I know everything about you but you know nothing about me. Result omnipotence and Godhood on my part. The modern world has surrendered too much. Or should I say the commercial world within which all members of same sit upon a virtual shelf UPC coded with demographics freely shared about by mega-corporations through a government information well-spring that never ceases to flow. So many contribute to their own demise by simply surrendering any detail when asked through the smoke screen of security questions that if they bother to recall they have never been asked in the first place. Stuff that just innocuously pops up when the are asked a question. A number of parasitic superstates like lampreys actively engaged in the datum mining of the public supposedly as an offshore contractor but in reality a rival. The mindset of the public soaked in brine and dried so brittle that it will believe any lie that is persistently repeated and repeated , and repeated , and repeated in the present as supported by a ‘topsy turvy‘ read of a mountain of inversions of the acts from the past. When truth suffers then the those who are foolish to allow themselves to continually fall prey to it’s opposite will suffer the greatest.
The undulating harp strings of this current President election cycle ceaselessly resound with the same message to those who still have an remaining ounce of reason to see the Armageddon of falsehoods that have been rolled out ‘en masse‘ to defeat an unlikely rival those major danger is that he is willing to unashamedly tell it like he sees it. A big awkward baby-like man child who cares not for the Kabuki of artifice that has come to stand in for the extinct dinosaur of integrity. As with all other ages of man, children and women cannot seem to grasp the reality that they are being so easily conjured by sweet words and noble fictions that are literally leading them to an imminent slaughter. The sound of the perpetual Grim Reaper sharpening his scythe is literally heard coming to a crescendo across Europe and our borders from its source in the Middle East. If someone where to tell me theta the portal of Hell was located there I would assuage my agreement. The hand basket on the express route is carrying us all away. There is a vampire in our house and tits entry into our lives sits in our hands and laps every day posing as a common device of communication and information. It can open up false worlds that simulate reality but it cannot replace the ‘real thing‘. The resonance of commercialism so ingrained in the head that the poison spread connects automatically to the recreational sewage of a sugary internationally marketed comes to mind with the utterance of this simple phrase. I could suggest to the fraction of a percent that they might take heed of this. But from the talk on my street in my general vicinity people are too busy putting their names on the list for securing the best deck chairs on the back of our immense collective virtual Titanic.
There will always be a business where someone has money to pay. Be it a product or a service more arcane and in demand by those of a supposed refined eccentric taste. One might be amazed at what the small club of individuals who fate has touched to wield vast resources of wealth and connection feel that they require to sate their boundless egos. Too often it is a rarity that an undisclosed predatory nature that society would not tolerate in the behavior of any normal person of conventional means. And just as frequently it has to do with sad little cloistered rituals of the display of meaningless power over life and death that garners unnatural satisfactions for these self-inscribed potentates. Hence another class of individuals whose ready knowledge of violence and the influence that its many levels of application can have upon the individual human consciousness. Especially when the psyche of that unfortunate individual has to suddenly cope with a rapid change to the extremes that only an animal condemned to a slaughterhouse environment might endure. Such was the case for a young Betty Warden, and others like her, whose conventional existence seemed secure within the protected existence of Middle Class conventionality. It only took a single random visit to the local mega-mall to bring the shadow of fatal misfortune to attach itself to her. A single purchase of an off brand item from a cart based marketeer located upon one of the outer lesser tributaries of holiday commerce littering the corridors of this older unmonitored shopping standby. A single swipe of the credit card at what seemed to be an innocuous venture and the information collected leading to the sharing of supposedly private data to a small circumspect unwholesome element. Their level of access to the lives of anyone a perk afforded them through the opacity of influence afforded them by their collective clientele. Little could this twenty-six year old divorcee realize that she had become an unwitting commodity by this single chance misstep?
