is too it soak it all up while realizing that the rest of the world is undergoing much of the same if not worse. Why wallow in the un-salvable past? What terrible spirits can haunt one now from the fully exhausted melodrama of endless night? This is merely a dark tunnel within your own heart devoid of quenching blood. Too deep within the depths of post midnight to offer any current illumination upon the possibility of an exit. The only recourse being to continue on quietly and see just how far this fissure leads?
So, you say you don’t like Emperor (Obama) Jones? Well then perhaps you might summon the ghost of Eugene O’Neill for his 1920 version that was hailed at the time as ground breaking for presenting a ‘black‘ leading character. The play tracks the de-evolution of a Pullman Porter into the barbarity and rapid demise as a petty Caribbean dictator. At its core it cynically suggests an inherent nature within ‘the negro‘ that eventually leads to disaster when he has been removed from his lowly station of society. The very fact of its creation, an anathema to our present acceptable take upon the current sense of modern society institutionally devoid of stereotypes as governmentally administered by an administration that sees no conflict with pushing it’s thumb on the till. The factual reality espoused by same being that the executive governing authority, or ‘politburo’ under that longstanding culturally destabilizing political ruse known as (Frankfurt School) political correctness, has the duly (God?) given task to determine for the rest of us what category we fall into. If this seems a fantastic or unsubstantiated claim then go out and try to find a job where you don’t find a governmental questionnaire surfacing that demands your ‘race‘. The Bill of Rights has melted away before the ire of over forty years of policies of ‘together but unequal‘. The implementation of a permanent 47% government tended class as sorted by such policies as amplified whatever divide (now factually unknowable) both culturally and economically. A wedge of dissonance has been both meticulously and permanently driven between our newly categorized species of race and region that the United States has been equally de-evolulved into ethical barbarism.
Like any good morality play, the appreciation of which seems to be genetically implanted, a villain and a heroic victim have been struck. In true Alexanderian late British Empire fashion, the honor of ‘destroyer of all that is good‘ has been ceded to the notion of ‘WHITE‘ while everything that was considered desirable and good is now emblazoned ‘black‘. Once again, if this notion seems far fetched look at current television or the movies to find an amazingly unilateral proclivity of same. Let’s no even mention the obvious longstanding gender flip in all of this, though the new hierarchy ironically has the ‘all new blonde Barbie‘ curiously reigning at the top of the heap? As the initial structural underpinnings of our governmental structure has been deemed, ‘WHITE‘, by the legions of well-connected generational fifth column internationalist’s who seem particularly disinterested in carrying on the institutions and morays of the United States, the more elastic methodology of enforcing group consensus through the easily malleable medium of guilt by manufactured consensus has functionally replaced it. It is much easier to rule the howling mob by ‘bread and circuses’ even if it is by old reruns of “Good Times” displacing “I Love Lucy“. The, “Can’t We Just Get Along?“, marriage based squabbles of the Kardashian’s will soon one day be replaced by a more universally acceptable Jay-Z based ‘hip‘ fashion tips. Life in America at large has taken on a cartoon existence that seems just fine with the over-layered last several generations brought up on the ability to text being more amenable than any ability to write pages or paragraphs. The great Mogul franchises of Hollywood amplified characters have replaced fiction displacing any factual account of founding fathers or personages instrumental to the success and growth of what was once considered opportunity for all but now unhesitatingly termed ‘racist‘,’sexist‘, ‘homophobic‘, ‘environmentally destructive‘ or ‘politically divisive‘. Where the currently hackneyed calls for everyone in the properly enfranchised minorities to “never forget” that there should never be “no justice, no peace“, the rest of us must be the same edict hold our tongues while the entire society is deconstructed into Bantu Republics.
