This private ongoing conversation with you. You, whoever you are. You my friend. You my enemy. You, and just you! The mental fiction of the whole wide world beyond these words. This endless stream of myself that I send skyward in the fiction of my heart transcendent. Some form of wishful immortality to be heard at last. To call out and know that all this lonely struggle was not simply for not. To you who I will never know. Assuming much along the way that such a thing could be possible. There is no strident sound breaching my reality of some sharp tapping upon a water pipe in the dark of night! As if I were in a tiny prison cell. And this same prison being the world outside that cell of me as myself. I would like to believe that all the world is mine. But I unfortunately am of it. Something I will not see! But you are beyond all this! In storied castles or dark mud huts. Anywhere and everywhere. Waiting in the realm of my own fantasies to hear how I explain you in some small part from the tiny pieces of myself. Old rags from the previous day’s washing hanging out to dry on this ethereal clothesline. Who am I kidding?
To you my best confident! That I am never in danger of knowing. Of ever saying, “no!” But just staying there perfectly silent as I find new ways to speak my truth. Yet never to offend.”Impossible!“, you may say? But then my lips are your words. Vainglorious notions that all these well-worn symbols of currently imposed colonial patois splatter forth. That will serve as fit language and will penetrate. How selfish I’ve become? How pathetic this symbolic death of verbal commerce evident within my own land? That my own kind and I are so wrapped up fatally within ourselves? That we fear the weight of so many others just like ourselves that might steal the very oxygen from out of our breath. What fools! And yet this nagging fatal impulse to cast loose my shell and fly forth into places unknown. Unknowable! To conjure and to fly off further still. You and I, we form this very flock of restless birds as tireless as the Sun. Daily put upon to rise and fall and then rise again. To renew ourselves by these hopes, however impossible and flawed. To reach out and hope that hope that there is truly someone else there that understands.
It is a much larger game than you can imagine. All the bothersome minding of these petty treasures and useless earthly cares getting in the way. These larger avatars of the heavens spin about us, or we about them. For them we are so much less than the blink of an eye. Yet justice is justice, and truth as it may commonly be known is an ever evolving work always in progress. The lunar companion above at its zenith if you are allowed to see it poses so many questions that you are not supposed to ask. Your business is Terra! Or so you are told. But what about this celestial shooting gallery seemingly eternal far above? Collision after collision scarring some unexpected infant that so briefly appears newborn. Everything has sympathy and synchronicity. Like that baby still lurking within you. Continents and other suppositions that the mind consistently betrays the intellect with. Do you not believe what you are told? Just simply look for yourself. We are simply wispy glowing little bits of passing glimmer. Caught for a while by something much larger pretending physicality. We have to struggle, struggle, struggle for whatever ounce of truth that we can find. And then never forget that we only, can see it for ourselves. This singular madness to be found amidst the light. Are yonder crater’s brilliant dots dimpled cities? Or does one simply paint self-engendered scenarios with the mind? The why and the wherefore never coming to task. Paint if you will whatever face upon it you choose. You are only beginning to see the majesty of your own reflection.
Now that the sheep’s clothing has been thrown off and the ‘wolves‘ of Wall Street are running wild in an open attack upon anything Caucasian, I feel that it is high time to unburden myself about a few things that have bothered me. Things that for too many of you that you still won’t touch like why the cartel that has always run Hollywood was so insistent that a full moon could turn a man into a wolf. As if such superstitious fantasies that could be attributed to some modern day underlying reality. The once grievous terminology that is now part of contemporary patois being mind fuck. Their mighty sword to inflict “great vengeance and furious anger” (Ezekial 25:17) against the enemies of Israel. This can literally be embodied in their products released for general viewing over the years that salved their white European audiences into complacency while tricking them into self-destructive viewpoints through artful shorelines using ethnic shills. Considering that in the classic modus operandi of the modern detective one looks for both motive and opportunity their are plentiful examples connected with the inception of same. The cult of the magus that goes back to Darius the Great, who as in the words of he old Negro spiritual “literally let their people go” in 519 BC, is synonymous with entrancing other peoples so as to take their treasure and ultimately destroy them. A cycle that has been repeating itself without interruption over all the years in-between. The true birthplace of the notion of Hollywood being to capture ones attention, confuse, and instill false thoughts being the basis of the practice of magic. Can anything explain better why the entire population of every other modern society on this planet seems beset by such inner turmoil? Who could have imagined two decades back that the most valued possession in ones inventory of material objects would be one that they could hold in their hand and daily capture their entire focus of life? The older technology being that honey trap of the old grand Baroque movie palaces of the nineteen-thirties when the national money supply was ‘mysteriously’ contracted forcing most into economic want of the dime or dollar to get in? The power of the motion picture and those singular products released at pivotal points in history precluding larger world events equally unfathomable. That is of course if one dares to directly take a probing unflinching look!
