The supremacist merry-go-round. ‘Whites‘ were once on it. Then they were lobbied to let negroes and women on it along with them. Now the ‘Negroes‘ and women want the ‘whites‘ to sit at the back of the bus and get off on their election. All the while the ‘Jews‘ driving the bus pretend to support all by support none. Other passengers from different identities getting on and off any only briefly engaging in the rowe. Only their own nebulous claim to be both above all things. And of course, superior to them. Supremacy is an ego-trip. Those who indulge in it seem to puff up like a balloon that go sailing slowly to the upper atmosphere. At a certain point the bubble expands as the air pressure insides exceeds that of the outside. But the structural integrity soon is overwhelmed by the internal pressure of that ego and bursts. The best that the balloon can hope for it it has lost its attachment to common sense is to get caught at a higher altitude for a while and begin to loose air. Then slowly as that ego deflates it comes down gradually in a sagging sense of humility. Of course that occurs only on calm days. When the atmosphere is stirred up There is less likelihood that the balloon with survive the journey upwards nearly as far.
This seems analogous to the ancient Greek tale of Icarus who build his wings of wax and feathers. The closer to the Sun that he rose the mores the wax softened until the whole contraption melted away. The result being an inevitable falling back to take a fatally hard landing on solid earth. Popular Western culture is too enamored with the ‘self‘. Too smug and secure in the fact that for better or worse, nothing is going to change in their neighborhood anything soon. But like anyone caught by whimsy to step farther into topics they have no right to claim judgment about they overstep their limits. And in a society as overstuffed with everything including opinion, they are easily popped. The whole culture riding on the edge of the cliff of unavoidable chaos due to unproductive attitudes that will solidify into hatreds and quite possibly to bloody violent conflict. But over what? Who did what to whom several hundred million years back when no one now living could have ever been alive. The irony being that what is considered as the most accurate history being the province of the group considered most in power and actively scheduled by other ones for demotion. One’s opponents having to learn the dogmas of it’s opposites to attack it. More absurdly yet these same attacking groups needing to attempt to believe in their own collective fantasies that are at the same time both arcane and far afield so that they cannot bear any scrutiny beyond serving as an excuse for animal blood lust. Whatever they hope to gain from those that they consider as too dominant simply being destroyed. And everyone being the lesser for the exercise. That old adage of, “Cutting off your nose to spite your face!”, coming into play. No one able to be right because the popular harangues of the moment has made every other for of exclamation wrong. The mindless philosophy of a stirred up mob trying to find some mischief to get into so justify its ill feelings. Any and all scapegoats may apply.
Of course, seismic events do not simply occur from nowhere without someone behind the scenes expending an awful large amount of effort to get them going. The principle of finding a harmonic upon which to apply a scalar situation of discontent that effects all sides equivalently badly so that depending upon the point of view everyone is both right and wrong. The fact of the matter being that they are not in control of themselves in either way beyond simply being swept away in the prevailing stormy winds. Throughout history there are always certain groups that wait in the wings who have been born in the back alleys that seem to prosper on continued chaos. They take great lengths to not be called out in public as the instigators of trouble that they really are. Part of their art being to not only remove common sense logic from any discussion, but to convince any that might stumble upon their chicanery as crazy or unfair in their accusations countering their insiders innate behaviors. These are the human virus’s and parasites in no way different to that a similar species that affect both animal and man. Who is to ultimately blame? What can one say that over the long term it does not really matter. For to go beyond pointing out the roles taken by all and going on from that moment to deflate the egos of all to a reasonable size depriving them of the intake of further drama, there is nothing more that can nor need be done.
No engine of man in terms of an abstract governing body or popularly recognized saint of current reigning authority can take the place of the almighty of the fact that all sides remain pint-sized and minuscule before the insoluble mystery of the universe. Those simple questions of existence that the ego-bound would so easily hope to ignore and leave behind as they pump themselves up to escape same. You may think and therefore thou art? But can any in the crowd of those doing same collectively prove that their attempts are really more than just another passing fad or folly. In that ways mankind is it’s own worse enemy. The final judge being the inevitability of an inescapable ending to their tale. The story of every endeavor coming to a finite conclusion. That is what recorded history at its best can offer that those living only in the moment of their own folly cannot.