The collection process awaiting her at her residence within the apartment block was swift and efficiently silent. The facilitators were cloaked from head to toe in costumed that perfectly cloaked their identities and prevented the collection of telltale forensic evidence from being discovered. Her key thrust forward into the front door of what should have been a safe harbor now a waiting trap. The well-tested procedures of the ruffians who surprised her minimizing any unnecessary outcries that she might have had an instant or two to register before she was in their iron grip. A hand with an ether soaked cloth muffling her nostrils. It was but a matter of seconds until her body went limp with their collective grasp and she was laid out upon a sheet of ready plastic in the next room in the kitchen. There by the protocol of procedure, Her garments were removed and carefully triaged to the closet or hamper based upon their condition. Small hints of physical evidence was planted and external public records were surreptitiously adjusted by parties unknown to rationalize her sudden disappearance to anyone questioning the same. The inquiries of any party concerned by her sudden disappearance countered by counterfeit evidence suggesting to all that she had taken an impromptu cruise to a foreign land. All the while her well-restrained physical being was being covertly transported via local truck transport and then through air freight to a destination outside the continental borders to a designated processing center. There she would be introduced once again completely naked to a new world off pain and random penalty delivered in the harshest of terms all designed to crush any sense of personal resolve or identity. A few weeks of extreme treatment combined with sleep deprivation and physical abuse as tested by the world’s most clandestine security services had prototyped the methodologies by which she would be left easily moldable to the devious intentions of any potential client. The sale conducted being prearranged more by fulfilling the requirements spelled out by a preexisting order for same so that the specifications and demographics of the human livestock were predominately the guiding force as to the selection process that the advance personnel applied.
The unfortunate commodity of this concern was now bereft of any sense of personal identity. Her own recognition of a past existence even down to a name had been rewired psychologically into a vacant space by a skillfully applied series of traumas. She simply ceased to exist as a human being but was now to be considered as nothing more that a sophisticated category of pet for an elite sensibility. Her gender and the outward qualities of her physical form in terms of appearance the most descriptive remaining element not in question. One at this point might have seen this as purely misogynistic had they not been aware that the standing orders also applied to young males as well. Though their easy availability on a local market especially to well-placed national politicians was a competitive market force. The nastier details of coverup being ceded to standing security services whose professional code of ethic to the job superseded any personal qualms about the morally disturbing nature of being confronted by such situations. They were well-versed in the dire penalties applicable to themselves or close family embers to counter their impulses for unauthorized disclosure to the public. The transparency issue was never in doubt as the overall system kept key members of the government, national and local in line with the policies that benefited the larger international hegemony. The trade in this sort of commodity providing a ‘win’ ‘win’ situation for the system at large to kept safe from any outside inquiries by rival forces or the awareness of the general public as all within it equally had much to lose if their true involvement were to be discovered. The names and professions that were thus enraptured into this fold might have attended the average citizen as it ranged from local personalities all the way up into the top office of the land. No level of indecency or depth of unimaginable perversity was out of bounds for the customer. They could submit their latest acquisition to any set of horrors that they could imagine. A complimentary service of secure disposal of physical remains an added bonus provided at no extra charge. How ironic then that the very same constituency that felt well-served by these secretive players was potentially at the mercy of their random off-camera whims? The wold had in this sense not changed over the many millennia. Only the means of obtaining useful ‘timber’ to fuel its seemingly eternal flames.
[dedicated to William Jefferson Clinton]
What do you know? Know for sure? Know on a level that you would stake your life and those of your loved ones upon? Sound pretty dramatic, huh? Sure there are plenty of others that you encounter through the course of a day who claim to be experts on a variety of topics that they are not shy on pontificating upon. But you sometimes have to ask where are they getting their cocksure attitudes from? Years of study based upon a personal regimen of directly uncovering the facts of a particular phenomena through direct observation? Well, in most cases their expertise is based upon the same source as most of our own. That being a remote unseen echelon of authority that delivers what are commonly referred to as facts. The trouble is that facts change so frequently according to whose team is in charge. A good example is that of those taken with what was once literal gospel taken as fact in the nearly two millennia old heyday of the Catholic Church. At one point the indisputable source of all topics both esoteric and secular. This central authority was dismissed over a period of decades and overtaken by an agnostic view based upon the proposition that all facts must be mutually provable on any part of the planet or at least subject to an observable plausibility for any deviation of same. Case in point, the water in the toilet flushing in opposite directions depending upon which hemisphere one might live in. This parenthetical proposition itself is another good case in point in the argument of how indeed can it’s author be so sure that his proposition holds water? The answer being that the amalgamation of knowledge past on counts as verifiable experience in this world or should i say culture. The argument then shifts to, ‘A’, “Am I getting the right dope?” or ‘B’ am I a dope to be believing this stuff?”
