Valentine’s Day. A window to peer through. Who indeed celebrates it? Cupid, even hobos having heart shaped red boxes full of candy to spare. Bright sun upon the disuse of snow. Melting stopping you in your tracks. Long pursed lip pause along the fractious social inattention. Some have shopping rags. Some have deeper closets. And some are on the bum within their own long overused underwear! And yet, still others still, are contemplating a much freer life! People watch normal. Normality whatever that is? As abnormality goes, too Left or too Right. Something at the apex, or within the lowest dimension of a crevice. People liberally in surround as inexplicable as the fact of one’s own existence. Why? No qualms about cameras, static or drone mounted. Yet flash those human eyes in an unwarranted manner in an untoward direction and then catch the hoopla! Iconic visage topics undergone in tomb borne possibilities of inane explanations shunning these modern times. What a dialogue! Held in silence within one’s self. About the many demeanor’s passing by one on their way to uncertain futures. Perhaps a machine producing same existing just out of sight? Is this responsible for the singularity of the greater illusion? How do you put this mental Swan Song in print? Tchaikovsky? These animals padding back and forth behind this glass before one. Whatever the incongruities! The attempt is genuine and faithful and even being well-intentioned.
Concert time of decadent works of longstanding presupposed art. The same old prudish characters hobbling in. Some approaching on their last legs. Dear sweethearts all! All and all, faithful to the glories of the past. And determined to be as best as able in consort with the fade afflicting them. What remains within the ancient shells of these still young? Resisting that fate with whatever remains lurking within unsung and still young? Resisting what meager fate that has inevitably descended from above to rest upon the inevitable. How many will be absented from this gathering next Spring? Music that Maurice Ravel could appreciate. Sweet, delicate to the ear. Bringing forth the best tones of the instruments. Someone’s perfume overpowering but not reaching the level of annoyance. But yet, not far off the mark. Gothic old lady chic. “What the fuck is chic any ways?“, as the latest popular movie had said. A forest of hopes. All strangers, some transfixed by this performer. Some by their own God almighty. The imagined remnant of the grand salon of the Belle Epoque. Hanging on collections of fast paced notes drifting into imminent oblivion. If not cheerfully so. Pleasure and happy thoughts. Items no longer in fashion. A separation from audience to performer, not unlike from left hand to right hand. The level of respect maintaining silence in the hall growing troubling like a dumb cane. Some traditions, all ‘black‘, lodging loud protest in constant discontent from their own persistent surround of this enclave of whiteness. Something that they call in their own self-conjured sense rightful consternation. Something by the fact of their own moral lack to right of evidencing same. The slow creep of death announced so over dramatically by Liszt. Dance of Death like some Hollywood big budget vehicle summoned from a half a century past.
There was a story going around that the aliens had enlisted human governments to implement programs to implement their own destruction. The idea as told to them that the only alternative offered was the complete destruction of the planet on a cosmic scale. A familiar scenario that everyone and all were supposed to be very patently upset upon hearing. Part of the old classic continuous political harangue of ‘any minute‘ boom doom gloom. But now another long un-played broken record that still fits well with our age these days. Still the parsimonious culture of hate and fear must have its way if by nothing else than sheer repetition. So personally having a particularly boring existence without any possibility of any threat of real adventure seeping into present tense existence. The constant reminder however that all was not right with the world constantly hammered home. Not with anything monumental beyond the inability to keep constant a steady regimen of employment. Certainly this was a new territory menacing the old. At certain times of those infrequent recollection of memories of childhood the occasionally recall the joy I shared with my father when we were together. He had his own hidden child-like nature that at those times made one feel like a kindred spirit. The world has changed since then as it always does. With the expected “not for the better” portion. So what was there to do but pull in one’s head and hide in one’s shell like most of the rest of society? Or just say fuck it and step out with whatever comes out comes out. Then jump down the hole and follow it down to what lurks deep down. “Spiritual tourrettes anyone?” Who among you can cast that stone first? Who among can do that sort of heavy lifting? The past is the past. But the aliens are restless. They want in on the good life. Though they get frustrated when it is out of reach beyond a pane of glass. So they bring their old world with them. And then therein is the problem. Two cannot occupy the very same space at the very same time or poof. Someday soon everyone will wake up. And it may not be conveniently in the middle of the night. Then what! Naked in the middle of the boulevard? What is worse flesh eating aliens or a completely drained banking account? You be the judge.
