[exclamation] Here I sit on a Grant Park fountain square bench. Pondering Wakanda. Definitely a land of holograms! A Hebrew Mambo crypto-conspiracy rat trap. High rises around the Loop going up skywards everywhere. Global Utopia in progress. Only around because of the down breeding the 99% of humanity they pose as useless eaters. “Get rid of the Europeans first!” They are the gravest dangers to this shit house plan. Well? “Heah Baby” Disappointment is my middle name. Move on and get better. (no calls please)
The Grand Parade! Baby in its trendy wheeled hatchery. The latest glimmer, pain,pain,pain. “My neck has an axe in it!” Electric guitar in the customary fashion. There seems to be a great deal of company for the lovely. But don’t expect a kind word or noble gesture. You are just televised there but not so. A simple sentinel.
The awkward romantic. A good kisser, only if you take your art in consideration. Every thing overtly sexual is buried under the rubble of a former age. That magic has cleared out of my physical being. A calcite carbonate cocoon. My ass on a wire bench listening to useless echoes in an emptied station going nowhere. Yet when I open my mouth my plans tend to fall far inside. If not smooth as silk upon the movie screen. To resurrect a body when emotions have long ago flown off from it. Too much disappointment like sediment. Like sand! Like gravel! Like limestone! My inner being is a bird that flutters back and forth within this concrete tomb. But can you write between the lines to find a key? The person inside has always felt the same. The person outside does not. Yet the demons of the past failures hover patiently waiting overhead. That’s where it ends up. [tomorrow]
When I was nearing my graduation from high school, it was impossible to imagine living another forty-seven years. A late ‘boomer’ in residence from childhood from the staged fright of the atomic era. Now, as a prepare to return to the halls of my alma mater for the second time since then I wonder how much in me has changed. The pair of loving parents have gone on to eternity. The friends I once knew there are gone being even dimmer memories. The confidence come of the backing of my family had disappeared. The personal sense of assurance in my talents and my failings bolstered by an oversupply of experience. Here I sit contemplating what emotions will be reawakened? The randomness of brief incidents flashing in my minds eye. Brief visions from varied porticoes of classrooms and parking lots. Trudges through wintry blizzard prone days in slush and snow to and fro along the major thoroughfares. The err of inappropriate wardrobe to fit in that first day as a freshman. The beginnings of my art career in being recruited to paint a wall sized banner on the occasion of my states sesquicentennial.
Now those same halls painted garish blue and cream white and choking off any possible post tense sentimentality. Walked again like the condemned to witness how small and insignificant an upbringing can be. Only the spark of some inner imagination able to paint glowing imagery on what must have been a droll period of youth indeed? How cosmopolitan and staid I have become indeed? To peer into this stony mirror and return back to my center and judge it so harshly? Good times. Bad times? Times that reflect the personal decisions unconsciously made the collection of which constitute this final eventuality. Stamped out along with all the rest of my generation into a recognizable cliche. Sure! Yet, somehow different? Something elusive. That something suggesting that one one muffin in the pan would not be cooked to that expected perfection to match the rest. An outcast who can no longer find a convenient mentality to cast boulders and stones upon anyone. All bipeds treading upon two slowly withering limbs sooner of later achieving that pathetic equality of ancient in mortal years. What mighty works have I made to wither this world into more despair that it already withstands? Someone burnished by the obsession of purpose. That dirty little fear denied. There may not be one?
This private ongoing conversation with you. You, whoever you are. You my friend. You my enemy. You, and just you! The mental fiction of the whole wide world beyond these words. This endless stream of myself that I send skyward in the fiction of my heart transcendent. Some form of wishful immortality to be heard at last. To call out and know that all this lonely struggle was not simply for not. To you who I will never know. Assuming much along the way that such a thing could be possible. There is no strident sound breaching my reality of some sharp tapping upon a water pipe in the dark of night! As if I were in a tiny prison cell. And this same prison being the world outside that cell of me as myself. I would like to believe that all the world is mine. But I unfortunately am of it. Something I will not see! But you are beyond all this! In storied castles or dark mud huts. Anywhere and everywhere. Waiting in the realm of my own fantasies to hear how I explain you in some small part from the tiny pieces of myself. Old rags from the previous day’s washing hanging out to dry on this ethereal clothesline. Who am I kidding?
