That unquenchable universal angst leaving the last remnant of that thing called home. The pang of an arrow deeply lodged in your chest. Its dull ache waiting as if by an unexpected miracle that someone will call. Someone once known so well but now having no possibility of return. That possibility no longer existing. Still one goes on living in the routine waking up and waiting to it is time to go back to bed. The cycle repeating itself until it seems like normal facsimile displacing what was once considered as reality. What is life about beyond that tenuous bridge to the next second over the yawning gap of the present in flux? The next instant tirelessly fading into now. No way of stopping anything. No matter that empty stillness in surround. Senseless to play the game pretending a commitment to the waking game of picking a popular character to be. A life within interior spaces sheltered by a popular shared fantasy draped in the illusion of society and a mulch of universal consensus. That hoop skirt of science endured to remind one where they are supposed to belong. Living that temporal dream of brand aware consciousness.
He found himself at the end of a road trip to another city he was completely unfamiliar with. The look of the buildings and the arrangement of the architecture suggesting some lesser known urban sprawl somewhere along the Pacific coast. There on the street with his hands in empty pockets and no idea where he was. There was something in the haze of his fading memory about arriving there to go to a small college to speak at a lecture. But each time some details surfaced threatening some clarity they bobbed off back into a hazy forgetfulness. As best as he could figure he had initially taken a bus from a small park in a neighborhood of small two bedroom homes that looked like they had been built just around the time of the last big war. The bus stop being just after the highway dramatically curved in a long lazy ‘S’. He rode down until the street turned into an avenue and then a wide boulevard till he got off by what he reckoned was in the immediate vicinity of the university. Wandering about the city blocks near that six point intersection he found that he was becoming more disoriented. Sensing that he would be better to get back on the bus he returned to his last recollected starting point at the small park by the ‘S’ curve.
Standing there at the bus stop waiting for another bus that would take him back into the bustle of the city’s commercial center district where he had originally detrained it became horribly obvious that he had completely forgotten the college’s name. He began to walk down the street looking for any lasting visual landmarks that his previous journey might have inadvertently offered to the flutter of his inconstant mind. To his surprise he finds himself in the hallway of an old century old public school filled with young children. The sprawl of overly energetic kids and their belongings presently a gauntlet to his weary limbs attempting to avoid stumbling over them. The older female instructors fully engaged in monitoring the children so much so that he feels that his presence thus far being unnoticed might cause a stir if discovered by a fatal misstep on his part. The progression through the hall and a subsequent maze of rooms becoming ever more challenging to his endurance and maintaining the continued fiction of stealth. He collapses wearily onto a mat just in sight of an exist door unable to walk with his limbs on fire from the effort of high stepping to avoid boisterous six year olds. The man’s own possessions are now scattered about him in the playfully scattered detritus of the school’s paraphernalia. He wonders how he can explain himself splayed about in such a miserable condition as he does his best to recover his own goods.
The man realizes that his money has been exhausted down to a few quarters as he jams the most important finds back into their place. Half of the items possibly able to mistaken as some of the stuff that the kids had been playing with. And the man now is afraid that the teachers are going to notice him as a strange interloper catching him in the act of what looks like him stealing from their children. He looks over towards the door trying raise enough energy to get up enough even to his hands and knees to crawl towards the exit. It becomes evident that if he does not immediately find some way to move on that he will miss the appointment that had originally brought him to this city in the first place. Mind triumphing over matter he is on the boulevard once again hailing a passing woman on the sidewalk. But she won’t respond to his entreaties and he veers off to the left staggering down several blocks trying to regain his strength. To his surprise the neighborhood he travels through looking amazingly a duplicate of one that he had known intimately decades previous in high school. He runs into his long lost step daughter who after a quick conversations decides to accompany him to the place he is trying to find. In time she leads him back in the right direction and the board another bus heading towards the intersection that he had lost his bearings from.