My fantasy of a French girl. Somehow the topic of love got lost in the bargain. My fantasy of being adept at understanding French but not so well that they catch on because I don’t want to know too much. Just enough. Nothing to spoil the illusion of white skin beauty and madness. It is her craziness that I love and respect. Respect like I do my own. You have to be crazy and alive to last in this world. When you lose that you die. Ia am currently dead! All these impossible affinities with dolls safely out of reach. Atonement for the major fuck ups of my life. A long career of bumps in the road. Of bumps in the night. Of losing my fear of too much and therefore not respecting anything anymore. Sad possibilities of serving an infernal sentence. I want to be its master and not its slave. But I am afraid that that is not possible. No longer possible.
I want a French girl! Because I know that they know how to suffer regret. Sluts all of them at heart! Ready to sell themselves to lost causes and arrogant about it. Crystal glass playthings that fracture so easily and need a lifetime of patching up. So fragile and delicate. France being the endless journey looking for what. Lost little shanties full of wine and bead and lust. Disappointment abounding as with the rest of the world for things not coming out right but just being there. For daily operas containing too many words. How I wish I could understand them all! No, I don’t. I would rather bruise my knees bloody at an altar at San Sulpice. The ritual being a way to attract my Madonna to climb down so we can go catch a drink. Those eyes so lively. How can a man not want to drown within them?
Two expresso’s! I need to talk this out. I can’t come back later. I haven’t been there at all! I want the fantasy but the woman comes along at no charge. That is the tough part. I don’t know if I am able to walk down the gangplank and never see myself again? To wake up right now and not see the same old cracks the ceiling. To turn over in bed and find a scrunched up face that has turned into what it has always been. An indifferent stranger who I have no possibility of ever getting to know. To be able to feel comfortable with. I want to marry a French girl. I once did. But, alas, as I recall now, that didn’t work out.
If one writes for the simple pleasure of it then that is one thing. But don’t write for the sake of a profit. Then you will find yourself hitching your cart up to a delusion of riches and notoriety to come. “Opinions are like assholes!”, it has been for so long restated. Maybe the discussion would be less polemic if one juxtaposed ‘mouths’? To simply ride along the soapy bubble sliding into common popularity betrays any trust one might have had with their own truth. Why challenge someone else’s posthumous longstanding success? Posthumous authors remain ever the most popular! Even if their physical forms are not quite dead yet. The act of instilling a ‘knock off‘ in the covert sense of same of working around the edges searching for a slightly different hook is no better than selling your soul to the market. Fame and riches are not for everybody! Especially if they come up short in disinterest for another unrepentant individual. Dare one tell their real fantasies and dreams and see how long that any readership for their thoughts would remain? Yet it is the unbounded animal within that lurks without care of opinions that fascinates the most in the long run. The rest is artifice. A convenient cage of words to contain the latest rare attraction and keep it from consuming the all too willing flesh of the envious public. How the endless futility of murder and horror warms the heart of millions. To see a wolf’s head soaked in blood fresh from the carcass of its last victim suddenly confront one’s favorite avatar and then marvel at the incongruity of his unbelievable escape. Vicarious thrills in the underworld of Hellish unspoken dreams! To be both victim and perpetrator in one breath but then be redeemed by the last stanza of the last paragraph. The order of the universe as reflected in the current underwhelming mismatch of society once again restored. The reassuring imbalance that all of society reflects one because they are simply weak vessels.
