Men and Women, In And Out, Of Our Modern Era

To speak about women at the expense of men is the fastest way to oblivion for them both.

It seems odd to me that the topic of what one eats is a core issue with most women that I talk to. But not men! Men go along with this topic when in conversation with women. But for the most part, if they are not ‘mama’s boys metro-sexuals or ‘mangina’s’, they eat what is in front of them. Some enjoying cuisine somewhat better than others in terms of health. But for the most part without any guilt attached. Women are always guilty! Always denying themselves but inevitably binging. Especially when they think no one is around to expose them? The no one being other binge’r’s or consensus based sycophants that they hold in no esteem. I recently read a survey that mentioned of all the problems that are considered currently most pressing in the world to women, their weight remains at the top of the list. This certainly is not a similar obsession shared by men who are more accepting of themselves in this regard, as well as of their spouse’s burgeoning physical dimensions. Women are always perpetually out there looking for the perfection of a Mr. Goodbar. If not in actual truth, then in their fantasies. Men just want to get laid! Something that translates not necessarily directly into sex, but simple intimacy in companionship. Women are caught up in the game of Diana and the Golden Apples. Find a guy that was originally considered perfect but now in some way ‘fallen’, and then find some flashy diversion to encourage him to work past what she sees as his flaws so that he can win her in spite of her self by the rules of some imaginary arbitrary contest, that in point of fact, she has cooked up. Woe betide those men who fall into this trap and stop behaving like men!

The heroines of the Bible are superficially portrayed as innocent by simple fact of their basic natures as the source of parables. Something very Jewish! The mother is the matriarch in a Jewish family and cornerstone of this historically persistent cult. She, like all mothers, is primarily responsible for instilling the fundamental POV’s of the males that exit her womb. [check out the Hollywood admission of the same in “Terminator Salvation” where the source consciousness of the overall machine society IS A WOMAN!] Current American society is based upon the Jewish Socialist model as instituted by the advisory influence of Edward Bernaise [cousin of Sigmund Freud] that supplants ‘necessity’ with ‘lifestyle‘. Hollywood was the society changing engine financed primarily by Wall Street based middle European emigre’s to fund this propaganda rich institution. Society transformed from a fundamentally utilitarian ethos into a cornucopia for acceding to the desires for guilt free pleasure serving women. Thus everyone here who seems superficially independent actually behaves as if they are part of a pack of minnows. Their faux independent spirit demonstrated publicly these days being solely in the realm of commercial expenditures and not moral or intellectual acts. In Europe it seems, ‘courage‘ in this respect is more just a display of local intellectual dominance to one’s own immediate fellows. But it’s effect is groomed away by sticking to the reigning consensus established by a female oriented society. Beauty is not singly the province of old well-maintained architecture, or locked away each night exclusively in art museums, but all around us and in ourselves exactly in the way we functionally are. Ugliness however is our own personal creation! Something based on recycling habit with an obsessive unwillingness to go with the flow of the immediacy found in our own surroundings. Where is the right or wrong in that? No one lives forever but that does not mean that one must race along the aisles of the supermarket of life tumbling every product in sight down into one’s own cart. When one thinks about this totality, the gulf of angst prevalent between men and women both directly with each other as well as indirectly through society, it is that childish fearful persistence to not end up being the one with all the toys in a room full of other children who equally possess the same mindset. One always has the option to let the others fight over it for one can always play with twigs and find marvels within the mud.

Men ARE better lovers than women. They have more capacity to do so! Why? Women set themselves up as objects with an underlying obsession of always being perfect. Perfect in terms of being desirable. Not necessarily for men, but society at large. Men on the other hand are expected to always perform. Their mother’s schooling post the womb train them to inevitably be so. In light of overall society, they are as indispensable as short passing chapters in a serial episodes of of a commercially produced romance novel. The central elusive male character always out of reach for some strange inexplicable reason that directly reveals the insecurities of the woman. Thus the ‘he‘ can easily translate to a villain, a lost love reminding of personal failure, or just an empty headed jerk. Where this current era is fascinated by a Salome character which is popularly accorded more legitimacy for ‘her‘ actions these days. It also brings forth her weakest flaws. She becomes obsessed in the temporal present with a guy that is conveniently confined to a prison by her [sugar] ‘daddy‘ who wants to molest her. But like a contemporary Harvey Weinstein in those many recent tales of well-rewarded despoiled starlets, she is always able to rely on the use of a little erotic dancing now and again to schmooze the old man. She gets to cut off the head of the other schmuck who is at the mercy of them both. Why? because he isn’t perfect enough to want to be a king. Or, another like-same celestial entity. But merely a guy who can recognize the wonder of same. This makes him an extraordinary individual as well as a pain in the ass.