Take for example the year 1947 two years after the conclusion of the complete destruction of their avowed enemy, the German people, many events that magically occurred at the same time had a certain synchronicity not unlike so many modern ones day. On Nov. 29, 1947, the United Nations General Assembly passed a resolution calling for Palestine to be partitioned at the expense of indigenous Arabs and Christians for European Jews, allowing for the formation of the Jewish state of Israel. The National Security Act of 1947 enacted a major restructuring of the United States government’s military and intelligence agencies. And, seemingly far less noteworthy, MGM released the movie, A Gentleman’s Agreement, based on Laura Z. Hobson’s best selling novel. A storyline plot in which (white) Christian a journalist played by Gregory Peck poses as a Jew to research an exposé on antisemitism in New York City. The picture went on to be nominated for eight different Oscars and won three. How convenient! So egregious was its release at the pivotal time when the Jewish inspired doctrine of Soviet Communism was actually found to be directly entrenched within the highest offices of the USA that it upset the House Un-American Activities Committee as it was considered a tactic of interference with the investigation of some of its key creators. Elia Kazan, Darryl Zanuck, John Garfield, and Anne Revere all being called to testify before the same committee. The author not un-coincidentally being the ‘first female director’ of Time magazine and birthed by radical Socialist Russian Jewish parents in part behind The Jewish Daily Forward. A politically focused publication in its own right today now stripped down to the title Forward. Her book publisher another Jewish mega-influencer of his day, Richard L. Simon of Simon & Schuster, a company that dominated publishing. Birds of a feather having a marked similarity as of old in sticking together?
One might suggest that the placement of these and other events were instrumental in paving the way in terms of softening public opinion in the USA for supporting the implantation of the long standing project of a Jewish state in Palestine. The culmination of the payoff by the Triple Entente for twice bringing the United States out of isolationism to defeat the rising economic dominance of turn of the century Germany. One violating the greatest invention of modern World Jewry, the burned, but seemingly never singed, offering of that ongoing modern myth and money-making proposition termed the Holocaust. Forget the facts, this is Hollywood! And not ironically, this is the current state immoral of the world where most who are electronically plugged in the grid believe in space aliens and contentious generations of women that can easily physically best all men rather than partner with them. A global financial based society that thrives of the deception that its controllers are routinely allowed to charge obscene levels of compound interest just for their printing of paper alone. The notion of continuously producing that same old magic of shifting public opinion now currently singled out as ‘fake news’ and box office tanking socially immoral culturally toxic blockbusters. How odd that so many of these enterprises routinely trip themselves up under direct scrutiny in terms of pervasive violence, sexual perversion and misquoting the facts. The notion of collective guilt and self-destructive powerlessness always foisted upon white culture by the end of each presentation. Is it any wonder that the indoctrination of successive generations has led to false notions that will simply enslave them in the employ of destroying their own kind? It is too bad that the book burning of the twenty-first century goes on silently in the developed preference easily manipulated electronic media as opposed to very quickly disappearing conflictory paper.