It seemed that it would be a fight to the finish? All dignity aside. Two dogs wanting the same bone. Barely any meat left for one. The dream offered little solace and it was the dead of night once again. The sky lay upon the cage like and over washed purple cloth spread upon a birds cage. No sound of snoring but a clock’s steady tic to and an icebox’s hum. Two weeks now of waking up to this skittery weak feeling drenched in sweat. A stomach full of carpet tacks. Little to say for another nugget frugally spent alone. The dogs seemed lucky! They had the diversion of each others dedicated company. There were worse things than mayhem! Maybe than even a perpetually stomach? There was being completely and totally alone. Even the most miserable of all the dregs mankind so unrepentant to the sting of the whip must tremble at thirty days in the hole. What could they do with three-hundred time three? It was so easy to hallucinate a passing auto defaulting to the distant call of a listless wind. The hum of he icebox pump now angry attempting to eradicate that. The heart had swollen up hard against the internals and the lungs ached as if a ball of cotton was heavily lodged and mucous soaked descending slowly like the clog of a sink. At least the hard inflexible unstoppable galley slave beat had not begun. The system had turned to rust. The only current pleasure being a slight caress of cold upon bare skin. The dichotomy of mild extremes diverting all the rest from total domination of all things thought to be real.
A slight and subtle crack of the the neck just below the back of he skull as the head was leaned back hard into the chairs cloth cushion. Inky dark night interrupting the clear view of the same old ceiling so blatantly apparent in day. There were lives going on beyond its barrier as well. The head changed direction and the same mantra sprung out from hiding again. The building was alive with strangers. People that for the most part one never encountered nor even occasionally heard. Strange characters that would pop out of a door on occasion making both parties nervous and generally defaulting to some insincere play of easy familiarity. All parties ready to go back to the myth of no sign of life for an eternity of miles all around. To step back into one’s own threshold! And return to the conviction that they were hopelessly and totally without possible alternative to remain being alone. Trust in one’s fellow a rusty misguided key too long unused to have any trust in its ability to unlock any real hidden store of boundless felicity. Whose fault was that? Forgetfulness was the referee right now that sent all parties back to their corners until the bell would be rung. But the question coming t mind being, “Would it ever?” The shadows of one’s own existence seemed safer portrayed by paper thin phantom’s flicker long ago recorded. Every line pure and purposefully misstated as by the reigning script. The reason for any hesitation in this world of these long past phantoms being their delivery and the comfort of familiarity that it brought one. Something ersatz human that one felt that they could depend upon time and again. It was starvation otherwise.
The sticky rubber of flaccid skin upon skin. A certain rising sense of mild clamminess from muscles set too long in the awkwardness of a body over-saturated by the effects of inactivity. Seemingly astounding how an excess of flesh imposed such dilemmas? One might have thought that the satiation of an empty gut at rare intervals was a healthy thing? Instead some demon power utterly perverse demanded otherwise. This was a land of suffering and it had always been so. Transgressors who believed otherwise were always sooner or later brought back down to earth if they believed otherwise. Social pressure and an inbred jealously that allowed only the single notion that insufficient bread and fishes be shared universally with all. Leaving only the possibility of a lingering taste in the palate that inflated one’s desire for more. Those that wanted more. That took more. Most likely to suffer the worst. The crack of the head sounding again as the nape bounced a couple times against cool invisible cotton. A reliable stiffness evident now in the neck. Sleep was now coming on as both the approximation of a night of heavy drinking and a rising burden weighing down the back. Soon, so very soon, it would be time to rise like a penitent to revisit the rack. A strange recycling barely detectable whistle war whooped as if the squeak of an old outdated wooden chair creaking under the excitement of someone to patently obese. The continuous protest of a canine? Perhaps one of those unseen distant dogs that had lost the contest for that bone?