For men, Don Juan (Don Giovanni) is the point of obsession! Certainly not a Gilgamesh who has compromising self-personality issues with an Enkidu but one who falls hook line and sinker for the promise of his reigning superstructure only to be stripped of immortality by falling for the show’s main attraction in the guise of a carnival midway painted lady [AKA., Ishtar]. But the Don Juan meme is a serial romancer that treats women the way that they wish to be, as prizes. The problem for these women is that they want to believe that they as that prize is the ‘be all end all‘, which biologically speaking they are not. Nature expects the bee to visit as many flowers as it has energy for. Society is a female invention. A conglomerate of interests based equally upon the runaway obsession of men to “get all the bitches!“, as well as the desire of these ‘prizes’ to be obtained in a manner according to their liking. Sort of like an old tired bull or gorilla trying to prevent his harem and his rivals from fraternizing with each other. Don Juan solves this problem by remaining seamlessly fluid and ultimately being a functional moral Chameleon. A personage ever appropriate to the surroundings with his eye on he goal of getting all HIS desires met. Can there be any wonder in the fact that within this mythic recitation that a material object, supposedly from his past, come back to haunt him in the form of a ‘festin d’pierre‘ [block of stone]? That age old demand for him to inscribe himself and his character for all times and the sake of ‘history‘ as another male martyr. The fact being that he is anything but! In reality the demand of (female structured) society for him to build her a (house) temple and maintain the inertia of universal (primogeniture?) stability. He is sent down into hell (or threatened with it). Hell in his case effectively being to be incarcerated within the modicum of stability forever under the thumb of a single female [the real Devil]. Biologically in terms of the natural world of universal chaos, the default nature’s of each when in balance to each other makes perfect sense in terms of producing enough viable offspring. In the regimented artificiality of a constant fractious ‘push and pull‘ society where one is out of balance with the other, total imminent impending disaster. Men being considered both disposable and renewable resources to women in both an emotional and biological sense of the same [the possession and control of the womb being the final arbiter]. Women by themselves alone in an endless struggle competitively maintaining their status among their own kind being ultimately self-defeating through brief but endless demonstrations of personal mastery of their ever effervescent often uncontrollable vicarious emotions. This present day modern era perfectly exhibiting this obsession of so many not satisfied with their own biological roles as women alone but obsessed with assuming control of all by absconding with the roles once ceded to men but now claiming them as their own exclusive territory.

All this based upon the prevailing sense of manufactured fear that drives respective personal insecurities caused by the willful structuring of a society that has no moral foundation [AKA., Socialism]. “The ends always justify the means!” Though all these ‘ends’ are perpetually unobtainable due to their being totally unrealistic. One cannot get Salome along with all the other female archetype’s off the hook by saving them from their less than seemly longstanding public reputations. The same critique being equally applicable to their male counterparts. But then, the men are really not expected to live up to the same high standards today because by the standards of current society, THEY ARE COMPLETELY REPLACEABLE! No temples? No fraternization! Unhappy women! = Unhappy men. That is the current halcyon moment of this present world epoch. Perhaps that is why machine inspired androgyny is such a hot topic. Especially in that Frank Baum sense of an incomplete ensemble of straw men, tin men, presupposing ‘lions‘ in consort with prepubescent little girls. That is the modeled perfection of childhood! One, which of course, is pure fantasy, illusion and ultimately bullshit.

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Inadvertent Bedtime Prayer

Restlessness, thy name is mine, own a willful cypher
restlessness, my name is thine own, a willful cypher
taking me to those long lost deeply held undercover realms
I, like you, am naked in this world
naked like truth’s that one ever wishes to hide
there to suffer changing light bulbs before fantastic vistas
of icicle shaped spires reaching up thousands of feet

Why must we trod about so aimlessly within
why must we forget ourselves and then ache inside
these bodies are no longer fit for such excess
always waiting for our weakest moment to complain
threatening arrhythmic heartbeats gone awry in bacchanals of insane drumming
all to remind us that we are no longer young

Oh to give up this present place to release all the air
to give up one’s breath for the sake of others
as if air was not any longer but a valueless commodity
but merely an essential for preserving some distant social dominance
of those countless unseen many over the few

I think about you . . .
I think about how you’ve always been enraged about that fact
that so many others can call upon your name
and then so easily call your at your game

and you that one who will not commit
you who will not place your right hand
heavy upon the holy bible of the body corporate
to tremble flesh to flesh basking in warmth of the impossible release
the one that you desperately long for

because you, like the rest of us, are none but a fool
chasing rainbows in a land of galloping ibex’s
horned horses, fantastic beasts, all stuck within your mind since childhood
what pleasure does that allow you in this type of world of now

no cake for the wanta-be ‘eat it too’s’
be damned those people who are too clever for the sake of same
the old familiar heart beats in their irregular rhythms
and how one exists betwixt the vacuum lurking in-between

sweeping away all doubt in a false conventionality
“There’s nothing wrong!”
“It’s all OK!”
” . . . naught but just another rich meal”

and the all so familiar elixir of spirits to confound
what has become an ever enlarging hopeful heart
perhaps too much like those red dwarf celestial giants
too little being those without love

physical love, spiritual love, love in a brightening tomorrow
must see their heart expand until just before it bursts
collapsing into dark void of limbo endless
and then they are no more

this inert shell, nothing but a nuisance for others to clean up
surrender your breath to that next successive generation
so they too can respire
you too can expire and only then they are inspired
what a nasty rhythm of life

all I seek is to feel another ‘you‘ against me
to put my arms around this other ‘you‘
and feel as I once did
so forgetfully long ago when I was young