“And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.” Ezekial 25:17 (a key portion of the Hebrew Pentateuch, AKA Torah/old testament)
The proud parent thinking that they had done the right thing taking their child to the amusement park asked, “Well! How was it?” The little boy stared back quizzically and replied, “I’ll tell you when I finally get back from the very last one.” And who of any of us can say that we have ever gotten off that merry-go-round since? Or indeed have wanted to? Even if it finally kills everything about us that may have been decent in the end? We spend the night in fear of our own cowardice to act in our own behalf. Leaders and perpetrators may be one and the same but the real party at fault is ourselves for going along. Is the life of a fantasy soaked slave so sweet that he cannot risk breaking his chains? What is so magnificent about carrying the very weapon of your enemy about in your hand and then taking it’s cancerous emanations into your head? Who told you that you could not wash your own clothing by hand in a washtub? Who told you that you had to allow yourself to be injected with the same poison that is spread by the same institutions that wish to eliminate you? Why must your take a necktie as anything beyond what it is intended to symbolize beyond a noose that you eventually hang yourself with? The populations of the major cities are simply self deluded fools that think that their lifetimes are simply about being owned like spoiled pets. Fulfilling a false illusion of individuality while in fact they are merely rearranged cogs glued into place on phantom wheels designed to grind them into their own slow inevitable destruction. The plans of which having been planted through careful drama’s endless repetition written by those very enemies that have lived amidst them for generations as parasites. The existence that your persist in perpetuating is your own folly and no one else’s. You let ‘evil‘ rule existence, that less than ironic polar opposite of ‘live‘, and then wait around humbly, like empty headed sheep, for the consequences to catch up to you. The only sure thing in this equation being your own assured end on someone else’s terms.
How to meet your end. Do you hold out your hand like a hobo? Thumb out in the relative direction of travel that you wish to go? To new places where no one knows you. And those few that do only will find you again in a passing sigh at the discovery of your obituary. Is this mortality? Are we all so timid that we cannot risk the road and the reality of life beyond the waiting chaos of another day? Who are the zombies now? Those who would brave the wilderness living ont he edge? Or the rest of use who are terrified at the prospect of no one any longer saying, “Hello?” Can you say goodbye to an entire existence of your own few endless decades? Who is the captain now? To give up the power of the illusion of certain destiny in a bus ticket. To be willing to be left in the middle of nowhere and not survive. In the final chapter that you yourself have not read but can only write. The one that you suddenly realize in shock is that last instant. Who is the fool then? Who is the fool now? Maybe we are all fools to think otherwise?
This universe feasts on questions. The emptiness of chaos ever eternally hungry and needing to be filled. All the temples of the world that sanction safety mere dust on your divan. The gold melted down. The metals gone to rust. Smiling corpses of fractured marble and granite. Nothing survives! Yet life persists? We all dream on at the foot of an awakening volcano. The approach of warm covers in hot magma.Stay to still and the birds will peck your eyes out. You will wear down to the ankles. Yet inside you will be alive. Fatally entombed within the withering self. Needing to be free of the past that weighs you down. Those unkind stares that convey short tempers and a basic irritation that people like you are still alive. Short fuses and big lawns. They all want their fantasies free of you. So how do you survive? Commit suicide by just walking out the door without ever stopping to look back? Ride the rails until one day your head lays squashed upon it? So many questions that cannot be answered except through inevitable actions. So get going and find out!
Exquisite bits of pain
drift your glass across my heart
let the shards cut deep
let me melt
and know what it is to be alive again!
Watch it drift across the lane
lonely and low
lest it seek you out
lest it call your name
and know what it is to be alive again!
Step slow step along
upon the edge of teeter upon your long dried tears
lament your into knots
lament her as you had once known
and know what it is to be alive again!
Exquisite bits of perfidy known
that tails the lies that you dare not speak
lock tight your lips
lock off your heart
and know what it was to be alive again!
The doors of old familiarities close and other theoretically open. Or so they say? Your’s is a universe neglected. So filled to the brim with that others now considered as refuse from the hoary distant past. These gates are to your palace. Neglected. When you become quiet enough to remember so. Old melodies of sad love gone awry. Plodding finger strummed lute-like across faded things. Who can remember their sting? Those old disappointments when love’s ship was pushed aside by an ill wind upon rocks of a foreign shore. And now, as all else fails, you are brought back to that very moment when you once again abandoned all. And now. You want to hear that melody sung again from the sad living instrument of her bygone voice. That very same one that so long ago you heard last before you turned her into a mermaid. Bereft of limb and heart. The very one that you left so far back and behind by you lack of virtue betwixt land and sea. You deserved your sorrows. You deserve this death. Locked out from what once made life worth living. Sitting now peacefully before the gates of time. Errant winds of time caressing you absentmindedly like that same forgotten hand. So long absent. Long and slow are the strings that drag this feeling out of you. The ayres about you moaning in their slow mournful cry of sailors, decks awash, caught within their tears. Too late. Eternal winds blow. Blow forth into that narrow space caught within the past. Both horror and delight. Your sleep will take you from this safe refuge to return finally only to yourself. The current drift of that barque, now empty, that you once called you. Slowly down to the river’s mouth. Slowly on through towards the end of time. Your lifeless eyes surrendered unconditionally to the endless blue of heavens long desired above.