So many lives undisclosed living innocuously rotting slowly within acme longitudinal nineteen-thirties vintage Manhattan apartments. You’d never know that they were there! How do they survive but in the best way that they can? Taking on the roles throughout a lifetime without complaint that are handed out much as they are given. Struggling mightily to succeed until one day they are too infirm any longer to try. Deposited upon a sofa near to unmoving peering out that same picture window to the new building across the street. Their partners rough and tumble type cut from a savage cloth that you would not expect. All roles reversed in this age. A bantam weight woman slugging it out in the ring. Her manager just some guy from the neighborhood that looks like he should be selling drugs on the local street corner but does not. Short deals transacted by word of mouth in dark hallways before old building elevators. The carpet bruised beneath them by a hundred thousand lifetimes of anonymous footfalls. That feint smell of human urine in the vicinity of a far off corner. Some aging interloper that has lived here forever but has not yet been thrown out. Clinging to their borrowed birthright mentally incompetent when it comes to no where else to go. Cystic fibrosis and the remainder of their dead parents investment portfolio to sustain the rent. That old dried out hope in dark plastic pill bottles labeled by the old drugstore that used to be several blocks away on the boulevard amidst all the honking car horns of day. No one goes out anymore at night! The urban grid along Broadway filled with cabs their inestimable number of headlamps breaking past old blinds and curtains providing a light show upon many an empty ceiling. That same showy figure gazing at the opposite wall inert and perpetually taciturn as an ancient sphinx. The flicker of youthful follies playing across the weathered stone. The quiet rush of nighttime. The sound of the external a quiet comforting sea of perpetually restless regrets. Humanity swelling threading to all exhale synchronized at once. Several more no longer moving every once and a while police called carried out by attendants in the dead of night. The barren emptiness of musty presences refusing to so quickly fade away. No route to an easy Heaven there. Or anywhere . . .
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.
OK, I’m confused? I’m a big boy. Sticks and stones won’t do more than possibly bruise a bit. OK. What confounds me is a sneak attack from a completely unexpected corner? Lets just say from someone that might be off their ‘meds‘ for the day. A perennial ‘do-gooder‘ Liberal lofting an assumed transgression that is mentioned somewhere in that ever-expanding street manual of ‘Critical Theory’ based crimes garnered from the Liberal lexicon. Something that in terms of the experience of anyone with Northern European genes has become akin to a seasonal affliction. Like the ‘grip‘ once was during cold’s season? Except of course, since the last election, EVERY day is cold season. Try for example mentioning the word TRUMP in mixed company in public. Yelling the epithet “NIGGER!” would cause less of a stir. That is a major transgression! But if you don’t utter a peep and someone calls you over to dish a serving of verbal shit that you cannot even recall? Quite frankly, I don’t know? Something about hurt feelings in a public discussion that occurred months back a topic of general world history? Huh? What? Come again? What’s the point? Nothing really. A minor incident that might have one scratching their heads for a half an hour? Little of consequence beyond minor irritation. This world seems to contain an overabundance of deranged ‘Third Wave Feminist’ champions that love to level their Liberal-speak harangue in any convenient direction at the drop of the ‘T‘ word. But what does remain shocking is that the evil beast of Liberal SJW political dementia is now so rampant within the land. Something approaching a St Vitus dance of an out of control excess of mental mania!
When one considers that the mindset of those so wrapped up in a polar viewpoint of the world that that believes that all else in terms of other viewpoints is complete and total heresy. And that it must be actively suppressed to the point that no other opinion than there own can be allowed to be aired in public discourse then there is good reason to be wary. If we were talking about taking up arms about a public figure as someone whose opinions were well known there might be some rationality to a situation of confrontation. But obviously warfare has hit street level at a small town and shopping mall near you. While YOU may not be at war with them, THEY are most assuredly at war with you. Picture that ever-trembling restless worm of a fanatical cult religious devotion burrowing into a palsied brain demanding acquiescence to it’s narrow dogma. Spontaneously threatening violent action if there is not an unequivocal submission by all others within their earshot. One could squawk about the tyranny that such persons impose? But, in reality, the discussion might be better put as the proclivity of these destructively maniacal little wind-up toys impose upon your local society.