Oh, who was that last person . . .
where my head rested and rolled in your lap
and two eyes reach up into the mystery of the sky
such a pleasant long lost idyll

something to be cherished
and resurrected from dead flesh
to be brought to mind again
as rare as that last corner of wind and wine

Dream And Some Commentary Surrounding Same

—– DREAM —–

New country setting, the place that we bought. It was a house with a barn about a couple hundred feet up the hill. The barn had seen better days. Dilapidated. It seems like it had gone through a variety of incarnations. Left the car, up there, overloaded with all sorts of my stuff inside. So overloaded that the back hatch had to remain open. And if it snowed I would lose it. Not only would it be cold to drive but everything inside would be impacted. So I looked at the barn and wondered where I would get enough money and enough energy to make it, to restore it to a point that I could at least lock it up so people wouldn’t break in and take my stuff.

About this time I looked down the hill towards the house and noticed that amidst all the neighbors that were now just in the general area a strange looking entity, a person perhaps? Or maybe another kind of creature. Or maybe a person leading a creature was winding their way up the hill. The creature that the were leading was half horse and half griffin. A strange sort of beast. In any case, I went up to it , it was very tall, and I reached up and without thinking and shook its hand. Immediately, I was in an office with a woman that resembled this creature. Perhaps it was a realty office or something similar? As far as like a small town business office. And I began to envision, as I spoke to the person in passing, how my dreams were to restore this building. Fix up the building, now, had turned into a shoe store that was somewhat dreamlike in a sense. It was a projection of an innate desire to have a small quiet little life with a nice business.

And this, of course, was now part of a Walter Mitty-like film that I guess I was a star in.

—– DREAM —–

I had a visit last night from Errol Flynn. He came to see me. This is coming from an old waterfront one dark apartment two-story. Sort of a down and outer. Amidst the old warehouses and industrial shops. He came and told me that I should know that he was an addict. I told him I knew. I told him that I would be happy to talk to him whenever he needed to talk. It was odd because I had to prime each response almost as if I was (silently) asking the question and then he would respond. The sad thing. He ended up in a place that we met nearby. They had a (warehouse) store where they had a bunch of open model boxes. Half-built plastic models of ships and other types of large craft. All on a big gigantic table resting at knee level. It extended fifty to sixty feet in one direction and twenty-five in the other. That was just outside the apartment that was in a Pike Street, Seattle type of setup. It was sad. It was sad.

—-

Odd, isn’t it? How many draw upon fantasy when reality is there and waiting. As if fantasy will somehow take them away from themselves? The irony being, of course, that most people don’t know themselves. They just have a placebo that was handed out to them at such an early age that they would never know the difference. And, if they’re lucky, they’ll spend the rest of their life searching to find out who in the Hell they were robbed of from the beginning. There are some theories that the place we live, good old mother Earth, is a prison. A prison of the mind and the spirit. And perhaps the soul. Some place where it gets parked. Hard to believe, perhaps? Maybe a physical embodiment in a material sense is a leg iron? Who knows?

—– DREAM —–

A Tim Allen character, handicapped, or something like that. His old older girlfriend is no longer interested in him. He is living in a dugout. You know what it’s like? Basically a ducted ceiling. You head was a ceiling or solo. A very weird situation that was more of a hideout than anything else. His friend was basically in there posing saying, “Hey babe! Come be with me.” She came in and found him saying, “You’re both a bunch of rats! What are you trying to do to me?” She was mad.

—-

This culture. Everything’s too old for it. It’s only allowed to exist in the temporary present. This is just a designation, perhaps? Something old is , maybe an antique, which means it has value! Which means somebody is able to sell it to somebody who is young and inexperienced with it. But really, it’s just a case of selling products because everything old is in competition with everything new. These are just terms for a showroom somewhere in the sky. No longer a mall or a chain store, or you name it. It’s just there to be sold made by slaves in the far east. That’s our culture now. Everything else is disposable, is an impediment, is a doorstop in the way. Just forget it! Old men, old women, old words. Ignore them like you would a puddle of noxious waste. Because all it’s going to do is impede you ability to buy something new.