Standing on the same corner with his daughter and another companion familiar to her that has joined them, he rushes off down a new lane towards what appears to be the entrance to the college’s campus. His two companions now involved in a lackadaisical discussion he leaves them behind in haste. The college is composed of several small public building giving off the aire of more a hostel than a school. There are scores of student types all with a dog walking their pets all about the parking lots and sidewalks. Back and forth through the momentary passing’s of owners being towed about by their canines at the end of taught leashes he wanders finally reaching what looks like the proper type of building suggesting administration. The residence hall looking type building next door providing as likely a destination he enters and climbs the short stairwell to what appears a lounge beset by the squalor of too many years of careless habitation. His daughter appears just behind him with her friend, both seeming more at home than the man. They sit upon the worn sofas watching the nineteen and twenty year old’s milling about energetically powered by their tireless youth. The accommodations awaiting upstairs being a warren of closet sized rooms with bunk beds sleep three or four to a space. He gets ready to ascend to our accommodations as our conversation seems to be annoying some of the more permanent occupants of the room and find to my shock that I need to pay money. Something that seems lost along the way if indeed his memory allows him to believe at this point that he ever had it to begin with. He finds out with equal shocked amazement that he is in fact now in another country left to the tender mercies of his long lost daughter’s finances to vouchsafe a night’s rest. The enfolding nightmare of this careless journey now finding the man without money, away from home, dead tired and without a clue of who to contact here, or what in fact the nature of his business was to be. All the dogs, all the kids, and his memory emptying like a leaky balloon. The temporal dram of consciousness doubtful as any sense of verifiable concrete reality beyond futility.
These days there is a default level of hopeless despair in finding one’s self to be naught but a human being. Your own exterior form being molded in such a way that the shortcomings that it accumulates pose insoluble questions throughout later life. That moment when you realize that you are simply the rider of that infamous horse that Aristotle so often mentioned. Knowing all too well its shortcomings being tied to this unavoidable beast from which you cannot ever dismount. The world becoming a very unforgiving place for the likes of you these days. And others knowing all the unimaginable trials waiting in the near future approaching just ahead will be fraught with that inflexible repetition of your own particular routine until at some unspecified point in time this continuum will come to an end. You will fall off the horse and out of this world as you know it. From that point on all will be naught but a random memory. An impression released into thin air and empty space no longer being needed. Then the biggest mystery of life will be answered, or not.
No sadness anymore for times past. Now just faced with an annoying weariness for the monotony of enduring the wait until then and having to interact with so many others who will not admit that it even exists. One might then hate the fact of a lack of immediate earthly transcendence while now still breathing. To something, anything, better. Or perhaps maybe less so? One’s own stubbornness versus the institutional resistance of all the others. The epitome of temporal existence expressed in an unrelieved tension on top of this perpetually angst ridden times with little empathy. Recreation that dissuades one from such thoughts providing more public respect than any personal inspiration that might reconcile them.
That slow incremental slide into an intractable jeopardy of recycling purpose through the trap of everyday habit. One can no longer claim to know the source of their own despair by being lost and abandoned to socially narrowed institutionally directed possibilities. One’s hopes waiting just ahead without wonder or worthiness. This finality, of itself, offering a cumulative lack of imagination as a valid excuse for forgetting all about the same.
It seems that those that embrace the world of following the impulse to foster their own personal sense of aesthetic self-expression doom themselves to perish alone as wholly unrecognized for any of the superlative achievements. That relative degree of recognition for which they strive always elusive and too often conferred posthumously based upon a false sense of prestige that has nothing to do with the intent of the artist’s inspiration int he first place. And perhaps those that are most ready to dismiss it out of a fear and a kindred sense of egotism that makes them a natural rival of the artist.
I seem to also be someone whose past periodically catches up with me at poignant intervals during rocky points of existence. Big dreams reverting to nightmares. Empty places that I fill with Déjà vu mixed with unconscious despair. But not being the crying kind, deferring to those proclivities of that once famous oeuvre of an Arthur J. Prufock. I would prefer to scuttle about my own private ocean bed in a blissful solitude. This dust barely settled from the last century being inevitably stirred up again by the conservation of its old stone edifices to serve as beards for the anarchy of repetitive structural postmodern monotony. The old being freely supplanted by youthfully ignorant echoes of this same trite scheme. And I being stricken now caught in a moldering frame with the curse of youth still vibrantly in force within.