With most of the “greatest generation” now dead or physically enfeebled, and unable to raise an arthritic finger in protest, it is now safe for the creatures of night to open their gates of Hell. Could there be anything more foreign or insidiously treasonous than this current gambit that passes itself off as national business as usual. The lingering words of previous historically pivotal national leaders, now officially silenced from the pit of new Satan still feebly ring to those willing to hear them. Much like the stony visage of a ‘Commanditore‘, late of Mozart, they invite all of us to dinner before the folly of our own eternal flames of self-inspired damnation. And all that is left in the monocular vision of a Horus are the ashes bestowed by another “High Plains Drifter” whose credo is to devastate everything for the benefit of satisfying some ancient defile now long past the memory of all but those who still consider themselves, “the chosen ones“. If you wish to paint the public visage of Obama with a mask that has any true currency then one might think to draw from a more classically fictional pen of a Tirso de Molina as rewritten by Molière, where immorality has been seamlessly refashioned into piousness. The rightful destruction of infrastructure by moral neglect or angry rage currently celebrated upon the airwaves in hushed respectful tones by paid professional commentators is simply the (new) system doing its job flushing the sheep out of one pen and driving them to the next, on schedule before their impending scheduled slaughter. In our new televised paradigm, the innocents have long ago fallen, leaving only the rest of us who are beyond salvation.
It is not hard to notice that the governing of this part of the planet is based upon trivial minutia. The Kardashian’s (who?), overlaid upon the teapot tempests of marginal splinter groups being given undue weight by the artificially manufactured daily opinions of the electronic airwaves giving illusory weight to concerns insignificant to the algorithmically silenced majorities. If you want to know why mega-corps like Google made all that money, it was about exclusion and product placement not net neutrality. In the meantime the black beetles of Wall Street haul off all the available resources while their parent entities harvest the nation’s general work product for less than cents on the dollar value. Anyone who by chance has a forum independent enough to contradict this business model is trashed. The dubious historical facts of our time are degenerated into expositions of pure fiction. The myths of collective potency going built upon the sandy foundation of common core revisionism that challenges the creative acumen of a Disney or Dreamworks to visually portray such nonsense.
This is an age where mankind is being de-evolved back the the apes but the default population of same back in the jungles seem smarter. Imagine, every public parade where the participants of an invading army all marching forth in mutual grim seriousness with toilet paper streamers stuck to the bottom of their soles. The absurdity of same being so evident in the official gruel of ‘shake and bake’ of designated public forums. Consider that all those of this culture the last five or so generations have no real sense of their own personal life narrative? Television, the movies, and of recently, the Internet, have displaced one’s own anima with cartoon avatars and melodramatic archetypes. Ethics have died with the loss of the physical interconnection of personal realities. The unbroken legacy of our forebears no longer guide you, just the sound-byte invocations of Obie Wan Kenobi’s and companies that make your shoes and smart phones.
The enemy of all this is the exact antipathy of the industrial revolutions most major dream, Socialism. Individuality, for better or worse, is instilled in the species through its most basic wiring. No one in their heart of hearts wants to see the other guy get ahead of them no matter how big a victim they claim to be or the moral right they claim to cut in at the head of the line. Self-interest is the tool that allows the possibility of compromise and not total surrender to the swamp gas of statistically sampled stilted moral consensus standing for reasonable claims of longstanding tradition and unwavering basic tenants of reasonable behavior. The fundamental problem ever being the enfranchisement of the ethically flabby to remain locked in their living rooms sitting insulated upon their threadbare broken down couches.
Monuments abound from ancient times of a loyal animal waiting patiently by the entrance to a tomb or palace for a master now perpetually absent who will never arrive ever again. Every morning sit before my workstation positioned before an expansive room length window bathed in the hopeful morning light facing the far horizon just beyond. Here I mindlessly tap away still expecting to hear the front door behind me in the next room roughly urged open. The house keys of my two recently dead relatives jingling as they enter the apartment once again. Much in the way that they always have, over the scores of decades past. This animal awareness of mine never seemingly interrupted in its customary posture of expectation. I unconsciously expect each day that my two deceased parents are still very much alive and still with me, just temporarily physically absent as if both gone out on an errand, sales call, or possibly a short vacation! Does this make me definable as crazy? Or is it like leaving the porch light on each night or setting an extra place at the table? An impulsive habitual behavior that seems to operate on its own requiring no official sanction or need for interruption.