—– DREAM —–

On a (carnival) midway somewhere, nearly up here, a young Feminist radical tricks a guy with a locker into throwing his keys. Giving his keys and access, his money to her. And then (she) turns around and says that she’s going to fuck him over. This was all supposedly because she knew a person that the guy knew. He’s an older white male so basically the idea is that’s she’s going to punish him for ‘White Privilege’ and other crimes against humanity. But he comes back with a long cattle prod with which he intimidates her. He makes her give up the keys and the money to which he leaves on the ground, initially as she runs off crying. Looking for someone to come back and take her part. Initially, it started on a bus and she says, “I’m going to get two bruthas!” Meaning two black men. “To come teach you a lesson!” This is who she is looking for. She comes back and he has disappeared. Only the signs are there and she can’t find him. And she’s frustrated and mad and everything else. And at this point the assistant’s of the man come and start taking down the sign getting ready to move on. And again she comes back and she’s pissed, aggravated, and mad, and crying, and everything else, because she couldn’t follow through on her plot to teach this guy a lesson for being a man.

—-

He found that he was no longer able to create. No longer an artist. No longer a writer. No special gift for properties that made him any different than say? . . . the lamps in the room or the pictures on the wall. Just reflective of the greater society that he existed within. His haven a small dusty out of date apartment that was a legacy of those that had fathered and mothered him through life. It was clear and most obvious to him when he looked around that he was in a museum. A collection of artifacts that in someways portrayed his innocence and in some ways expelled the notion of any other presence in the world beyond his own. A substantiation that of the egoism and selfishness that was the sea within which he drifted. Stupid phrases and connections that were made spontaneously as the impulse struck his tongue to see it clatter across his teeth. There was certain competition with the room. Normally he never played the music that he had collected in the past. One of his great hoards and treasures of material objects that seemed so important one by one that he had acquired them at great expense. At least for him. Now simply pile of mostly unused refuse. He thought about the dream that he had had the previous night. Something about a family home purchased bereft of a family. A somewhat conventional house from yesteryear. While up the hill, some several hundred feet, an old barn now in long disuse. The barn itself was large and empty and bare. Somewhat of a stable more than a farmer’s (place of) storage. It had lofts. However, they were empty. (music suddenly rising up in volume to a crescendo)

The interruption by the music from the stereo seemed fantastic. Here he was, trying to recite something that would substantiate his existence, and now he had to be in competition with his stereo which suddenly seemed to have a life of its own? The volume bursting forth at an incredible level. Probably a lazy sound engineer, who when prodded, pumped the fader a little more effortlessly than he should have. Who cared!?! This was all artifice and artificiality. Just a recitation of events, and elements, perhaps real and perhaps not, that may have made some sort of sense once time. But now, was just a random gesture to substantiate the fact that he no longer had anything useful to say. And was only following along the course of the stream of his own self-interest. A self-interest to survive. A self-interest to nurture himself. A self-interest to to explain what otherwise was inexplicable. An association with another had commenced! Someone that he, initially, could never see had any possibility of promise. And yet, little by little he found too many similarities with himself which made him think the whole experience had become a sort of mirror. Something of a revealing in an archeological sense of things long disused, and hidden, and entombed, buried somewhere in the locale. It was now being excavated, bit by bit, in terms of incrementally removing abandoned dust from what became a (descending) stairway into the past.

The past being recovered like the unknown that had been deposited upon it like sediment over the intervening years. Too many disappointments. Too many roads that led nowhere. Too many projects instantly created that lost their luster and sheen and settled to the bottom of a creek to be calcified in the sediment of lime. Who was he now? Who was anybody’s guess! Did it matter really? It was just a daily cycle of awaken and drift off. What was the substance and reason of what was laying in-between? The passing of the orb. The turning of the Earth. The regularity of the ministrations of those around him in worshipping the nine to five. And the conventionality of family and heirs, and responsibility that seemed to him so petty. Yet knowing that he was petty to them. A passing type of obstacle, perchance. Who knew?

—-

His eyes had begun the fail. Since youth he was prone to migraine headaches the source of which was equally mysterious as the frequency. At time, yearly, at times, several incidents per same. Now, in later life having reached the dubious milestone of ‘middle age’, they were arriving with an alarming regularity. One that inferred a connection with one of the failing orbs in his head. It was said by many that the lobes of the brain, both left and right, possessed a different personality and a different agenda. One intellectual and one unconsciously and esoteric. ‘Right brain’ and ‘left brain’ were reversed supposedly for some strange reason. Perhaps to confound the gods? Perhaps some lurking extraterrestial? But he could never get straight which brain was controlling which half? It was obvious that what should have been his left brain had failed in terms of wishing to see the outside world any further. Whereas the right brain had to take up the slack and compensate by performing all the worldly duties and accede to the worldly demands that its fraternal twin across the aisle was too reticent to command. He had heard another plausible theory that the side of one’s face floated about over the years and eventually became symmetrically disunified. The degree of same being according to the amount of balance in the aspects of one’s inner being. Someone being a sociopath or worse form of psychopath might have great disparities between the height of one eye and the other. The visual evidence of the deprecation of their personality suggest the marked imbalance of an inner struggle. One side might evidence a certain perversity in a chronic expression similar to the caricature one would expect to see in the classic masks of a Greek chorus, or an animated 1940’s cartoon.