Modern A-B-C’s of sine-wave modulation standing in for song lyrics. An anonymous machine-like mechanical chorus completely usurping the libretto of the singer who become a mere accompanist to his own star billing. Perhaps no one knows how to really draw or sing anymore and they must cover their tracks? They by rightful destiny that I so scrupulously avoided, might be an audience composed of my grandchildren traipsing about with the misapprehensions only successive decades of hard life experience can resolve and decisively put to rest. This hiatus suffered on the fringe of a roundabout of change for change’s sake posing as inspiration a reminder of so many of my own past confusions. And defeats.
Chicago, as that city on the lakefront. The main drag border of culture and commerce supporting occasional leftover halls of ivory and stained glass ceilings that by happenstance alone still serve to convey a lost era when architecture was imbued with civic personality and the soul of a future vision. The ebb and flow of errant humanity collectively motivated by common deceit to travel daily through ruts and familiar linear beelines being wholly ignorant of such purpose. Though their own previous namesakes long ago erased as a species. Something that might have served as a foundation stone for building their own personal identities now long ago been wiped out. This stasis of absolute conformity operating smoothy within an immovable continuum. Something all too obvious to the objective observer who connects with stark regularity the predictable quirks of commercial avatars too easily counted. All manner of vermin bustling about their immediate surroundings with similar missions in mind. The common behavior shared by all of deflecting all potential rivals in near vicinity at any cost.
Community now a vague descriptor left over from a bygone era out of date before computers and phone machines perverted the nature of time. Before cell phones robbed humanity of the ability to take int he muse of their surroundings at leisure and be overwhelmed with the majesty of the natural universe. Powered enclosed wagons and that natural friction come of portable interior spaces now far removed from the passing terrain outside. The palpable fictional illusion of a group identity carrying moral envy to illogical extremes fostering conversations with total strangers based upon brand names and socially supervised interests. The contingent all to happy to abandon their awkward individualisms in favor of the semiotics of outward appearances as governed in the moment by the latest styles commercially pushed by the corporate drugged culture of the most recent trend. A pantomime more likely a coverup to exhibit a silent strength in numbers as opposed to a pleading cry of weakness. A fatal irony cast by this plastic mentality that all will eventually decline into an amorphous approximate.
So anonymous at last! A passing act in the waking Hell of the eternal misplaced promise. Better to be unseen and fit in with the background rather than stand out and be an easy target solely responsible for their own highs and lows. Life eventually defaulting to a bitter brew of cheap beverage. A developed disdain for orally exercised distastes. Maybe the worst pricks in the world are the best judges of human nature? So many people want someone else to write their script so their tale comes out as a happy ending. But at this point even if they had $100,000,000.00 they would still end up swilling two-dollar beers. This era rankles at the sound of the truth being told and covers its ears until the comfort of the most specious nonsensical fiction drowns that out. So be it!
consider your progress or the lack same
compared to so many other ongoing locals in surround
some set upon a sure path to meteoric rise
all the rest plummeting too solidly upon hard ground
of course . . .
all these comedies eventually will go so tragically wrong
the fruit of youthful hopes will go awry from green to brown
each new identity lost to that collective dustbin of never known
having wasted all the useful tropes so as to clothe their clown
still one has to strive hard to be remembered thus
as the best of those few caught in a single moment known will heartily recall
it is you who have build your own castle’s grand out of merely mental sands
and neglect to note those ill fortune tides that daily reduce them one and all
strident in silence steady and true you continue forth in baby bits
holding to those many treads you step up by your own feverish pitch
and yet what sort of recognition in the long long last has this got
beyond servicing your own ignoble vanity’s ceaselessly whining bitch
so who will fill this building void that steadily lurks within
that one left by so many solitary years of constant failures known
what can you hope to find to fill it now that it has matured too late
vacant of all those things that mattered once now gone and petrified to stone
that same warm unhappy glow of a thousand times so of endless sunsets
the very ones that only your own rusting faded memory can illumine
those empty casts of characters gone the props and sets poltrooned
so perfect in the past flash of vacant instants within a mind’s dim witted tomb
a point too recently empty spent when your timelessness ran out
caught short found near naked almost in the street like any other country fool
so goddamn smart that you hadn’t built or hadn’t saved a cent
by seeking out that kind of emptiness where only other climates ruled
there found not a lover nor there a longstanding faithful friend
but just walked off blind further forward into false bravery farther afield
secured in a faith by this persistent madness of success in that empty path ahead
ever assured of what it could still one day soon eventually yield
and then . . .
the goal in mind finally in clear sight or so you think it to be
as once it was before young withered limbs began to fail
the life you once knew now fully dead and long left behind
persistence became its own reward and left you in this living jail
I T. Mordichai Mumsey, fifty-three years young, was a person that was born with a certain awareness of the world at large. Perhaps better said in mentioning a world beyond it. I was also born with an anger that seemed unquenchable. Something that had to do with all things female and being enslaved perhaps too willingly. Early one being forced by some anonymous power to have to forgo happiness for fear. pleasure for sadness and sorrow. A heaviness around the heart that seemed to keep the notion in mind that death and maybe something worse lurked persistently neat just out of sight.