The most logical response of, “Your nuts!“, coming minutes long past ones own foolish attempt to decipher reason with those hopelessly past irrational. Certainly that attempt once would have been considered appropriate. But from those who have come from that general fog of suburban indifference, the rules of the current political jungle demand something else. A sharp well administered rebuttal to hysterical harangues that convey a message of, “Continue your attack at your own peril.” It appears that as with many other eras of the past, the world has degenerated back into the jungle. Those who have been too long in thinking that such fundamental concepts as personal freedoms and the right to unhindered self-expression are are now deluded? Apparently this bygone sensibility is as extinct as the proverbial Dodo bird. What has been a minor irritation growing in volume over the year is now getting quite serious. The old adage of believing in the rights of others to speak their minds freely and defend it to the point of risking one’s mortality has shifted to “On guard!“, and defend yourself. At this late age, even being currently so long int he tooth, let me say that, I fully intend to do so.
“The Reve Mal” It forever seem odd that of all mankind’s devices stories of one kind or another remain the most potent part of human existence. Not necessarily good stories or long familiar ones that have been repeated over and over so many times that they seem etched in the back of one’s brain. Stories that suggest an odd unexpected conclusion that border on the temporal quality of clever. Bundle them all up and you have the motivating force behind society begging along the way of course for it to include those of your own. Case in point of those fed to you by your unconscious in the collective realm of dreams. The current era being overwhelming leaving one a phantom padding about within their own personal museum of ultimate obsolescence. That adage of utilizing a fraction of brain capacity coming down in so many ways to a base level of time spent on contemplation.
“The house was filled with a collection of reptiles. The most notable being alligators and their crocodile cousins that congregated int he middle of the room snapping their jaws as one passes. It seemed a good time for a departure and my aged mother stood at the door to the hallway ready to exist down the short flight of stairs. I met her just outside and bundled her into the Lincoln Town Car onto the front seat. Then it seemed that her older sister also was in the back seat.”
At this point it is useful to stop to tell one and all that this is but simple illusion as it cannot be substantiated by any physicality in the current waking world. And as many have pointed out so plainly when one extrapolates under the bright Sun of midday. So many easy explanations existing presenting existential arguments defying that experience as if it was planted only within one’s head by a more earthly random experience. Yet from the insider perspective of within that single head that inspired it the waking world despite all its easy camaraderie cannot disprove it noting nothing more than a frequency of same. Offering only ones daily return to habit in believing that palpable reality need be proven by the simple fact of its continual intervals of repetition. This becoming a particular delirious dilemma for those types afflicted with an acute form of solitary aloneness that has not strict the convention easily at hand to derail it from being a positive belief.
Thus those afflicted went about their daily routine with a feeling that influenced their appreciation for the their immediate circumstances that could not be verified by actual experience. A distinct disadvantage in dealing with strangers and distant acquaintances, who of course were never privy to the eccentricities of the dreamer. How this all played out in the midst of so many faceless masses only a matter of importance to the one who experienced it. What weight could such a thing have in a sea of indifferent humanity? “For after all . . “, one might easily recite, “. . .what is one man’s opinion against the sea of the many?”
To consider the difference in the opinions of widely disparate eras forever seemingly obsessed with contrasting poverty with plenty it might be appropriate to reflect upon the differences of former times in terms of general popular attitudes. Those particular ones spotted in the from a distant past offering the promise of success gained by the experience of the amalgam of both experiences. Ones that surpass in blatant symbiosis the more contemporary ones which by comparison seem near to impossible to ever actually achieve. Freely available work almost on demand as livable wages for example. The talented being able to cut more favorable deals in terms of wages and benefits based on verbal performance. “Closer’s” versus “talker’s!” The newest most latest form of sensibility being to run general society like a meat packing house where nothing gets wasted despite any potential risk to the public health.
A more polite form of acknowledgement offered exclusively to those from other lands. As those with strange customs strangling the conventional experience of others considered indigenous. You’ll be solicited along the way by vague entities that routinely pass themselves off as just plain regular personable folk. The dreamy image posed in a few well-composed pictures set in a pleasing locale dressed in appropriately stylish outfits that are carefully configured to strike a positive chord with you as their prospective consumer and eventual targeted rival. The closet thing to this composite identifying label possibly being referred to as, “THE TEAM.” A very determined stratagem of lack of identity identifying that same old corporate firewall virtually protecting the company from any need for their accountability to customers for their services. Everyone and everything treated simply like a commodity.