His headaches though seemed to reside outside the brain. A vascular situation of the sinuses? An offshoot symptom of a lack of regular nutrition? No drinking enough liquids during the course of a regular day? A possibility of his succumbing to the poisoning of the environment itself posed in undetectable fumes of another renovated apartment space nearby within the multi-unit building that he now lived? Or, most fantastically, the possibility that those in the universe that kept tabs on mortal humans had had enough of his guff. The combined inertia of his unthinking Earthly actions cumulatively launching him into the direction of the underworld. Pissing off someone on high to a great enough degree that they were putting the breaks on that behavior. True! He lived in a world of fantasy. And reality showed up only occasionally as a distant knock on the door. something that he was increasingly convinced he did not need to heed. The summation of an autobiographical statement of a run down lack of purpose. A fond desire that he lamented that he could not still yet totally abide by. The ache was there. He found that if he cloaked his head in a large cotton watch cap to cut off the light then he could detect his own inner world with greater accuracy. Shutting out the exterior in a manner that gave greater focus to all that was passing by within. It was a strange universe. When everything visual was shut out then the unseen elements within would flutter into view to float about. Not necessarily part of his own being’s physicality, but certainly not part of that visual universe that seemed so consistently hard and solid without.

God forbid, which of the two extremes had more presence! Perhaps this was an equally persistent duality that lurked just behind occasionally toppling one’s conviction in the rock solid nature of all things? Who could tell? “I am sure that the world of dreams has a connection!”, he said. No necessarily a place that one could conjure at will, like asking a genie to take one to a specific place far away. One perfectly in line with their own desires. But a world that traveled far beyond one’s perceptions past other senses. A place that suggested dimensions but had no sense of volume. Spatial recognition inferring a hardness to the shapes that might be verified if one could snatch off the covering. Eyes closed stumbling about his place, a chair was still an impediment. An implement to be knocked into or tripped over. The possibility of smashing one’s self mortally to permanently catapult them into another world if they were not cognizant of them. Yet, he found, if he abided stillness, it was a fantastic journey. One that eventually led to a somnambulant gateway to that other world that all touched upon in the midst of night. There was no doubt that in the mind of the author that he was a victim of his own spiritual constipation. Starting in adolescence listlessly inert before a chattering television set instead of carousing with others of his peers. Yet back then it seemed comfortable to remain at home amidst many ‘sick days’ that his own craftiness could accumulate. When speaking about things like this aloud to himself he noted a strange inability to spontaneously conjure the terms that he was so freely expressing internally. Perhaps this intervention was significant of this same reigning duality of metaphysical and material? The existence of the intangible life force about him needed no explanation. An odd form of tapestry one might find in a movie or a museum. A central bureau of sorts that edited his words by slowly withdrawing his ability to use them. Causing him to dig deeper into his own slowly moldering flesh for further life.

The cinematic characterization of one’s worldly discomforts as being absent or physically suppressed as a matter of minor conversation. The lottery of later life posing what started out as minor inconveniences eventually declining one’s health into a mortal everyday battle for continued life. That little pain in the neck from over the year in working chronically overlong hours that has led to constant distress. Headaches and eyestrain that stymie any other type of activity beyond rest. Perhaps trying to sit int he dark and listen to soothing music? The efficacy of same being a luxury that is superseded by just weathering the storm, Joseph Conrad style. A drumbeat that seems to drag on interminably but eventual clear. Until that day when it does not.

—-

Mumbling’s Down A Pipe Through The Dead Of Night

Alright! I admit it, I can’t sleep. Who can sleep anymore at this age? You are more restless at night than you are in day because you have to deal with yourself. There is nowhere to hide. You can try to dive deep within your dreams but you know it is only going toe last for so long. And then you are just sitting here, antsy and disturbed with nothing to satisfy you.

And so I find myself back here once again. Resting up against that point of fear trying to propel myself forward. Loss. The loss of illusion with constancy. Perpetual whims followed with joy. Over ebullient words knowing frailty from those that aren’t around. And how tenuous it is to know from any given point that they can be no more. That is why I live in a cold kingdom with stone and ice. The solidity of emptiness. No land of this can be no worse. How can love be found with anyone within this universe?