How different then from ancient times in light of the current epistemology of culture based technology demanding surrender of beliefs not applicable to socially mutual consensus based realities? If no one else can easily experience it, does it mean that it isn’t so? No internet based reliable website expert based quorums to easily dispel this persistent notion. Believe or not believe on an intellectual basis? No matter! This is something automatic beyond the need for constant substantiation to myself. The rub of course is not what I think or feel but rather what I have to do to convince the rest of those embedded within the ethic of cultural consensus that I have not become psychologically unbalanced. And therein lies the battleground of our age. This so-called unsubstantiated science goes unchallenged in the name of a Socialistic motif of current commonality that the individual owes obeisance to the larger society and must adapt his viewpoints to mirror them or risk becoming what could be construed as an undermining influence. Interestingly enough the collective unconscious of the constituent members of modern Global Society demands some form of replacement which is accomplished through the mind altering propaganda based fantasies manufactured by Hollywood and the mass media. The real fictions are termed reality and the inconstant list of personal beliefs written off and summarily relegated to unwarranted fantasy.
How odd to believe that material embodiment of mankind and life in general is posed merely against a supposedly easily explainable fact of an infinitive universe of endless chaos. If everything but the details has already been explained then are we to be equally convinced that “all the good ones are gone?” If life is but a ceaseless treadmill of nine to five and incessant payments in the larger social regiment of hand to hand bucket brigades of the wealth of one’s effort passed upward then where is the errant spark that makes us know otherwise in spite of the constant invocations that we are daily ground down with? Though I can probably count upon the fact that the crematory has removed any possibility of future material existence being possible. Why then is it so fantastic to think that the essence of what birthed and nurtured me is forever lost and no longer here?
Tell me about anyone who has in their comfort of mind has settled finally upon the issue of the existence of spirit beyond physical embodiment and I will show you someone who no longer believes in themselves? For those who have found their most significant other’s suddenly dead and gone, it becomes an ongoing and involuntary quest to believe. Involuntary because physical or not one’s deceased loved ones do not vacate their living counterpart’s existence. And perhaps, maybe even a matter of simple survival? Lingering shadows, unexpected glimpses late at night on the edge of sleep from the corner of one’s eye, and those occasional guest spots unexpectedly in the course of one’s dreams. Do they prove anything that needs further vindication? Can everything that one is made of be undone by the simple absence of death? Is is it not true that we are created from more than flesh and blood and the mechanical interaction of cells? If this were not so then wouldn’t machines truly be as alive as their creators?
The dream of latest currency had me snowbound pondering a row of cars stalled by the exit of an alley, a large truck blocking their egress. Everyone is angry and I think of my father who would just as easily not worry about the ire of others as he would anything else that he couldn’t control.
I work my way up out of a snow-encumbered rise having exited a tall nineteen story apartment building encumbered by a blizzard. I have just made my way to this new town and heard much about the wonderful warm sunny weather. To my surprise, at the top of the incline there about me is sunny the California town of Palo Alto. The main drag of the prosaic downtown main street and a little further a trendy electric shopping mall. This is the antipathy of what I have just left yet how could one be in such immediate proximity of the other?
Back in the apartment I find that my recent discovery has erased all traces of bad weather and the early morning sun has warmed up both decor and atmosphere. A beautiful browned youthful blonde lays flat extended on the couch without a stitch on beyond her tan. She is nonchalant as if her undress is just another part of her Summer wardrobe. I watch in wonder as she gets up and walks over to the balcony to look for the approach of more guests.
I find myself engaged in conversation with my friend and his father as the elder extolls in tedious how wonderful his earliest impressions of his local Alma Mater were to him. I look over to my right and to my complete surprise find my long deceased father sleeping upon a sofa bed. He stirs and slowly rises to a sitting position as if coming to consciousness after a long rest. His green gray face evidences the wear and tear of disuse and is tied together with small ribbons giving him a distorted cartoonish appearance. But I know it is my own father. I ask him how he is and in the innocence of the still wakening old man’s voice, he utters unsteadily, “OK!” And I find myself much gladder to have him here next to me once again than I am about escaping the snow for this sunny warm weathered paradise. The unspoken family bond of his resurrection, however brief, so positively reassuring to my own spirit.
For some unknown reason, in a dream, I acquired a ticket to go to the White House to hear President Obama give a speech. What was odd was that the White House was now located upon the lakefront of Chicago in a newly opened section of Streeterville. I was under the impression that one of my friends might have set this seance up and was expecting that they would join me in the small eclectic auditorium where the event was scheduled. The room itself was unorthodox in that ample table seating was arranged in the back while the from was characterized by an odd form of balcony style seating that ran along ether side of the tiny stage. The crowd inside looked like some informal contingent similar to what might find at a typical Jewish liberal get together. Bearded in leisure and business casual at best.