Somehow I had fallen into the circle of the extremely wealthy and ridiculously famous. An internationally celebrated person who at face value lived an extemporaneous lifestyle that was inclusive of many different types of personalities as sidekicks all along for the ride. The singular primary star in their collective universe having chosen them passively without prejudice as to their backgrounds or peculiar quirks. Of course, he didn’t need to because the people in this circle, many of them, were more than happy to oblige him automatically in order to garner his favor to ensure their small part in a very dramatic and exciting lifestyle as part of his entourage. I for one had unexpectedly been inducted into this cadre supposedly by happenstance. Someone who had come by to fulfill a service after the brevity of a passing conversation that at this point could not be summoned to mind. The privilege of hanging about enjoyed by a variety of other people seemingly no different than myself of different stature and status. I knew enough to speak when spoken to and stay on the sidelines of the action but also made sure to be in attendance. One aspect that seemed strange was walking about the halls of the mansion always in the midst to change clothes from my paltry supply of pathetic hand me down glad rags all tattered and frayed that I had initially brought along. I seemed to have to be unexpectedly without trousers as the general chaos about the place made these transitions complex maneuvers around sofas and temporarily deserted hopefully remote hallway corners. Sometimes I would be caught with my pants down. All of this behavior as worse being the butt of some temporal jest but still tacitly accepted by the fact that it was otherwise ignored. Yet these encounters would still hover over me as a reminder that I personally was very very very poor in both wealth and status at the lowest end of the real crowd that could claim proper title to being acceptable. I continued with my act of easy familiarity not pushing myself too conspicuously on my host or the members of his informally royal court. This spoke to me that I along with most of all of the others was on the edge of deceit that disingenuous both to me and my more than gracious host. And I struggled mightily with myself now being under that role. It bothered me. And yet I couldn’t tear myself away and just walk out the door to get away from it. And in time, little by little, I was accepted. Another house pet? My ever generous patron was ever engaged in building the fame of his movie box office persona through action packed blockbuster movies sequels. Though he was aging he was ever more a force of nature in demonstrating a wellspring of physical endurance and dare devil regimen of stunt work that would have paled the complexion of the average army Ranger. Here and there he would deign to hold a short conversation or grant a nod of acknowledgement in a very democratic sense of total awareness of his own immediate surroundings. More and more the little tasks I assigned led to ever greater even more important ones. My status slowly rising within the pecking order of the general melange. The two orders of conversation existed, one being polite that topically concerned the events of that day. And another more salacious and gossip ridden as to who was on the outs or wheedling their way in a little deeper. More and more I was being considered as part and parcel of this scene. The fact of this weighing heavy on my private thoughts leaving me unsettled.