To you my best confident! That I am never in danger of knowing. Of ever saying, “no!” But just staying there perfectly silent as I find new ways to speak my truth. Yet never to offend.”Impossible!“, you may say? But then my lips are your words. Vainglorious notions that all these well-worn symbols of currently imposed colonial patois splatter forth. That will serve as fit language and will penetrate. How selfish I’ve become? How pathetic this symbolic death of verbal commerce evident within my own land? That my own kind and I are so wrapped up fatally within ourselves? That we fear the weight of so many others just like ourselves that might steal the very oxygen from out of our breath. What fools! And yet this nagging fatal impulse to cast loose my shell and fly forth into places unknown. Unknowable! To conjure and to fly off further still. You and I, we form this very flock of restless birds as tireless as the Sun. Daily put upon to rise and fall and then rise again. To renew ourselves by these hopes, however impossible and flawed. To reach out and hope that hope that there is truly someone else there that understands.
Solidity is an illusion. Why? Because that is what is official transmitted through the contemporary mass media as incontrovertible truth. The big voice that stunts the effect of any other one competing with it. The individual counts for noting if pitted against what is simultaneously repeated daily by millions of other tongues as absolute fact. Yet those who defy same and have the provable facts to recommend them still must be counted for naught. They are afforded the label of superstition and considered possibly as being magicians who can wield powers of prognostication heretofore yet unrealized by the masses. Masters of time and space in fiction and fantasy that are deferred to a good tale. The balance between the annoying persistence of ever present chaos that cannot be efficiently explained away fast enough and the precision of an iron safe heaviness of those ever congealing universes of words that specifically attempt to anchor the same is always in a competitive flux. Though that little that is perpetually factual results in the constant business describing the indescribable with newly birthed terminology. And its relative effectiveness comes down to matter of finite weights and measures. You can count and possibly manage that which you may perceive. Yet since perception has varied qualities in terms of size and time in terms of structural integrity. Factors that even in their most constant sense of immobility eventually are demonstrated by some authority to be ever in flux. The perception of one’s existence may simply be a matter of collision with intersecting vectors that are in different degrees of transformation. Civilization depends upon the ability to precisely quantify all experience and keep the evolution of new explanations fresh enough so that they are perpetually accepted by the members of that society.
Power over society then is defined mostly clearly upon the ability to seamlessly convince others without controversy. The main tools that are needed to enlighten but in reality simultaneously confound are an organized ability to produce specific terminology to fit the demand of the moment. Ones that are sufficiently arcane as to not be generally understood but permeable to the tongue of the embedded cabal of reigning ‘universally’ recognized experts that reliably assent to the veracity of this latest patchworks upon what is loosely considered reason. The most persuasive groups being those who are clever enough to keep themselves positioned within a place where they can do both. And keep other competing groups fended off from the means of distributing to the masses a better devised more convincing set of terms. Even though they may be mere stories posing as plausible theories ready to overturn those others that are currently in force. Find any society and note that those in power always have both preferred access to ultimate control of the social engines of everyday discourse. Yet power congealed upon a few breaks down when the overbearing weight of a society neglected due to fantasy standing in for materially provable facts. One that has been overly defined and ultimately unwieldy to efficiently provide resources through wordplay for its population. The progressive increase of influence of a group solely in charge of the ‘dictionary’ eventually imposing a break in communication with the great mass of those that are considered functionally illiterate.
It is no surprise that subset cults form based upon ready illusions of common experience that may have a physical rationality based upon terms describing appearance and specific customs. But in fact are equally based by an equivalent sense of membership seeming more believable because they have managed to define where the boundaries of their explanations are overcome by those of another equally discrete but overbearing group. A larger continuity comes not in these details by one specific cult that has the most influence over another. But by the similar mechanism that all groups employ towards their own particular flavoring in attaining the same goals. The definition afforded to the surrounding chaos that remains lies just beyond the group’s perception becomes a confidence game. A war of plausible fantasy of one group versus another slanted specifically towards their own interests. Here the current religious devotion to the historical world view of Science as evolved from the genius of the recent physical dominance of West cultures over the last several hundred years have successfully displaced the cults of past religion. The utility of the former being in no way different than that of the latter. It is not that the average person of today conceives their own realm of experience any different in a substantial manner to that of the lives of their distant forebears. The focus derived through the employ of modern description prejudicing any accurate understanding of things past that were derived from a different set of terms. Those existing in the present tense having just been educated in a completely different tongue that seeks to maintain a semblance of past terms that evoke a partial collective memory of that which once reigned universally supreme way back in the distant past.