I didn’t know anyone, yet I decided to advance to the front of the space. Obama not being my cup of tea, I felt an equal degree of loathing at the prospect of the appearance of what I surmised was a real life fictional personality. Without warning and a paucity of ceremony, ‘his majesty’ arrived with an entourage of two others. All three were garbed in overly effusive garments of overly decorative gold threads embellished brocades, dark velvet breeches and subsidiary flourishes of colorful patterns. Obama looking uncharacteristically squat and overweight as his Oprah style bumble butt swished past towards the stage down the central aisle between the mini balcony seating. If someone in Hollywood had reconstructed a parody of late nineteen-sixties habits of dress, this small group before me embodied the same to a ‘T’. Upon closer inspection, Mr. President was also wearing a black net veil over his head swishing regally past. So nervous did the shock of such fashion suicide affect me that after the group had abruptly disappeared back stage, I switched my seating to the stand just across the way to a spot that I thought might offer both greater invisibility and more visual accessibility.
To my horror and disgust, I could feel what I took to be hands fiddling about in the vicinity of my lower legs under the counter area before me. I drew my legs up as far out of reach as was conveniently possible. It seems that one of the President’s penchants as it was told in hushed conversation was to gain access below the chair level from a lower catwalk of this specially customized auditorium before speaking. From that point on, I felt somewhat trapped by the convention of not wanting standing out within so dicey a crowd as to attract attention but not willing to go with the standard program either. The funny thing was that when I woke up I realized that this was the very same reaction I have had for the last six years about the guy and the direction of government in general since he popped out from behind a curtain as a convenient political fiction of the liberal Left?
It got me thinking about my own youth bound formative era and how philosophically toxic the general idea of the type of “self-exploration” at the expense of moral boundaries that the news speak of that day proliferated from magazine to film. The general ‘WE’ of society live without contradiction of the moral equivalence of a culture beset from top to bottom in its own sewage. The ability not only to take responsibility for the worst part of our nature is turned against us and no one is willing to bear the cross of lasting life changing mistakes as the price of building one’s character by taking them to heart as a line that can never be crossed again. Instead, all are enjoined simply to leaning heavily upon the forgive and forget but then go out the next day and do exactly the same thing. Excuses change with the fashions of these unequal times according to the current daily playlist of maternal corporations. In the end it was all a setup to take one away from proper behavior and responsibility and confuse every issue with the vices of self-centered megalomania. “Do as thou art shown” seems that maxim afforded upon the many types of view screens within every monkey cage. I guess that is the process of learning that we all have to pay for in the coming years?
To blog is to complain or perhaps to crow your personal epiphanies? To blog is to express a sense of knowing by the fact of words to the affirmative set down with total confidence in your opinion. To blog is to send out an emotional tether to strangers to enjoy the faux experience of connection and affirmation to what would otherwise without the social networking mechanism serve as total isolation and loneliness. To blog is a cheap psychiatrist that passively allows you to probe your own paradigm through the collection of chronic topics that one unfailingly returns to until your site drives away anyone beyond the few that are equally obsessed with that subject.
Definition is a strictly categorized and heavily defined world of compartments or every style and variety. A myth of social consensus highly diminished by all of what is stated leaving the stain of the ‘uber-society’ that uses this raw material to fashion a convenient image of itself that is as contrived as the amalgam of technology standing in for the chaos of the universe. When is the last time anything really new and unexpected happened in your life? And when is the last time that you didn’t recede immediately from the happenstance of so similar and experience? The asking of those simple questions itself brings down the crushing weight of a possible sense of lacking some quality that the larger ‘uber-cult’ infers that its members should possibly enjoy. That is of course, “maybe?”
Maybe in the sense that without a nod from above in the form of some lifestyle affirming social institutional mechanism to give one the proper cue, one has to make a self-judgment? “Have I missed out here in some way?” “Have I failed to experience something that others take for granted?” “Is my experience of life flawed compared to that of every other member of the culture that I exist within?” These seem the sort of questions one might expect to hear vocalized within the chorus of a school of fish in a very small fish tank. A judgmental statement, it there ever was one.