I have been here before. And it is to my great shame that I was a coward before. That I could not take up that challenge for fear of losing someone so wonderful. The silence spiriting them away. To call it other than my own fault. Too well known, or more. It was my decision to not try. All the kisses and tenderness that has been missed. All the hopes that could have been shared. And the dreams that could have been mutually enjoyed without grasping or grabbing. But yet not withering away. But to sail constantly along. I am a fool, and I fear that I will always be such unless I can change that. Because, what else is there that has majesty in this world but those feelings of being at peace and one? All things to all people. Everything wrapped up in a singular idea, desire, hope.

I am short unwanted misfit loving who I can. When I am able. Those rare opportunities that fall in-between. Those fallow dry spells of solitude and being alone. How far from this ivory tower I look down and wish the grass that warmth. For the sake of pleasure of what could have been. Like sand in the palm of my hand. Only so long before carelessness or an ill wind will steal it away. I am left empty with sweaty palms of memory of what could and might have been. Oh dear! Passion and pain. Passion is pain ever masquerading as happiness. Desolation on a tightrope always desire to be within a chasm of waiting amidst mundaneity. Things as they should be, but never are. How can one find one’s sorrow? How can one suppress one’s joy? How is it possible to not float away like a bubble? Uncontrolled and unrefined. Is there no solution to this dilemma? To find friend, stable happiness, an attraction that might go further into something else. Or is this just froth upon a storm crossed sea? Battered up high in this conclusion. It seems though a fair response in the solution to this dilemma is only its experience where this involvement is an idea de-evolved and disappeared.

How often those women I have known have tossed my affections to the grass! All my boyish effort gone awry. That I have to sit upon this stone of sadness and rest it on my shoulder to carry around. In so many years to find a way to cast it off to begin again. This lodestone of love. This journey of Sisyphus up the hill of desire for so simple a something as a touch. A simple embrace. And that kind of warmth that goes beyond the ages. Sensation perhaps? Shared molecules rubbing up against each other superficially exchanged. But, seemingly never lasting. No static or stasis allowed! Only want to drive us forth, each in our own different way. Two ships scraping past having collided unwarily within the empty night. A view full of the deck of one from t he bridge of the other. That momentary instant an internal surrender to memory. How sad and how magnificent! No, I would not talk that away, or try to explain it. But just hold on as long as possible. That is the beauty and genius of it! To hold on before the freezing water pull you down. From below to reach forth up to a surface disappearing above to remain poised in that direction. How the moth loves the flame! And how the flame cannot help itself but consume the moth. This is love. This is how I have always lived my life.

Well. The well is a foothold. A hand clasped on cold stone. From anyone’s position on high to look both up and down, and outward. The farther one sees the more one feels the majesty of the world.
Yet one rationalizes the fact of how really small they are. How strange to be so small and yet see so large? And that desire to climb ever further upward to attenuate that feeling. That need to touch, to embrace, to feel one blending into another and feel that other within. How happy and yet so tragic! For like everything, it is only a momentary desire. A momentary feeling. For one must ever move on. Perhaps we are all in an ocean of indeterminate proportion? And as we float by, we touch and embrace and seek to find some stability. Which of course is impossible because like any other molecule we are eternally destined to be bumped along. One bump after another. To grasp at happiness and have it speed through ones fingers like the waves. Again and again to rediscover it and then lose it. That’s too hard a burden to bear. How solid one feels in one’s own arms? How solid one feels in another’s. And yet, and yet, and yet the story will go on.

This fiction of change layered upon that which one has to expect and to accept. Cessation and renewal. How wonderful to pass the torch and then to realize that it gets passed around. And all for what? To relive and live in yet another day this meaningless purpose driving one blindly forth all substantiated by the vague memories of a past that one struggles everyday to regain. Something to call one’s own. Something to stand beside and claim ownership of. How foolish this man! How persistent, this woman? Of all that one could have designated within the boundaries of this bi-polar world of left and right and up and down and forward and backward. Of cold and hot, and old and not, of few and many, and pinch and penny. And genius like pearls to be found. How silly and stupid it all is! I have to wonder what bones I will leave in this strange amalgam of chaos that I rest within?

What shape next? What form, if form there be, does one take on to experience all there can be? So, a grasping groping ever crawling forward to vaunt, to vault, to tumble, to march, to canter. All manner of ways of moving and to be moved. The responsibly reprehensible universe of this and that and so much more. Yes, it is so. To grow to love and desire to be loved. To lose it and regain it. To try to understand it. And to be perplexed. Why then can one understand in no other way but by its loss? All is passing in this universe in constant transition, and free fall, and in striding forth to try to attempt to exercise the rationale wherein nothing else should exist. Its chaos confined, hemmed in, measured out in small bits until a sympathetic harmony is arrived at.

In Hot Pursuit On The Trail Of Chaos

Because appetite for life is endless every life must end in tragedy. Something happened today. A different awareness of sorts. Well? What awareness could you have! Well. I went to see a movie about a phony. A fool that in the end proves himself to be a hero. Or at least goes through the motions. Or, he proves that he can be a hero. Otherwise he’s just, well, a regular person.

