“A sense of recently discovered persistent weakness.”
“Down at the police station the criminals were getting their guns away from their captors. One of them, Buoy, like in Bouy Coons, was getting a . . . running away from one officer, by father being the other . . . and there got to be an epidemic.” [dream fragment]
Zizek, the currently ‘Leftist hip’ modern Marxist philosopher, takes great stock by the fact of a Stalin clapping along with the rest of the Comintern from the podium at the annual patty meeting. The rest of the assembly clapping, clapping, clapping, without stopping because, all of them knowing quite well that the first one who dares to stop will be the one who is hauled away to the gulag by the NKVD. How eerily similar to that everyman celebration of the annual Academy Awards where everyone in the room, including those people on stage, are compelled to periodically clap in unison for the sake of their bitterest enemy; or be brutally dealt in terms of their future career by the media in the stilted court of consensus focused public opinion. The ongoing ritual repeated again and again theoretically for recognizing their efforts to emulate the fiction of their roles of re-telling examples of the prototypical humble everyman. Those same creatures who for some reason, trivial or extraordinary, have been singled out be lionized by gatekeepers of the contemporaneous society for monetary, political, or social gain. This career enhancing exercise being afforded to the major titles of component professions singled out for being above and beyond in the making of these big budget lasting fictions.
The motion picture business a theoretically everyman affirming enterprise often noted for its rags to riches penchant for following that old hackneyed script in honoring a select groups of individuals along the lines of the myth of the American dream. The Oscar as a symbol of ultimate achievement and artistry uncannily similar to ancient satanic entities related to the general enslavement of mankind. The recipient being considered both for their career based martyrdom as well as deification. The televised portion focused initially upon an upwardly mobile high fashion minded of extravagant success and status where the participants are supposedly recognized at random from the passing crowd entering the auditorium. Something well planned and artificial to enhance an unconscious identification by the audience at home with a notion that these same stalking horse avatars are essentially just like them. The manner of dress of many with this ceremony in decidedly identifiable mortuary style of an eccentrically tailored funeral attire.
Incessant, incessant, incessant, never ending, continuing, ceaseless, smoking of that awful, stinky, smelly, weed. The modern fetish of the younger generation. Its sounds like a complaint. However when you throat is dry, and your choking on it to the point of waking, its hard not to be intolerant. Joy and happiness is gone. And, of course, that of itself cannot be blamed on the malfeasance of these unruly acts of self-indulgent assholes. This newer generation that feeds on the past and then suggests that their need for its nourishment is long and exhausting. Yet I, as the host that they consume would say otherwise. All these fictions laid down upon the shoulders of general humanity, the expulsion into exile of myself and my kind make me even stronger of will and in purpose. That heavy burden weighing me down to which I resist with all my might to do not any more, to do no more, not a single thing, lest it become cliche, and by that, accept it. I have not lived this long to just be accepted. I demand the impossible, and therein, I am unlovable. Who will give me sustenance? Those who do are fools! Because in this world no one can give you anything. It’s up to you to rise to the occasion of taking it on your own. Taking their disbelief and smashing it on the rocks of fantasy. Playing them for fools as would someone take a magnifying glass and hold it between the Sun and and ant colony below. Tiny little sizzling sounds as the great mass of same is instantly boiled by the focus of their god. Yes, perhaps Nietzsche was ahead of us all? I am the ‘Übermensch’ that long ago as a young man I sought for. No one can pull my statue. No one can knock over my temple. For there is no such thing, except in the surety of my own mind, and I am safe. Safe from any change that they can throw at me. I will not lose my personalty, for all roads to it have been cut off. The eyes, the ears, the nose, the mouth, and most of all, the memory. I have the bearing based on this feeling for knowing for all my life this sensation of being. And that cannot be overturned!
When those that rule this technological Hell lay down their law and try to expel you through scarcity and the removal of all things physical, and imprison you in the material realm of your former existence where time has no meaning, and the daily connection with others is abrogated, you begin to enjoy the ritual more than the experience. I am the victim of burning incense, non-stop at night. A poisoning from those below me. A demon’s brethren surviving by kissing his feet. The sign of Satan with it’s hooked nose can opener and skull cap. A black cube upon its forehead and its arms bound like that of a drug addict; ready for the poke of a needle to put whatever within its blood stream. Its martyrdom as an burned offering to its most sanctimonious anti-Christ. The notion of the martyr in place throughout the rule of society that has been transfixed upon all bipeds like a cross of gold. Hebrew apes grown up under the staff and rod of their own pharaoh. The secret they husband being their enjoyment of slavery. To be the bondsman, and be free of all cares. To indulged like an animal in ecstasy, and mistake it for epiphany. These are no longer children, but apes! A sordid species that shits in its own bed, and doesn’t bother to go swimming in the river. But panics and demands its mournful cry be enjoyed by all. A faux form of mother that will never pick them up in its arms, but tap them out like a squashed cigarette butt, the fumes of which I must inhale.
Today anything that come across the airwaves is an act! They’ve overstepped their boundaries, they’ve got too greedy! Those that control these airwaves, these servers, these satellites, they’ve overstepped their bounds. They think that anybody and everybody will swallow them. Just put a couple of crisis actors in there. A couple dizzy broads, a few near beer fags, and of course the guy in the street with the pot belly from sitting in the bar too long after work. Work they call it! What’s that? Sitting in front of a desk, typing out emails, playing on the phone asking, “Where the Hell’s that package?” Well, let me tell you, that’s not work! Work is something the Chinese do, or did before there were too many of them and their own party decided that half of them should drop dead. Work, yeah, I used to know what work was, and I am still willing to do it! But I’ll tell you what, despite the flashing lights that are insinuated into my brain, that are telling me that my air time has come to an end, and I’m still will to do it. Of course, the type of work that I imagine is ridding this city of parasites and those that are just sucking the lifeblood out of all those that should have a regular normal job, but instead have been degraded down to the importance of pond scum by their noble masters. Who, of course, love to dress up in short sleeves and declare the wonders of a Pete Bhudda-jitch, “I got an itch, my hemorrhoid cream ain’t working!“, the mayor of nowhere’s ville. Yeah, well, it’s great to decry somebody and be as clever as you can, but the reality, it seems, is even worse! “Daddy was a Commie, Mommy was a salami, and the salami is up my ass!” “So if you don’t like Bernie give Biden a pass.” “Here I am the little boy, with the dildo as my favorite toy.” “Not only will I enjoy it Sam, I am going to have you beat the ham.” Yeah, it’s all funny, isn’t it? “Beat your ham, give it a slam, another bunch of media film flam.” Every year we go through this ritual. And what does it really mean? Every four years! It means they need to refresh the oil in the crankcase. It means that its time to put yourself in indentured servitude for another four years to buy another new hog cart with its sexy plastic interior. God forbid that you should touch the bumper of a truck because the whole Goddamn thing might collapse, and the secret will out! Yeah! That’s the world that I live in, that’s the world I live apart from, and that’s the world that you are designed to endure.