If you take someone living a very rural agricultural bound existence, chances are they actually have more directly verifiable experience of the physical world than any of us super-sophisticated ‘City Slickers’. What we rely upon for absolute veracity in an argument is a technology that records both sound and visual artifacts from life in some highly sophisticated ways. The initial methodology of producing these mediums providing absolute veracity of an event captured based on the limitation of that medium. If it is in the photo or movie then it must be so! “Call Northside 777!” Right? But along the way organizations that were able to produce these productions in the most sophisticated forms of their era introduced the element of highly believable faux realities using both dramatic artifice of actors and models and the mechanical facility of the day to change the pictures both still and moving to bend that reality to an abstraction of what might have initially been in front of the camera or associated recording device. Whatever the interlocutor, the fact that it can be modified by individuals or teams of same working for gigantic internationally powerful organizations that can modify the mediums to look and say anything that they find useful to their bottom line throws one’s ability to trust what they may have had a hand in producing into doubt as being absolutely truthful. If one is honest, they realize much to their horror that their store of knowledge is really not their own but a borrowed commodity. One that is essentially the same on the larger talking points but completely variable depending upon the factor of all too often devious interests of commercial and political agendas. How are we confident that for example we live in the “Greatest Country in the World?” Is it because we individually have been to all the other countries and on certain categories of observable custom and practices have come to that conclusion independently? Of course not. We get this information from a collective entity. In the current sense of same of this era, maybe a newspaper, or a book, but now most probably, the Internet via your phone or tablet. The reality is that your sense of the world is spoon fed to you in a way that your category of lifestyle has interaction with the physical world. If you are a cattle rancher in the nature driven wilds of Rocky Mountains, it is geared one way. If you are an urban dweller whose experience of life is primarily at the whim of institutional governmental intercession it is dramatically different.
So with a society that walks around en masse within their home environment at a respectful distance behind their own hands holding a smart phone it is pretty obvious that most believe what the system as configured for their area tell them to. The judgements being made by these people who intuitively realize that their sources of information may be tainted by forces beyond their own perception may not be as advertised tending to look for consensus by virtue of a numerical count of sources that are supposedly at odds with each other that still basically have agreement on larger points of order. The problem being that the structure of the medium that is governed overall by a central command of entities and standards that they set and sometimes arbitrarily change can filter and block. The appearance to the unwitting consumer of the ‘reality’ delivered being the best most trusted information available. The current election cycle is unprecedented in the regard of the fact of never have been so many seemingly wide polarities of opinion that have unilaterally weighed in with extreme vitriol against one political candidate. A person that some two years ago was absolutely ‘hunky dory’ with the same entities who he seemed to be a member of? How odd? Whatever could such a person possess that is such a threat to the larger amalgamation of same that individually owe their virtual existence to a select group of organizations that transmit media that they would all form a posse? Might I be so bold to suggest, the suppression of some very unwelcome truths?
Rosalind thought that her world needed a little something extra. And who could blame her? Two kids, in an ongoing recession was bad enough. To top that living in her parent’s basement with them was no picnic. And most debilitating of all, having an ex-husband that sat in the catbird seat moving forward in the same career that she herself had started felt humiliating as she had to take a job as a clerk nearby in the general neighborhood so that her hours were convenient enough to deal with her two pre-adolescent beloved brats. She might have thrown herself under that metaphorical ever running midnight freight of despair that ran straight through her dreams every night. This routine was grinding and though the other gals at work weren’t too bad to work with she daydreamed a plot that she would return to her high paying slot in manufacture sales that had for a while brought her more than a good living but a sense of greater worth. The two little rascals though endearing providing a constant narrative of incessant monetary indenture that her ex who seemed more financially endowed was ever reluctant to lawfully provide as per the writ of law concerning the touchy topic of monthly support. It didn’t help the ego that between work and child rearing and fending off a well-fixed but self-righteously Liberal-minded younger sister who felt no compunctions about dumping her own kids off to suit the convenience offered by a steady income afforded by a dull but accommodating husband. Those inner yearnings for the one element of life that had gotten her into this mess were left short on the sidelines indefinitely. Eligible men with romantic intentions were posed as a danger not from any latent hostility on her part in terms of her past failings but as a practical necessity to a life that had little if any extra moments to spare.