Perhaps the reflection of societies from the mirror of radically different organized species that seem mindlessly mechanical and self unaware can bring a new light? Given that their rigorously repetitive behaviors are equally a matter of discrete communication which to outside observation remains completely arcane. The organized chaos of the ant kingdom being very possibly no less cogent to a larger appreciation of impenetrable chaos surrounding the same version of imagined chaos that seems to threaten to envelope our own. A simple description advancing this postulation reliant upon the very same communal mechanism guaranteeing survival by a communion with others in finding logos perceptually universal. Perhaps from a higher viewpoint the institution that supports this sense of the accepted rationality being complete babble to the sensibilities of entities far above and beyond our own? The notion of our own perception of intelligent design as reigning from above not necessarily demanding the necessity that those who might have effected it would be aware of another. Our own resting far down below on a rung equally imperceptible to them. The method of organization employed all these realms reliant upon the ability or a member of same to conceive of something outside itself and a restless ability to find new ways to convey this notion. Words or their equivalent modes of transmission being the key to the expansion and future growth of the subset of life at large.
Orwell would have been proud. That is, if Orwell really admired his own sense of vision about the world falling into perdition. The worldwide system of communication that initially had been free of constraint. But now one had to fear that one would be secretly singled out and barred for some arcane reference to what those who ran and controlled the system might consider as “inappropriate“. News items both real and ersatz were daily broadcast on tributaries of the larger upstream news wires. Liberally documented with what appeared to be grassroots phone captured video footage peppered with high quality ‘mood’ photos. Material designed equally as much to confuse as to clarify. Cadres of ‘trolls’ up and down the stream of information muddying the waters with enthusiastic disinformation cast in negative emotions urging ‘knee jerk‘ animal response from the average viewer. Pick any rabble rousing era in history and compare the genius of employing the crowd dynamic of schizophrenic single-mindedness without the actuality of a physical mass of humanity standing beneath the same tree. The virtual victim handing their plucked rhetorically by the neck swinging before all. The mob stirring its ire and rebounding ot back and forth between anonymous sources. Some actual personages and others paid agitators of the state apparatus who egged on any so foolish as to let their pent up emotions fly forth into typed text. The robust mechanics of this unified system growing ever more voracious for raw data. Collecting, organizing and storing every aspect of what was so foolishly inputted. Assaying the time and frequency of keystrokes. Building dossiers of cross referenced preference to model the behavior of the faceless individuals based on time of day and the voraciousness of their actions in accordance with the category of latest event.
How foolish anyone was to abandon their accustomed modes of real world discourse with their fellows in favor of the promise of a larger theoretically more admiring audience. A figment of one’s imaginary ego bound desire to find and have universal acceptance with the fiction of others that thought and felt and acted in consort with their own supposedly unique point of view. The opposite of this situation of course being the case. Liberty, as it once was known had become a sham. The general population no longer willing to mount inconvenient notions into any form of ground level immediacy of physical conversation. Preferring instead the absurd antithesis of what was in fact completely monitored discourse with what was in fact an artificial avatar of the state. The streets and byways of the land growing quieter by degree as the masses of humanity chased their own tiny personal handheld devices. Their rapt attentions ever focused hopefully on the appearance some small byte of information or string of text from some remote unseen source with a familiar ‘handle’. A world enslaved. Removed physically from the waking world and thrust into a consensual illusion of daily accessible mass communication with the mental construct of a diverse and accepting multicultural audience. Who knew anymore if their pen pals were human or just artfully guided collections of electrical impulses following algorithms set up to recapitulate one’s own previous responses over inauthentic events that to one’s shock might have never occurred in the first place. The hint let out from on high every once and a while that this was indeed the case. That the whole experience was a trap. A stratagem devised to create mass hysteria and then study the reactions of the two legged public at large. Like rats condemned to the pernicious curiosity of psycho scientists forever changing the maze keeping them away from food and fraternity with their own kind. Cruelty and perverse intentions conducted all in the name of a soul crushing ever-voracious Babylonian Hebrew deity Moloch whose fires needed to be stoked minute to minute with fresh bodies and fertile minds. The offerings to this fire illuminated drawn from the personal commitment of the unwary not understanding the danger in so frivolously sharing their innermost thoughts with this infernal beast.