All of a sudden! It all went away. Any hope of getting anywhere. Gone. Perhaps the body of a human is but a chrysalis? Something that wears thin. Does the caterpillar fear its own transition?
For some unexplained reason my old aging Lincoln Continental sedan was the only car parked in front of Sears completely covered with snow in the dead of night. It was contingent upon me to move it or risk having it towed. The fact that I was there to begin with subjected me to the vagaries of the unexpected. Some form of violence by parties unknown. Predators perhaps looking for just such a situation where a motorist is alone within the confines of a vehicle their perception of outside events interrupted by the thick covering of snow blocking vision. Transported almost instantaneously to the bed in my own apartment laying totally paralyzed beneath the covers unable to move. Trying again and again to roll out of it as if some impending harbinger of doom was approaching but frozen in place. Tugging and pulling at the sinews of my extremities tangled in covers that seemed to weigh a ton. but receiving no response. That was until I finally woke up and realized it was a dream. Now awake basking in an amazingly uncustomary degree of clarity in the recall of this experience as well as a building list of classic symptoms including night sweats and occasional shooting pains in the chests wondering how much more time in this material plane do I have?
What ever the drama of the night though I cannot recollect the narrative I live in the wake of that experience throughout the morning. Does it matter? I catch instantaneous glimpses in odd corners of the day.
I cannot surrender to a world that is a prison. Run by fools for the behalf of criminals. What happens when regular people realize that they based most of their lives on the lies that they have been told since childhood? Belief collapses and the population begins to hate everything that they once held dear. A sort of emptiness appears. Live a corpse without entrails. A cleaned fish. The only satisfaction possible being in returning to the myth and reliving it like a movie. A rerun of one’s life imprinted upon its context. That is a very angry was of being! There can be no worse jailer that someone who was formerly imprisoned by their victim. Who in this world knows more about someone ha has robbed them of their innermost self through debasing them. The ‘boreau‘ then becomes a form of recognition of an intimacy that is unsurpassed in relationships that have conventional boundaries. Producing pain in those circumstances becomes the most exquisite form of pleasure. To torment those who have tormented you without mercy becomes a high art. An ultimate high. That is the real danger of this sort of mental violence that is advised against in New Testament virtues. It has nothing to do without he misfortune of the victim of retribution but the addiction of the party initially offended by the transgressions of that person who they will later take great pleasure in debasing.
If that sounds more than vaguely familiar then consider that those who have remorselessly taken power again and again are cut from the cloth of these sorts of persons. People who have no connection or conscience for those whose lives they affect. People that after a while realize that they have become totally reviled for their efforts and now become ruthless and uncaring for the unintended consequences of their ministrations. Nazi’s and their much more terrible counterparts in Marxist revolutionaries who drive their ideologies through conventional society murdering and traumatizing rather than administering competent rule. The only offering being leveraging nightmares through hatred’s long evident and deep seated. Waiting like rabid animals for a chance to sink their teeth in deeply in the arm that beats them. At that point, any arm will do!
That point has been reached when it is hard to recall with any immediacy those who once lived here in this apartment. Death and time seem to contradict with each other. It was all very nice and symbolic if it could be written in old German text. A runner along the wall’s tip top making right angles in the curious fashion of a ticker tape marquee. It was time. Time to move on. One can only hang around waiting for the end for so long. The chase for an errant hubcap convinced him of that. One could barely make a trot experiencing a numb pain throughout his entire upper torso centering around a lack of lung power. Lurking below the surface of his complacency was the truth. The end was coming in one fashion or another.
That bar three blocks north and the occasional acquaintances made there offered an opportunity to reconstruct the synapses of times past. Names of restaurants that were way stations of daily activity in the pursuit of a career. The more details unearthed bringing an awareness of just how common the experience of life had become. A useful language to comfort the desire to connect. Yet a metronome that suggested that the tempo of life was dramatically reduced from what it had formerly been. That rail car of expectation containing so many young man potentials still unopened now obviously gone bad from neglect. The perpetual worship of one’s own lost youth a passing fancy not worth the time of day.