(John Dowland – “Dear If You Change”)
The world that one exists within eventually seems to become a place of never ending disappointment under the weight of the ever shifting controlled chaos of a fickle indifferent society. And as such it does often seem that as one grows up and eventually grows old there is little help for those that it abrades to regain a sense of lost innocence that was their initial state of being. The notion of same in practice as an adult considered a sign of simple-mindedness by the surrounding ill winds of decadent cynicism that pervades popular culture where being vulnerable in public eye is nearly an unpardonable sin. The invocation to those little aspiring mortals caught within what was once long ago a period of time known as childhood being to toughen up and be disciplined in the face of the domino-like gauntlet of one disappointment after another leading to an inexhaustible series of same. The semblance of appearing to win being more important than daring to ask for a uncompromising acceptance for what one is at their weakest moments. Perhaps one can know of how much one’s self has been corrupted over the years by their wonder at a tiny little untainted soul in distress and as such know what innocence truly is yet again?
The experience of supervising young children in the middle of the first decade of their earthly existence for an hour each day has taught this author as much about life as the proceeding decades of constant collision with the vagaries of existence in an urban realm. Those occasional moments when one is challenged to depart from the strict guidelines of professional indifference and lend a kindly ear with sympathy being a minefield for misunderstanding. As a an adult male caught within a much larger political battlefield it is taking a chance with ones career and nebulously ambivalent social standing to provide such a human gift. My present wonder at this is occasioned by a most recent experience where a tender young lady of between five and six and small in stature for her age. The first one to arrive generally having to apply almost all of her strength to pull aside the heavy hydraulic cylinder loaded doors. The ring of her childish vocal chords resounding in a nursery room cartoon impression of adulthood as she experiences it. Her encounter with the decorum of the classroom itinerary of the teacher necessarily forward as if by some internal undisclosed resource provided her as a young cub to survive the hostile world of older peers by this effort. The playing deck of varying childish rivals who demand attention from the one adult influence as the dealer of regulated progress in this classroom assembly for their own form of unstructured acting out within the context of the coming hour always in contest with those small and perceived as weak but ever resilient. Yet in my experience with children over the last year in considering what has been for me as a lonely bachelor verified by decades of solitary existence, as undeniably miraculous.
To see such a little soul unexpectedly demeaned to tears within this constant battle for hegemony in the ruthless pecking order of the patent meanness that those in the group casually deal is equally heartbreaking. One wanting deep down to violate the strict taboos of this workplace and simply offer the solace of a warm embrace to assure that the world they live in though so often mean in spirit is not without sympathy for their plight. The next best thing being offering a middle ground in engaging her in conversation in one’s supposed position as battled worn sage. Enlightening her as best one can by offering the notion that their mentor was once as young and vulnerable as she was. What a wonderful and terrible disclosure to find that the object of her pain is one of the other little boys that rage about the room in constant careless play. Equally innocent in his way despite him testing every rule to favor his experience of the world by ever testing its confining boundaries. The ghostly descendants of these same little demon spirits that once plagued one far ago in one’s own experience at five. The whispered secret as solution to the sorrowful tale pf woe that she relates in her version of unrequited desire for singular connection with this ruthless rapscallion being to reveal that his form of reaching forth to vie for her affection is to be ever annoying. The part that one necessarily leaving out that perhaps this same menace is just being annoying with no other underlying motive resting behind his perceived infamies as she suffers them.