So, does this form of self-inquisitive proclamation repel or attract opinion or perhaps does it free one from moral authority of simply having to account for their every impulse? What should have been in terms of the myriad of actions is merely chalky scribbled experience upon one’s blackboard? The answer to such inquiries must ultimately be what any animal in the wild might vocalize in the wilderness of the night. “Because, that’s just what I do.”
There seems to be so many movies now that express the idea that through some unreachable artifice that one can travel backwards in time. That a portal of some type will open up your entry in the sense of present tense and merge it with eras now long gone and forgotten. For every time someone dies, the sum total of their whole universe of experience becomes extinct. The imperfect arts of writing and film might capture the spirit of the mood and emotions of a tiny slice and in turn outwardly promote the notion of surety of absolute knowledge based of course upon scientific samplings of former test groups. But they cannot even hope to suggest that what is offered is at best mere inference of the reactions to a bygone series of events.
How strange it is that the time of day and the angle of the Sun do often make recollection of former times by inspiring a feeling from deep within he past. A frozen instant in one’s perceptions that exists for no other reason than its incidental viewing made an accidental impression. And now it resides somewhere hidden as might a benchmark similar to an alpha numeric tab affixed to a mental file cabinet of folders containing the many successive experiences of one’s life. A random moment in one’s own childhood can be experienced again by a mere turn of the head. Equally, the other sense might settle upon a long abbreviated sensation that has been previously banished by wear and tear upon the physical being.
The inventory of of ones being upon the microtome of what life has turned out to be fully revealed. And in this unexpected interruption of the present one easily enjoys both past and the instant of now, viscous emotion pouring into this gap like glue. One feels both happiness and sadness, wonder and futility, expectation and resignation. One is left with a sense of totality and emptiness. This visitation with former personages now ghosts inspiring the need to resolve one’s emptiness and exorcise those things which can no longer be. The balloon of certainty deflates and drags along the grass along with the uncountable multitudes of Autumn leaves swishing about. For a split second the universe remains fully complete with the experience of so many other things that have long past on so long ago before. No anonymous picture or fictional account can ever hope to match that.
At sixty it seems, your best ideas have already gone. The energy and force that you once took for granted is leaking out like a car tire rapidly going flat. The life that you have been promising to lead despite the inconvenient desires of youth is an impossibility from the intervening years of cumulative habit that have made you into something otherwise. That water long ago flowing under your bridge of “one day” or “tomorrow” now being half way around the world tickling the obscurity of the Marianas trench. The memories and provisos long ago forged are functionally meaningless to your present tense existence for you have learned that the fundamentally “why” of human existence is not what you are going to do but what you have all along ended up doing when push came to a shove. You are only represented by the balance sheet however imperfect as it might stand today. This is the reality one faces when your own movies prove you to be naught but another old buffoon struggling to maintain the fiction that you haven’t substantially changed in the rambling interim of too many decades long gone.
The pillars of daily existence fall quickly amidst the dust of incessant and arbitrary progress. Each successive iteration finds their identities bound up in the destruction and eventual selective re-discovery of one previous to it. Give the proverbial chimpanzee a typewriter to bang upon for a hundred thousand years and he will write Shakespeare. But by that time in the future, no one will know or care who Shakespeare was anyway. In fact what assures one that anyone then will even need to be able to read by then? The sum total of one’s life is condemned by the tenets of modern existence to one day be consigned a conveyor belt on its way to the landfill. All ones greatest works to equally share this ignoble fate. You can’t take it with you, nor can you safely leave it behind. You can only share it in the present and hope that someone becomes interested enough in it that they will want to enjoy it.
The legacy of men and women can only be their children and the prospective offspring of same. Technology and the hubris of its ownership is as doomed as the Titanic. The culmination of reflections of one’s self in the mirror a Medusa laying in wait to petrify future illusions. Truth is a hard stick that continually batters one’s ego. It is hard to make a decision to forego what one has always known and leave the safe harbor of the illusion of one’s self. But then is this not that journey that is always spoken of in lore and legend? The older one gets, the more certain that one will be alone left to their own devices. Will one try to reconstruct the shattered mirror of one’s bygone existence? Or will one abandon its smoldering wreckage and move on taking only the knowledge that they are the sum total of all who have gone before them and those others who they will one day meet?