Like most men, I expect things to be linear. Point A to point B. Some sort of logic involved. Making things easy to figure out. How could I figure out dreams that involved being in a cave with my ex-wife. Being in a setting that I would have thought not appropriate to teach children some aesthetic skill. But instead, looking at her straight down into her eyes and realizing that in some ways she had turned Chinese. Inscrutable! Little if anything to say, and certainly nothing to say to the likes of me! Well! I guess this would have gone on, one way or another. Her working in the corner over a pile of scraps and clippings. Yeah! That would have gone on a good long time had the place not started flooding. Strangers that I had never seen coming to say stupid things that people in a frenzy always do. How the Hell I ever ended up finding myself outside that situation is anybody’s guess.

People like to take your rights away. One right that I enjoy is my right of free speech. This free speech may not be pleasing to others? But it is my right! Whereas other people feel that they can impose their physicality on me and that is allowed, Being in a big box store awaiting the checker to do their job I was preparing to begin my diatribe of why this delay was aggravating to me when I feel this gigantic hand upon the back of my neck. Sitting there looking up at something seven feet tall some sort of skyrise monster was imposing his will upon me. Initially I sound timid. And aggravated, “Not at all!” Acting like I’m completely cowed. The people around me like the vipers they are all with sly little smiles upon their faces. Looking to see how wonderful it is to see somebody else be treated like shit! But as I sit there and turn around to look at this beast I think how self-satisfied this motherfucker is. And I consider that one way of disposing of this pest is to unexpectedly shoot both my thumbs into his eyes and leave him sightless like some Polyphemus. The son of the sea god, the cyclops. Except of course if you blind the cyclops you have to let him know your name. Ulysses told him “Noman.” In a world of celestial observation by cameras everywhere, it wouldn’t be a good idea. But oh, never mind.

All I knew is that now I was expected to go out into the suburbs. Find some damn place, supposedly to take a class. But in reality, just to pick up some papers. Some useless fucking errand that I could have avoided. But some bitch behind a desk had decided to be a little more bureaucratic than usual. So I picked up the damn thing. And I found myself going out a second time except this was now the middle of Winter. Back and forth, up and down curves, until I reached a place the school should have been. I had to turn around again and realizing at the same time I was just missing the point all along.

A headache in two different languages. One of them, Pig Latin, or similar in terms of an informal method of written self inscription. And the other, French? Latin? No. But something enigmatic. Yeah! Well, I can relate, I guess. But it gives a human dimension. Everybody’s different. All shapes, sizes configurations, you name it! As far as different flavors of humanity? Hrummph? How do you classify them? I mean after all, maybe they’re unique! Wouldn’t that be a shock. Hrummph. Getting forgetful heah?

I was their creation. As an infant, I laid between them. There was no nervousness or feeling of impropriety as I was their creation. Equally part of one as the other. And now I am their artifact. A leftover element bespeaking their presence. The manifestation of same. In a bygone time that for nearly nobody no longer exists. I am that reminder. I am a monument that walks from place to place going through the motions of life. No real trail to follow. No expectation to an end to the road. Just every morning awakening to the same old survival. Emptiness. Futility! A humble sense of a modicum of appreciation of yet another day. Where is the wonder? Where is the notion that this is going into a parking orbit of some lesser known galaxy on the fringe of nowhere. “Who put catsup in my coffee?”

I stand here alone in solitude amidst the bric a brac of what was once assembled into a foreign land. The everyday street activity, lost. Little pieces here and there discarded as if by happenstance. Their function far from ever being understood. Archeological henpecked puzzle. Why did it take so long to build this cloud? It seems a must to sort through the fragments of what once made sense but that no longer exists. What do you hope to revive? What imprints can one take from all this confusion? There must be more somehow? There must be an explanation to this chaos. But, my friend, chaos needs no explanation. Chaos is just a departure from point A away from point B in all directions. How can anybody make sense of that? “Pass the onion soda!”

The Empty Decadence Of Night

“Out of solitude and the accompanying loneliness that he joined in the worship of false Gods and vain hopes meant for others who would be masters to all mankind.” The first line that had long ago come to him on the page now shocked him that they had come from his own lips. This was not the same person who tapped keys silently in the soundless repository of bewitching hour of the slowly passing night. His world was less involved and less strange. A more indifferent creation that relied on the tension of boredom with the ever-present mundane. The false gods in question that were mentioned could only be his ego that equally depressed had to establish vague fantasies that would bolster some sense of being palpably alive.