The constant loss of everyday regard in the thoughts of others left one a ghost. The entity familiar with the surrounding landscape from daily padding about it’s lanes. But bereft of friendly faces to call be name. The faces growing younger and younger and more casually arrogant to the affront of someone such as he as old and persistent as he was. It was a strange feeling to be placed at a distance from the larger daily existence behind this metaphoric sheet of glass. The dream persisted of following up on the other extreme of taking to the road and dropping all pretense of any connection with anything but the obvious fact of his age. The passing landscape of some far Western wilderness ever coming to mind. Destiny or simply some desperate stab at an inadvertent quick self-destruction? The old plowed under in favor of the new. A difficulty of plumbing the bottom depths of his own self-description as of late.
The need to self-motivate and will one’s self forward flagging. An impossible effort of spent will and blunted animal instincts. The imperative for physical survival waning. The thought of a misguided marriage ceremony with such pomp and circumstance come to naught some twenty seven years past reminds how empty and futile a solitary life can end up being. “I am a young man“, a stupid persistent silent chant that still occasionally echoes within. The promise of tomorrow a necessary invocation to proven one from dropping dead out of a lifetime of unsatisfied frustrations. “You who have had the benefit of everything!“, the mind races, “Have come down in the end to naught!“. The woman in the dream was like a cypher on a white page stretched out between the space afforded by to stylish markings of the pen. One of a long line that stretched forth the possibility of another unspecified one. A horizon ahead barren of any hope that would extend beyond the collection of old out of date memory strewn collections of useful cumbersome items. Near to the end of one’s rope. Only one hand upon it hanging loose, slipping.
Held up from advancing further in fearlessly addressing the big questions in life by a persistent juvenile fantasy of being universally liked by all and receiving special accord joyfully once again as the celestial infant. The ego is a load stone that ever outweighs its moribund proportions. This is a work world where all the noble souls are silent with ground down noses. The grind never questioned beyond a usual morning grumbling. The needless sacrifice of all he years of one’s life, your ticket for entry in the low ceiling hall of lumpen Vahalla. Whatever vainglorious dreams that persist must be ushered to the farthest most remote regions of these hallways far out of conventional view. Insanity defined as daring to rise above your station in this otherwise lackluster existence. The wish that everyone that became disappointed with you that you are disappointed with for not bothering to any longer give a damn about one! Let those goddamn rockets fly skywards! Tread your path, eyes front, keeping your head down. The truth about the human condition is that most people’s lives turn out to be tragedies of missed opportunities and unforeseen dead ends. There is plenty of company out there in the pitch black darkness of solitude. Shades in Hades no longer given the opportunity to speak. Star shells of memories of kinder times! This was the worst part! The reason that all items connected with the bygone past were left to gather dust rather than be taken up anew. Too many memories almost as immediate as the long lost presence of those people now long put to rest. Damn these holidays!
The experience of omniscience in floating a few inches off the ground. Being able to appear from scene to scene in the turn of a single instant. These are things that belong to an other worldly consciousness. To hovering entities that silently mark time in glance that remains frozen upon the collation plate glass of memory. Once that is reused and too often overwritten. Words on a printed page might be more lasting? The solidness of a domicile that was once inhabited but now has been claimed by strangers in the empty struggle for a better more secure life continued according to the popular notion of conventional. Every symptom of life as a page turned then barely recalled. It would seem to be easy to address it with a random set of names for that nuclear family that no one knows each of which trading in material objects of transfer long ago distributed to the trash heap. This royal kingdom that seems whole and a solid as a fully rational glance is unsubstantial, even though it has been visited from moment to moment, day to day. Small details interceding to aid the failing mind like mentally handy Scotch tape patching over missing elements. What an active prison this thing called consciousness?