Deep in this crowd where I was literally camped out between a coffee table and a sofa with people milling in and out. Some for simple recreation from much larger suites while other going from one end to the other attempting to fulfill the master’s requests. I squatting there in my own form of silent self-loathing. Not liking the fact of an issue with myself and myself. Would I descend to a point like so many others where I would perform? Would I surrender myself to always being fully available? Or would it be more moral to maintain a remote distance? Or best yet, just to just unceremoniously pack up and leave? When evaluating the benefits that I was presently enjoying when weighed against all this what would I finally conclude? But then there was something else about this, a feeling of unease . . . one bordering upon fear. Something repellent and yet just equally attractive. The only analogy that seemed to relate being an animal in a cage whose only desire was wanting to perform for its master for crumbs or maybe a treat. I didn’t like that! I didn’t like the fact that this place and the people in it brought out thoughts like this about myself. But then I wondered if there was another aspect to this situation? That something much larger and more deviously subtle was at play lurking behind this scenario? Something that was beyond my own ability to perceive or easily pick up on. That in some strange unfathomable way my inner depths were being plumbed by an undefinable force and I was being used as a test case of a sort in a clandestine experiment. An undisclosed agency of some sort that was compiling information in terms of the boundaries and limitations of the human personality. That all the rest of the flash and performance was simply a front to set the subjects at ease and keep them unaware. Perhaps a sort of finishing school of a sort indicating that my entire life had been observed and recorded to such a degree that this mysterious ‘they’ could even reveal the identity that I had held in past lives. A thought that was mind numbing to the point of shocking to even consider. I felt like a rat trapped in a metal cage. I wanted to believe that all this mental anguish was simply my own paranoia dome of too many disappointments. That this situation was a positive turning point or at the very least a hiatus from the vagaries of the indifference of an intemperate society that cared little whether I existed or not. That bothered me. Yet to continue this way in this place would dissolve my identity. Something that had always been precariously in question. I wanted to be my own man but yet I also wanted to belong within this lap of apparent luxury that currently surrounded me.
And then, I had to admit that this brought out a Sadistic / Masochistic element in all this. Something that brought out a deeply held secret element from within that my conscious mind had always steered clear of acknowledging. I could only say that at some time in the past, despite sorting through all the experiences and various forms of actions that one customarily goes through in life , those short bouts of errant behavior, that I must have been a slave. Someone that was dramatically abused at will over a period of time. And then alternately pampered? And alternately enjoyed the abuse visited upon them. Enjoyed being humiliated and led around upon a leash. It was very sick! Venal to think that my psyche relished this sort of treatment and wanted to continue to indulge within. Further deep down I felt that I had been afflicted with a poison as if bitten by a snake. It’s venom slowly spreading through my body over the many intervening years. Disconnecting those cables to my independence and chaining me to something dark and unspeakable to be able to cogently imagine.
EYES CLOSED: The young director came to see me to offer me a part in his next upcoming project. Nervous, and to break the air I told him I had spoken to someone the other day else who related an interesting anecdote about the movie business at large. He looked back at me sternly and told me that he was that other person that I had this particular conversation with. I felt like an old ass! I risked annoying him further while I asked him to wait a bit while I went in the next room to rummage around for an example of my own work quickly realizing that this was a useless exercise as I had nothing that was that impressive to show.
EYES OPEN: How bright the light of wisdom burns upon otherwise cold embers at the approach of day’s end in a manner substantially far different than the approach of dawn. Those dim days of pride of accomplishment and hope of success at the time of one’s grand opening. That day of empty sorrow decades later to casually look out a window and see that great work now derelict and completely abandoned by all. How did I get to be a fool?
Wasting time hanging around those who were indifferent to my presence except as their own useful conveyance. Being worried about the quality of the impression that had been left in the minds of other strangers. Not committing 100% to those that I once had loved. Chasing after successive series of mental erections. Too easily a mark to be used by lifetime players. Wasting time treading water keeping the status quo in ‘going nowhere‘ relationships. Being unable to trust those who really loved me. Being so arrogant to always think that I knew more than everyone else in the room. Ever finding myself subconsciously chasing after material success and public praise at the latest milestone. Not crediting those around me with an equal access to sound wisdom and good judgment.
Detail orientated minor fact obsessive considerations of the caveat of inconsistent thought. Those oblivious to the true nature of their own surroundings. Do ‘grass heads‘ know the meaning of time? Or do they simply repeatably respond to stimulus in their own immediate environment with a built-in hostility. One could admit that the true definition of the concept of time is naught but an intellectual exercise in good record keeping. Or perhaps counting age old grudges? Is the simple fact of recording one’s perception of time through creating a palpable fantasies much the same as the creation of new words and terminology is the basis of science and the root of magic? Promoting simple distractions of thought into an appearance of reality is like hoping to catch a fast departing train and calling it consensus. Is the everyday ordinary actually affected by the discovery of the extraordinary? Or is it a trifling matter in a long-winded schedule of endless socially mounted debates? Does a fit objective posing as social guide exist? Or is it simply a self-empowered individualized personality demented mindset on steroids? Maybe, after all, it’s all about balance over the entire range of what one is still able to be conscious of?