Harold lived in a world of past tensed achievement confused by the misapprehension that the best of live must somehow be just ahead in terms of success. What success meant was often anybody’s guess as the number of decades that stared back at him when he bothered to look in the mirror showed a man that a man that was dangerously close to being past it. How anyone who had been up to bat as many times as he had could be in a state of such misappropriation of some simple facts as the present sense of a world that looked at men like him as fatherly and not as robust and daring in their idea’s of self was indicative of another sort of fast freight running towards a rickety canyon overpass somewhere waiting to soon collapse. His Harry could not find a way past the much more youthfully energetic Tom’s and Dick’s. He had found himself caught short on an insufficient monthly stipend afforded by the political largess of Uncle Sam who fast was becoming an Indian giver. Though he constantly honed his skills and sent out piles of resumes he still found life a constant balancing between economizing and selling off the old treasures of his own family legacy. Buried within that pile of silver plate and old VHS’s was the misnomer of the whisper of a clean start. So many bits and pieces of the continuum of a lifestyle that was now out of date. Who would think to conjure on pen and paper when a high tech tablet was easily in reach as an incentive offered in the upcoming contract period of theta local Internet service provider? What he really lacked was some form of palpable reality to those ever-simmering romantic notions of reinstating the rusting wreck of past notions of marital felicity. He had the motivation to want to spawn but the mental burden that the equipment that he had to offer that was necessary was no longer necessarily in the best working order.
The sheltering element of the small ecologically ‘green‘ grocery that served as common ground for both of them was a safe outlet for the appearance of a growing attractant that both could pick up in the respective privacy of their own overwrought existences and point to as some form of common attraction. Harold had been coming to the store now for almost a year on a daily basis becoming a fixture for the staff as vital and absurdly endearing as the Kambucha. An extended interaction at the checkout lane had grown into a few ‘here and there’ brief seance’s shared infrequently in common at local coffee shops and daytime eateries. The slow incremental meander of a meeting this week for an hour after a quick visit home then an abstinence by her occasioned by yet another minor crisis from the unsteady playbook single parenthood left the unlikely growth of feelings at a standstill. He did not seem overly anxious about this ongoing scenario of potentials nipped short though in the real world so many would have kept their wagons hitched up and long ago departed for more fertile fields to settle. A gap in their ages did not add promise to either both pro and con. Still in the face of what was respectively and state of constant chaos their association remained the next best thing to the absolute zero of nothing but empty intentions. It was maddening to both of them. He played perpetually patient to an ever mounting series of broken appointments for dates that never got off the ground. She played stoically persistent in navigating short periods of what seemed like his indifference after her deliver of yet another last minted refusal of affording some small measure of shared time from her part. The lack of immediate prospects goading her to accept what she might have hoped in normal circumstance to be a fiercer sense of male ardor that might have stoked her own now much diminished emotional furnace for a more demonstrative form of loving. Neither were bereft of a mutual desire for an inadvertent circumstance arising that might throw the two of them into each other’s arms at some point down the road.