I can still recall with repeatable precision the Lionel train set that evolved piece by piece upon the family living room floor at holidays. It origins dim as to the first time it appeared under the tree at one of the first December 25th’s that I had consciousness to attend. If memory can be trusted this ritual being performed in actuality for no more than ten Christmas’s at the most. Yet now cemented in immediate easy recall. Each part and element examined so many times is exquisite detail that I could accurately re-establish a facsimile of each today. Yet the material manifestation of same gone now for four decades or more. One would ask themselves who has built this hall of mirrors called human consciousness? How is it that a random wayward glance of almost any random assembly of objects can claim such perpetuity in the twin Camera Obscura of the jelly-like mechanisms of incarnation. The obsession of self cured handily by countless numbers of rivals each with a limited shelf life aware only of their own for most of the circular journey in place. Each a potential example of the other. Yet over the span of countless era’s barely able to claim identifiable membership much less and individual name in the perceived ‘grand scheme of things’.
The enigma of mental contradictions of size and time and identity demanding tacit acceptance yet not serving up a ready solution for that intangible thing asking questions. This sea of silent minnow’s struggling mid-ocean within a vast and uncaring net ever serving to take them from their home into the chaos of the process of being canned to sit upon a shelf with a date laser stamped on the side for final burial. Salt as a precious rare commodity dissolved in an ocean too vast to contemplate save but in rows of zeros uselessly summed up. That animal satisfaction of the abstract sensation known as love alternately termed affection in its more temporal form. Merchandised in categories based upon its persistence in our lives. Treated like a commodity in uneventful times but like the rarest most precious substance available when absent from our immediate vicinity. Contradiction in supply and demand and thus a disappointingly facile mechanism. Yet one that once defined by the dominant culture of the time more potent than any perceivable engine of destruction.
The impossible experience of inner and outer perceptions with one being a shadow play of the other. And the one given primary credence even more unattributable to anything but persistence by consensus. A new equation, perhaps a recitation of the old with a few numbers substituted or characters changed. One new line of same appearing on a screen right after that other crocheting thought in inferred continuities of singular identity of a complex being. The description of Godhood in the unrealizable realization of a single secret unpronounceable name that comes at random and then disappears in the next successive moment. The ability to ponder endlessly its own fatal maniacal engine of mutually assured self-destruction. How can animal fear expect to tremble long in such a maze? That ultimate surrender to constant daily annihilation of unused past the garbage man that comes to collect. For everything created another is destroyed. That is just how this existence phrases it, like an infinitive number of waves lapping to and fro on an eternally long endless beach.
The sun had painted the landscape below upon its Western face. The rest of everything rapidly filling with shadows of mauve. All earthly attention pointed upon it imminent escape. It was going to be a cold and blustery Summer this year. Uncustomarily so. The day had been spent indoors with all the blinds closed and little illumination save for some old reruns on the DVD machine that recounted a vague facsimile of what life had supposedly been several decades back. Everything seemed equally at a loss now as what little could be resurrected from that now indefinable place of ‘back then‘. Or that is what his answer to the abject stillness before him inferred. The day was at an end. Soon to have night slide over it like a cover. It was the same vista of rectangles overlapping each other. Some brilliant and reflective some with yellow and red brick hues all fading away before his eyes. That certainty of another day not unlike the last as it had been for so long was quickly waning as well. The original occupants were barely a memory now. Just empty quiet place holders that one left space for occasionally in the daily patter. Whatever discourse that went on was conducted in the confidentiality of dreams that were reliably expunged without he first light of a new day. That orange-ish glow had descended upon all in sight up to the edge marked by the horizon. In less than an hour or two this all would be blackness delineated only by pinpoints of random street lamps. This failing illumination revealing a hint of that sadness that plodded about keeping a clear distance of daily activities. Tonight it was anxious to come out back into these few rooms to inhabit them without apology or regret.