The collective entity of humanity counted and the sum total of their thoughts, hopes and dreams added up and then recycled back to them in some perverse form of twisted reflection advocating further abstraction from the self in promoting the purchase of highly prices useless articles to enhance the ‘realism’ of the experience. When in fact the merchandise was simply a more intricate form of mental encroachment promising everything to its new owner but delivering a time wasting enhancement of sequestering more minutes of devotion during the day to steal away one’s mind away from one’s self. Everlasting temporal fame and the most up to date membership with that imaginary elite lurking just below the surface of awareness of the growing obsession for satisfaction of the same growing like a cancer obliterating the normal personality expressing anything individual. The entire society de-evolving into insects nervously seeking out their own kind trying to find their hive. The monsters administering this system either completely blind to its eventual ramifications or so morally bankrupt to only acknowledge the thrill of directing so many hundreds of million lives with the casual touch of a few keystrokes. The notion of enjoying an absolutely unique self as once considered the most enervating element in existence now close to extinct. The age of parasites feeding on the soul of humanity now having progressed into full swing.
Those who grow up under the shadow of constant guilt live alternately in a world of ongoing reciprocal hate. It’s indentured in their view of life and in themselves. Perhaps their perpetual venom spurs on the procreation of great things in their vicinity? But it is merely and outgrowth of an unstoppable obsession to one day carry out the long-planned vengeance of their unconscious upon the world around them. Both in part their near vicinity and as a twisted construct of their mind as in a whole. Something that the history of tit for tat prevents from occuring as this accumulation of negativity inspires a counter force that matches them in its virility. Thus their knowledge of their lellow creature is honed to perfection in a more complete way than any of their rival groups. They are survivors first and tyrants in the present tense leading on to forever.
If anyone doubts this fact they are not well-acquainted with the word that they have created. One where the wonders of technology have been ruthlessly tasked with daily spreading innuendo and doubt about every positive topic and trait imaginable. Where the opportunity exists the rush to capitalize on every seizable resource is a whirlwind of unstoppable change for only the purpose of itself alone. The society that is raised up on the lands cleared of any hint of a yesteryear becomes a wrap that is drawn closely around all to insulate it from the possibility of a knowledge of any other form of existence. The result is a mono-culture that only admires the achievements of others projected upon the incessant bloated ego of itself. The ability to cast blame is an exceptionally proficient resource that spans he centuries wherein any opposing party is painted with the most egregious sins of the painter. Pick and villain from history and read what few facts of the story behind them and find a complete distortion of same predominates over the pretended veracity. One could not go back to any previous time their brush has touched in a proverbial time machine and find a reasonable semblance to the fiction of the preent that has been long and carefully implanted in the consioussness of the present.
Who do I speak of? This seems apparent in a popular sense of specific groups or individuals that are repeatedly targeted for one reason or another, fairly or unfairly so. The determining factor for bringing veracity to prove responsibility one way or another is itself a well rehearsed carnival show. The truth of the matter suggests that the true movers and shakers making the decisions are cloistered behind the scenes and most probably may never be revealed to the wrath of the public. And therefore they evade any responsibility for their actions or crimes. It is those who take on the public faces as spokespeople and avatars who will bare the brunt. It can be fairly said that all the cliche’s about the socially accepted impressions of the who’s who of both good or bad are most probably innocent of the majority of criminal actions that are piled upon them. Those who really run the show over the long run of world history count on this in order to maintain a continuum of the transfer of power. Consider that any influence that is so ingrained into the overbearing structure of the matrix of world society being quickly removed will result in chaos. To see a dramatic change you must suffer through the most dramatic of situations. Since most at the top of the pyramid are sociopaths completely indifferent they depend that the bottom rung is totally moral. If that lower segment changes over to the same sense of moral depravity then the whole structure will cave in on itself. Chaos in the form of starvation, armed conflict and an interruption of the necessities will be inevitable. Thus those in control have the rest of us held hostage in a manner that a terrorist with dynamite strapped around themselves has his victims in a locked room his finger applying constant pressure to a switch if released will set off an explosion that will kill them all.