The irresolution of the two spiraling around each other so significant of the helical corollary of modern existence. If dreams and good intentions could build a house then that collective good intentions would have already conjured a palace. The specter of ‘too late’s‘ a ranging wolf ever-present waiting just beyond the treelike. How long could this random frequency maintain itself above and beyond its current humdrum was anyone’s guess? That first kiss and unexpected embrace a carrot on the end of a very long stick. As fellow voyeurs on the trail of life one might have felt this osmosis to be equally in danger of falling flat by the unexpected introduction of an infrequent old acquaintance showing up unexpected or a cousin of the opposite sex to strain to a breaking point these insubstantial moorings? And in point of fact as these situations arose as one might have normally expected the brief hiatus of more singular relations was kept in hibernation by daily necessities of commercial interactions by the register. Had the hand scanner possessed the facility of reading actual possibilities resting behind that mutually indulged repetitive facade of conviviality its continuation would have been anybody’s guess as to a final definitive outcome? That chariot of life that stirred the cycle of the heavens dragging along so dramatically having no apparent cache in terms of ultimate resolution her. However strong the actual intentions of either in their off moments locked in the manifestations of a waning Sisyphus each was found short of sufficient motivation to remove an obvious sense of blunted promise from their lives in order to move on. It was better to keep their own menacing barriers at bay with continued fantasies of an imminent climax that rested in the not too far distant future ‘somewhere out there‘ like the adult version of childhood fantasy. A virtual BluRay of contemporary existence, of good intentions safely stored on a top shelf. One that could always count upon in the pinch of an emergency at some time?
It’s the 7th of October for the third time! There are certain dates that stick with you in life. The basics are the date of your birth, the date of your graduation, the date of your wedding. And for those who want to be remember but are no longer around to do so, the date/hour/minute/second of your last breath. As I writes this the minutes tick down to a recollection of a fatal event that has stayed with me now for two years that seem more like centuries. There is no more lucid moment in life when you are their to witness the absolute last breath of someone.That point in their existence when the clock stops forever. That instant when someone you saw as a pillar simply evaporates from the room and the physical manifestation becomes an inert piece of un-moldable clay. How everything within you both screams with impotent fury while sinking into the whistling wind in an endless tumble into the abyss of an undeniable realization that evaporates every fantasy that you have ever had about life. It is a level of dark exhilaration bringing no ecstasy only a painful confusion about what for you as a living entity now is ahead. A new form of existence empty of further reach into the once palpable past tense. Your sense of the world accelerating inevitably towards a present tense surety of that all destiny is insecure. Now that you are really alone. A massive emotional burning cavity that like any massive sinkhole cannot be filled but must be circumnavigated from this point forwards. Scar tissue like burning asphalt. The only reliable balm a strange sense of absented memory about what was once both banal and mundane. A medicinal vacancy bereft of that former sensations of immediacy of what that person meant to you. You hide in your shell feeling the turbulence of everything external tumbling about around you. Now you know just how small and fragile and inconsequential you really are.
The fiction of your importance eliminated like a road sign past many minutes ago. The collection of physical possession dating from that former time simply a cocoon. The mounting dust growing upon them being angry waves from a darkened unseen ocean of fury witnessed by phantom ‘no one’s’ at the edge of a boundless universe of unstirrable ether. It stands as a mirror that can no longer support a viable image but simply a bulwark. You could walk out of the door tomorrow much as you contemplated when you were six or seven in some long lost temperamental tif over too early a bedtime. But you find that you are already gone from the premises. The factor of night collapsing you appreciation of the world once considered familiar to a barrier of wood and steel just few centimeters out of reach all around you. You try to breath but find your breath cut short because you find yourself in a coffin. A state of being demanding that you abandon your former pretense of identity and seek the animal solace of anything that will obliterate that unwanted awareness. The frozen breath of the dead is not about a feeling a physical sensation of coldness but of being put into abeyance stopped short in the human abstract of time. You are now a prisoner of the present serving a life term without possibility of parole. Your binding shackles invisible and never to be removed with no time off for trying to restart who you once thought you were.