Age had descended upon all. The rooms were little more than sections of a museum housing artifacts whose only definable purpose now was to contain some anecdote or long lost memory of an experience. A talisman functioning as tiny time machines taking one back to the immediacy of a single instant int he past. But not having the presence or persuasive power to maintain the effect for more than the next successive instant. All possibilities in this sense had been terminally exhausted. There was no going forward with any of it. It was a trap. Flypaper for the emotions. Too many hopes for things that remained in progress but could not find their roots or a possibility of fruition. The light about the room failing blending all the items into jagged caverns of inhospitable coral. The enigmas of happenstance as left by its previous occupants insoluble. Each assemblage a shrine to some former meaning lost to the ages. How quickly human flesh decays when bereft of the animating spirit that powered its engine? Was this what was meant by the notion of being haunted. Rumors spreading about an empty space only slightly fragrant enough to suggest but never again to embody? A grand silence that only a random wooden beams squeak or distant tailpipe cough dared to intervene against. The streams of light receding to the West as if all firmament had been unknowingly tilted in the wake of the racing Sun. Life was now a soft hush of unseen humanity dutifully passing back and forth respectfully unseen at the end of another day’s labors.
The landscape extended below was now simply a quilt. The final embers sinking to ash and smoke in dissolving sky chariots relieved of gorse and rider. Their drift slow and inevitable in procession back towards the East. Whatever eulogies that had long ago been offered now floated about as if perpetually contemplated yet never said. The audience of friends and relatives now strangers. Perhaps stranger still than the rest of humanity unmet. One could consider the vast fortune in knickknacks now lost to anonymous shelves somewhere in small resale shops. Those rewards awarded for the special moments dispersed and unrecognized now for the meaning that they had once represented within a single casual glance. Gifts no longer wanted or treasured. Death could not be defined as pain but forgetfulness. Certainly not an individual thing! But of entire worlds and societies whose ways of life could not longer be fathomed. The accomplishments and complexities of entire lifetimes returned to the invisibility of simple elemental molecules inhabiting the endless oceans of water and air and dust. Undignified and unsympathetic to the conscious longing of a broken heart wrecked upon the shoals like the broken back of a long forsaken schooner. Abandonment in the fact that whole worlds of thousands of years of communal experience were singly no longer there. The only repository left signifying the meaning of an entire life’s struggle themselves waning. Falling into the hollows of stillness and silence garnering no companionship or interest of others with which to pass on this saga. The absence of chaos, and of sound or echoes. Forms melting into the absence of illumination. Slow incremental motion of static whirlpools deteriorating within endless undefined regions in the emptiness of space sinking towards a deep unreachable place. Unknowable. Untouchable. Gone.
The last thing that I can do is to say that I am a failure. I can acknowledge my mistakes and misdeeds. But I cannot allow myself to not believe that tomorrow I can turn it all around. If I do I am dead. I am my families final chapter. They live within me. I am their history. Their entire lifetime all within me. Does it matter to the world? It matters not. They meant something, their lives and the dreams they instilled within me. I am their future as well as their past and I have gone fallow, Deep down within under the rubble of a life collapsed is the same little boy that would run to the comfort of his daddy’s arms to feel the love that was too quickly extinguished by the rueful circumstances of unstable life. In the end, I found much to our mutual regret that I had not cared as much for him as he did for me. At least not till he was past caring taken away by the inevitable natural cycle of birth and finally death. To late, my heart poured forth once again what it dare not admit while he was alive. Such was the great degree of my latent fear within. A fear that my sense of being in love would no longer be welcomed as an adult. A fear that I would have to surrender to the crushing mark of being a failed son. The one and only that could not outgrow his father long and ever widening shadow. In that I felt that I had truly failed. How could I not? He was a much greater man than ever I could have imagined. Than I found that I ever could be. Great because despite all the bad hands that he was dealt in life, he continued to persevere despite insurmountable odds. Angry sometimes? Sure! But never despairing always heading forward despite sheltering both my mother and I despite his own meandering inner flaws. No monument in my estimation could ever be built high enough to match his humble stature. A man who lived in the shadow of that larger than life personality that he himself created. Someone that despite how brash and brusque his unrefined manner appeared to me at the time would much later elicit posthumous comments of how that same demeanor would be sorely missed. Someone that many from all walks of life felt that they could call friend. This was the pattern that defines the direction of the weave of the cloth from which I am cut. My father. Someone that I so often regret the loss of and harbor that desire to be beside as I once was before. Just to reach up and find his warm hand holding my own yet again.