How can one defeat something that they dare not attack? Certainly not by a frontal assault. But be incremental but steady divirgence from the game plan. This is what these elites fear the most. That their subjects will gradually be unmoved and independent of them and exhaust their ability to guarantee themselves that change will not occur. We are not talking about tyrants that sleep well at night! But those whose fear slowly begin the consume them that they are becoming insignificant. Then their empires begin the fall apart. Shakespeare’s character, Macbeth may be the most famous analogy. Your own fears make you your own worst enemy. The vacuum produced allows for a shift that can be exploited. New paradigms. But in order to do this one must truthfully re-examine the dogmas of the past. And worst yet! Be willing to mercilessly take ones slef to task to discard them. To not make up excuses or accept arguments that split hairs. The prerequisite being to accommodate an absolute sense of truth as best as one can discover it. This will never be a hundred percent provable. Maybe not even eighty percent. But the overwhelming truth of palpable experience will outweigh all the polls and think tanks and scientific papers. The complexity of interactions by the main body of humanity define its character. If everyone thinks in terms of fighting and continual conflict then it will come reliably into being. If on the other hand that is not the most talked about topic it will dissipate and eventually disappear from the agenda. Quite literally, it is up to all of you to toss out the trash in your own lives. For only you can put out forest fires. And I would say, it’s about time.
The old codger sat at the end of the bar by himself enjoying what appeared to be a cigarette. But that particular favor was merely a gesture of the hand and in the reciprocal look in his eyes that were burning a hole into the wall next to the bar through to some past well-recollected thought. He sat there for a long while quite content in an odd way. Not begging any attention from any of the others in the place. His age being visibly significant for even this crowd made it possible for one of the younger members of the casual midweek set less cautious enough to push his doorbell by sitting next to the old chap. Many moments of silence transpired between the two. Though it was evident to both that the curiosity of the younger hipster would eventually bring some sort of reaction from his elder. A certain tension slowly built up though the only visible sign came in the form of mutual indifference. After a while the old gentleman turned slightly to starboard and in a quiet voice versed, “You’re not with John Law, are ya?” As to whether this was a serious enquiry, this was answered after a moments pause by a wide toothed grin by the old ‘bodger’. The young fellow’s conflicted attitude a lapse to the inconsequential in the regard of the context of the question. “You know son, many a lad like yourself when I was having my Tufnell park about the Ringo Starr in me Liz Hurley days who was taken a risk of a natter with a bloke always went about their Frank and Pat without a pot o’ glue!“, said the old fellow smiling as he totally confounded his would be companion.
“I don’t understand?“, said the younger of the two completely confounded. “No you wouldn’t now would you mate!” “Not as you and I are not from the same park. Speak’in to Glasgow Rangers from a field of wheat other than your own, ya never knows the reels of cotton blokes one is likely to encounter?” “True enough, whatever you said?”, the young man replied with a slightly quizzical expression. “Well, you’ve got you Butcher’s look at an old Cockney lad!“, the old man said looking the youth straight in the eye. “So what’s your Glen Cambell with this Bacardi Breezer?” The young man smiled without earnestness. “It’s a bit Kym Marsh to tick tock on another’s fore and aft when he’s out for a ball of chalk on his own?” At that point the young man skittered back his chair on the floorboards and after a glance back towards the old geezer began trailing off into the shadows. A firm hand shot out and grabbed firmly along the elbow of his arm. “Wait!“, rang out the other voice. “If you are keen for a story then I’ll tell you one.” Half off the bar stool the youth sheepishly climbed back up. “I’m sure a game lad like yourself has plucked a Gooseberry pudding or two.” “Maybe stuck some new life into your bread knife?” “You may know as well as any how a Misses can run your Chinese blind?” “Keep you Chicken Oriental round like Johnny Horner without any Piccadilly Percy!” “That’s a woman for ya alright!, he continued looking off in the direction of the empty wall minding its far off pasture like some old shepard of old memories. “Keeping ya in a Robinson and Cleaver all bleed’in sweaty and sich through the blooming night!” “So you’re telling me about someone that your stuck on?“, the old man’s singular audience replied. “That’s right son!“, his senior replied with another far away glance in that same former direction of nowhere. “Not just any, of course!“, he went on, “But that one that keeps you Brighton Sands all David Blaine for a nightly squeeze!” The old guy pondered the confusion in the young man’s eyes. “That sort of Jack Palance might send you off your lump of lead and who gives a Henry Neville? “But this sort of Newgate gaol goes on after many Forsythe saga’s try’in to figure those West Ham reserves from just another shovel and pick!” “Am I mak’in any sense to ya my son?”, said the gray hair somewhat winded by his exclamations. “No!“, came back the younger’s curt reply. And with that off the young man went skittering to the far side of that darkened paradise to join some other fellows. “Well then!“, said the old man first looking down at the bar’s edge and then back up to his former bygone vista that still waited patiently at the far corner of his mind’s eye by the bar’s side. “You’ll learn!“