Fiction beyond a momentary diversion of exercising an ability to conjure words is like a early morning fog that burns off with the light of each passage day. You get up in the morning and the animal upon whose back you ride pulls you along with is routine demands. The sense of the world around you now a great burden that needs to be satiated with the fiction of your active participation. You go through the motions and leave it at that. You can care now but it seems to always default to that of yourself. An entity rising and falling with the nightly tides arms growing weary of a futile struggle. “Who cares!“, your present mantra. The canned music from the ongoing movie that you are within swells at that expected point that you realize has absolutely no content but simply relies on your own indoctrination of so many sequels previously endured to bring its ‘deadness’ life.This world once considered wonderful a place of cardboard placards standing in for supporting characters offering the mute enjoyment of life as purloined from mostly recycled bygone commercial plugs. You could pretend that nothing has happened with your bedroom door closed to the blathering TV left on within next room. That it was just some all too terrible morose muse that your current palpable awareness of a former routine can dispel. Simply a bad dream. But then you open the door and walk out to find your domicile empty. That last and final breath re-imagined and the millennium of silence that has transpired in between. And now what?
Odd how the golden era of the much touted “Greatest Generation“, responsible for the 1950’s is ever spoken about with great reverence in the faux world of publicly staged debate but then is equally condemned as a period of intolerance and so many vaguely stated unforgivable evils committed almost always by White people. Yet Liberal Hollywood always eulogizes that time as their ‘go to‘ paradise as an example of a prosaic form of unfettered innocence? So it seems that in terms of visiting violence on the home soil of faraway lands, that this highly vaunted generation is noble when it bleeds and dies on the battlefield for a few inches of foreign dirt that is now mostly out of the picture in our everyday modern mental landscape. But God forbid that this Utopia that was built by that same generation who had suffered not only a spiritually exhausting world war resulting in the angst of physical loss but had previously up to that point weathered poverty on a crushing scale should set up their resulting dreamworld to reflect a celebration of themselves and their own positive values! The Liberal view,the safest Politically Correct term equating to those caught in the spiderweb of an overwhelmingly influence exerted the elitist internationally connected Jews , constantly harangues on and on that this same period was an evil period of White Racism!!! Given the paucity of the current educational meltdown of what is currently considered appropriate school curriculum, it is doubtful if the last few more recent generations have any idea that the 1950’s were not in actuality that time immediately following the American Civil War called Jim Crow? Certainly Hollywood’s mandate in that department is clearly a canoe paddle tirelessly churning up muddy waters. Since the details of history are but a corollary of the screenwriting component of movie making things shift around a lot! The concept of Nirvana today seems to be wearing an imaginary nose ring of a corporate inspired fiction of one day ‘getting ahead’ by constantly following your I-phone plagued existence at their beck and call. This as you wait for the next revolutionary app that reliably clears out funds from your last marginally sufficient virtual paycheck to apply to this weeks budget in your direct deposit bank account managed very forcefully by your fire walled conglomerate creditors. Kinda sad by comparison? If you look back at a former time when grandma and grandpa, who had gone through parts of Hell that most dare not imagine, had the temerity to create a society that rejected constant assault by this sort of power happy decadent foreign influence you have to agree that there is something amiss? But then ‘Liberals’ and their ‘phantom’ masters have never been considered generous or forgiving people over the ages as witnessed by their actions over past millennia. So much for that theory.
Twenty four hours or more ahead of two hours, twenty minutes and two years ago my last important relative died. anniversary of sorts I suppose. A massive amount of pain in my chest not from my heart but the indigestion occasioned by all that has not occurred since. The empty burden of carrying on old family fictions of pride and future promise for the sake of ethereal phantoms. Where can any of this lead but to the cemetery? The land around me is dead. And perhaps? I along with it travel in a nightly haze of misconstrued dream worlds that salt reconfigured mundane visions of times previously lived with disconnected empty causeways to an uncertain apprehension of the inabilities to be experienced tomorrow. This persistent fiction of better ahead insupportable as the old juggernaut of what once was has had all its tires blown out and sits abandoned in the middle of the thoroughfare in the early AM awaiting yet another gray horizon’ed dawning. One that that I have to sit through like a fifth in the series sequel where the superheroes that are supposed to be my favorite hit their old marks like old pensioners caught up in marathon dance steps repeated endlessly in a Voodoo Hell based Mambo halls. Who can long appreciate this constant drip of endless night?