How odd it then seems then to one so late in life to be aware as a bystander of this same old endless repetition of dissension imposed as d’rigor of common playground etiquette? The battering and bruises that these young untainted souls endure seemingly harmless to the outside view of adult sensibilities now long decades past. Yet realizing for the moment that these seemingly incidental scars too often are carried through an inadvertent pattern of behavior abstraction over the course of their future lives. To see this in such a way and offer one’s mercy to try to explain as best one can that all are equally likely beset along the way with the basic unfairness of misdirected emotions by others. Hoping that despite the futility of the situation and their lack of stature of the one in pain that it is not just childhood but the beginning experiences that they must fathom as part of the experience of life. The moral lesson in all this seemingly inferring that as members of that final constituency of those growing fatally old and near to an earthly passing we must return in one way or another to those days of childhood where it all began. How ironic that one who by the fact of their solitary existence of seven decades would be shown the world where life in general by virtue of connection by paring is renewed by the fresh experiences of the offspring that are produced. How even one whose own life having been cast at a distance from all this is renewed in some small way by contact with these initial petite dramas. It makes one feel that the universe around is not simply an empty vessel that can only be filled with regrets.
This world is now created by metrosexuals. Self-righteous techno-Hottentots. Wrapped up in their own complacency and completely uninterested in who will rule them, for how long, or how in the further they will fall out of favor. The past is their oyster! Their personal whipping boy? The lodestone that washes clean their own sins of inaction for all those things they thought of but never thought to do. The Past. The foundation that they build their temples of disdain upon. Of ancient eras that were hard fought and rife with mounds of skulls of the defeated with grave flaws where everyone could not be happy. Or ever, ever was!
The whipping post upon which to hitch their slavish sense of the modern and virtue signal by wrinkling their noses at the stench of inequity. The safest home for the growth of monumental hypocrisy within all those myriads of complacent minds. The lies that lay upon lies that lay upon the present built upon convenience and toys. Convenient forms of rule to slowly incrementally abrade the feint-hearted who like to rail and rave from afar. Easy ducks for the self-proclaimed immortals to shoot later when the water barrels are brought out to be drained. And a normal life costs two times two time two what it does at this very hour in falsehoods of continual compounded interest. All to sit upon the ruins of one’s own land? The bridges freely replaced by toll booths and everything now taken away. Everything that has a cost and that must be paid in cash or blood or flesh. Whose neck is next? The laziest of creatures black and brown and mealy white turned yellow replaced by mandate. To enforce through fatal decrees of half-truths their own destruction in a moment anything that is simply considered ‘right‘.
You cannot be racist if you are no longer afforded a race. The only homeland that these citizens of longstanding seem to now be accorded is the grave. And even that will be plowed under. This is not considered racist because the official word from the squawk box of those loaded into government by grift and graft these last decades is guided by a foreign hand. This is the reward for all your lives of futility and hope of promises fulfilled. Your great grandchildren will be as fertilizer and fodder in the municipal dump. Still you are not foolish enough to get mad and angrily survive? The real race is that race to get as much as one can by getting their first. The rest is but the same sad lodestone of the accumulation of self-righteousness for idiots to carry around for the fiction of guilt that brought the razor to their own necks but that was never theirs. Only clever rivals. They deserve to be disappeared for they are truly the biggest of fools!
There is no greater wellspring of regret than in long lost desire for love once again reawakened. The rejection of that false promise that one has made a pact with to have one’s way or die. So who is pretentious now? The sore hollow fool that will follow through for a score of moments this scripted scenario of eternal failure? This game of finding regret by what one has not done rather than simply re-enacting the fable of what one should have known better so much longer than long ago? The accumulation of first impressions that still remain stacked up against one like a house of cards. If fools there be that run this world then you are both their dean and their teacher! To be mad in lust with someone so much so that you hate them for their sanity in staying clear. Volcanic soil undisturbed by soiled footprints of the commonality of reason in unconsciously recalling events locked within. Imprisoned in their own way that they never are allowed to become the primary cause of one’s own life of farce and folly. To sully the ivory and gold of what they once took in for a golden moment in ions long ago and try to pick away and chip the jewels from their mountings it like a thief. Boxcars undulating on steel rails overloaded moving ever slower now as the train nears the final station. So many players now long and permanently gone. Fallen away by the wayside into histories dust of what once was and never could have ever been. Overlapping dramas repetitively announcing that same old singular story of have and have not. How pathetically frail is one at their core to turn to lead every golden memory that one has touched. To make villains out of all those that one had once long ago had thought they had known. And then blame them for not one’s self having known better.