EYES CLOSED: A field of burning soldiers, each one more infinitively more adept at throwing a ball demonstrable beyond that of any of my own efforts. The repeat of this experience making me feel paltry by comparison.
I looked out the window of the car I am riding in and noticed that another all too familiar building is now gone. It is as if a giant eraser is following in my footsteps perhaps a year or too behind busily eliminating my past.
As a child I could recall that methane smell of the Southside. Something that was ever present coming from the tank farm by the canal at Cicero. Going south of the newly constructed expressway meant that smell or occasionally smouldering potatoes. Now it’s Sitting on the main thoroughfare in front of a little bar. Two dollar bottles of beer on a pleasant weekday afternoon spending eight dollars in a six dollar world playing Siddartha. Recovering from a third world moral animatronic wet dream fulfilled by endless ghetto rangers asking what your sense of ‘better’ is? Neocon wrapper flavored Jooooz repetitively pulling their same old schemes. A sensation of expectation that has no defined rational beyond a feeling. Not so extraordinary in terms of so many times before experiencing the same. Need for the sake of arcane nerd speak. Reality being belief based upon the habit of belief. The consensus of belief. The need to look behind the curtain and take the left handed path. Not just to believe for the simple sake of believing.
The usual crowd of the mentally down and out. Petty political complaints fill the air. Set the boundaries of discourse. Who can find a fit topic to bespeak to strangers outside your immediate circle? Everything abounds in demoralized Ruralpeans and professional victims! Social destruction on an unprecedented global scale. And you wanted to hear about relief from same? The way that Society is currently configured is that everyone no matter how grievously misshapen who pitches in the shekels from weekly labor to purchase the latest glad rags on the customary sale racks get to expect respect from their circle of miscreants following the same regimen. No one asking question is allowed to awaken the the sleepers as that might hurt the otherwise perpetually fragile economy. But the truth remains that a pig is a pig and someone who is a self-centered self-empowered miserable human being who has nothing better to offer than the latest sports scores or who wa on last nights Late Show is damned to enslavement in Hell of this ongoing social fiction.
The measure of a person is their actions and their grit to be themselves in the best sense of same and not just another passive sycophant to the Kabbalah of modern online I-phone marketing. All the other products of the commercial empire are skin deep and don’t amount to a hill of beans when they hall your corpse to the bone parlor. The simple sense that we are all here for more than to work in the factories and provide new bodies for the meaningless wars of a society that do nothing more than find new enemies, defeat them, and then turn them into consumers to spend the rest of their existence buying useless crap. You are either yourself alone or a member of a runaway consensus that promises a feel good existence but never ever reaches the mark. All that counts is your family and those who really love you.
The growing weed patch of stoners wiped out spiritually by the proclivity of grass. A fucking passion play of suckers in a growing world of no self respect. No moral fiber or courage. As a child I took in the fumes of prosperity. Now I gag on the reek of despair. Absolutely nothing is out of bounds if it demeans the notion of a unified wholesome culture. Lets split the perceivable world into a rainbow of labeling and invite the imbeciles to cut themselves off from any hope of a meaningful consensus. Be fucking rude at every opportunity and turn ourselves into a half-breed fuck gutted Obama milkshake Neo-phobe. Loving everything so much that we are compelled to destroy it on a knee jerk whim hailed from above. World Socialism and the feel good of being part of the good people that all of a sudden have to think twice about sucking our beverage through a plastic straw. “Where are the paper ones!” Morons! What social fetish will it be tomorrow. ‘WE’RE KILLING MOTHER EARTH!” Well then why not just kill one’s self to make room for the Third World industrial baby makers? Sooner or later all of you that might survive will be carrying a sidearm. America the beautiful and the home of misandry.
“Back to those two dollar beers you old White Bastard!” How dare you speak the truth. You truth. And that IS true. An individual makes the world that they live in by the set of words they habitually speak. Society above demands that all popular music sound like an out of balance washing machine. “Simon Sez!” The ad nausem culture of deflection. You can’t shoot through a plexiglass ceiling! Especially when all you see is high heels above! Gather up all you self-empowered people and congeal your many petty tales of irritation in one smoking pot. Embrace your own self-created destruction with open arms! Medicate your undeniable urges with it as it it is a balm! A world culture where unseen Archons feed upon this distress! I can no longer believe in a material universe!