The report of death of someone distant and related had been impressed upon him by a near acquaintance. A distant cousin of someone on his aunt’s in-law’s side of th family. And in any case someone who was of no real consequence to him. Some vacant convention of social decorum seemed to suggest a lackluster responsibility to followup on the conversation to speak to the supposed reporter of the event. A certain lieutenant colonel who was a product of the times in being a female standing in for a male. Or so one of a traditional senseability would silently judge. His own addled senses had warmed over in the intervening weeks that the need for investigation of this claim had sat dormant. The verification of the tale suggested a certain degree of concern was expected in such a ceremony. He after all had learned from childhood of the duties of being a good performer to strangers in showing what was evidently to himself a false concern for events that he was indifferent to.

The party in question was on base busily inspecting a small column of vehicles in her battalion. Tall and lean to the point of being walking stick-like she climbed up and down the camouflage painted side of the hulking armored beasts engrossed in the minutia that only a martinet could understand. The conversation was tainted by his inability to recall her name while being unsure of her rank. The first few words an inquiry about the general details of the whom and what that was supposed to engender his purpose for why. The officer encumbered by her own repetitive daily tasks unwilling to break her stride in performing them to suffer such a fool. Several brief sentences were allowed before the lieutenant colonel fidgeted back into motion to continue her own daily checklist of expected tasks. Whoever had died had by this point been lost in the confusion of the brevity of the moment.

How symptomatic it seemed that a human life could be passed along in conversation in such a cavalier manner that might have appalled the deceased had he been aware of how little even the most significant details of identity were so casually misplaced. Concern in general having been long dispensed with in favor of the daily performance of duties that one convinced themselves were necessary and vital to human existence. A society with little or nothing really to do anymore beyond performing bucket brigade of passing notes and boxes. The daily operation of society plagued by too many otherwise idle and indifferent hands. Emotions lost betwixt the business of simply keeping busy to gain a paycheck to process and pass along to exists in a similar manner for another day.

No reward to give acclaim to the soul at trail’s end beyond the fact of simple persistent existence. Dreams a hollow venue of equally forgettable impulses salvaged from nagging encounters with forgettable phantoms that only left a residue of angst. The real fear being a suspicion that they were not alive. That all this was a clockwork mechanism of some long passed watchmaker that had yet to run itself out in winding down to an inevitable final decay. The empty toothless grin of chaos the only discernible constant in an otherwise ceaselessly indifferent universe. He could see the face of the departed bright and rosy with youth within his mind’s eye. Oblivious of his own impending doom. The hardness of his features caught up in the practice of that expected vitality of youth depressing considering the postmortem knowledge of its ultimate and all too imminent futility.

Fateful Gibberish Portending A Coming End, A New Beginning?

Thrown away in the desert of a failing imagination. Dreams of fitful imaginings cluttered with doubts. Images projected in general. Elements that have to be reassembled. Such is the state of one’s own vanity in the dead of empty early morning. Take the original and duplicate the layer within. Put another element in there and mask out the second layer appropriately. No matter what you provide, are you getting this right? Are you caught in the dawning of an essential mistake?

Awake, Awake again as if unsettled by the external Klang of metal upon metal. The thread of mental impressions caught in that waking providing an unsettling perspective to someone alone and anonymous in slow fade chronologically from this material existence. Is Hell nothing more than being trapped in the solitary cell of your own consciousness? Exhausting all the keys on this qwerty keyboard in what is now fast becoming an arcane language of a rapidly passing time! Who after all would want to be recognized for their notoriety in this present day rotten cake slice pretending culture? There are no more heroes offering virtue. Only murderous clowns that entertain the public prurient interests through the institutional retelling of the depravity of their mayhem. One’s own personal Hell would be eternally safer by comparison. When you are young you want to reinforce the notion of a connection with your immortality. When you get old you just wait for it to be over.

The billionaires now use their muscle to furiously trying to topple national governments through the auspices of the monster organizations that they daily dictate to. This wolf masquerading in a different variation of sheep’s clothing. A live ride into to town on the green line train through the ever-present insanity of the B’-ghetto. Singular escalators into the trash compactor. Pongo lines of young Japanese business men bouncing into pedestrians descending on the staircase designated “up”.

The process of self-expression is climb upon the same old monkey bars of the efforts of others. The words come canned with habitual meanings and the author re-configures their collective nuance, if he is clever. But given there are so many other foreign tongues, some related, some not, Then in that case devotion to this nuance can have an adverse quite opposite effect. The analogy of a strict seven year old reading level as the most easily translate-able another form of correspondence. Consider the current hurtle of the public access of online assets ceded by large service providers. Purposefully arcane but increasingly unforgiving of all but their own conception of exemplary performance. All in the name of the public good. All with the expressed goal of re-envisioning society their way and their way only.

The flame thrower in the carnival becomes a soldier burning the enemy with an equivalent weapon of war. Amazing in the circle of the street and unforgivingly deadly on the fields of war. You get what you deserve in the end based upon the path that you follow. Feather trimmed by the unexpected.