Sitting on the main thoroughfare in front of a little bar. Two dollar bottles of beer on a pleasant weekday afternoon in an otherwise six dollar world. Could I have been thrust back three decades or maybe more? Bottle one, three quarters downed. Everything in this world stands out looking pretty in this afternoon Summer light despite the fact that all those young unknowingly to themselves will eventually grow old and ugly and die. Those fatally youthful within stay within and I sit outside. A gratuitous compromise that is if they are lucky. So I sit here by the highway where my personal river flows. And old Siddhartha counting heads and distressed truck logos as they whisk by. Counting out humanities’ folly as I recollect my own. It could have been any number of decades held in one hand dispatched from a deck of unpromising cards. In olden days before television and radio were born people sang songs in bars. Sang out like they often might sing at work before factories cropped up like weeds to hold un-Godly sway. No hurry for the tortoise far off and alone on some distant beach’s crafty sands. No haste for the tiny reptile inert within the remotest desert full of same. We all share this sense of peace as equals. Perhaps wondering where our next meal will come from in the back of our minds? But pleasantly satisfied none the less! Better off than this societies phalanxes of whining cuck’s! ME? A sailor on the beach. No fucking TV babysitters to tell me the time. Thank you very much! How nice to think that I have forgotten my own name yet once again. Just be what I had in childhood. Just be! Solving puzzles with my eyes unfolding miraculous dilemmas of the mundane summoning cooked up magic from them. Magnificence in a single penny! Drinking always a matter of balance in quality versus quantity. And as usual, a steady paycheck in this world will always get you out of Hell!
“Never trust a Woman if you’re down and out.“, the mental signpost blurted out. “A wise saying?“, he thought. “Maybe a load of self-sanctimonious sour grapes!“, he replied without another thought automatically knee-jerking again. “God!“, he continued in his silent mental amphitheater. “What sort of species is this that constantly reviles it’s better half!“, he unconsciously spat forth without mental counsel yet once again. The aging forty plus ingenue impersonator pushing through the revolving doors of the apartment’s lobby. She sauntering across the stretch of tiles easing to a stop just beyond the building business directory the phone in her palm posing as a compass. “Can you tell me if there is a methadone clinic in the building?“, she casually asked. “Methadone?“, he silently restated to himself while flash images of drug addicts and penny whores Rolodexed beneath his skull’s cap. Red warning lights were going off echoing silently back and forth between his ears. “What was this?“, that invisible little man charged eternally with nagging out unwanted advise snarled within, “A Starbuck’s washroom?” “You must be mistaken, Maam.”, his public voice replied, “There is no clinic of that sort in this building to my knowledge?” To look at her was to see a well-supported suburban housewife with two children currently enrolled in middle school in a nice neighborhood somewhere. One might have wondered at the incongruity of such a quest had the clock been rolled back some three decades. But things were different now. Totally different to the point that he wondered if he were not still living here would he recognize it. The mind playing funny tricks in trying to persist in maintaining past impressions as present tense realities. She seemed attractive and despite the fact that he could have been the age of her father, had he married a child bride, he felt kindly toward her. “Another alarm bell!”, the minder within pointed out. He couldn’t grasp the idea of ‘femme fatale‘ as a concept of inherent unrepentant malice. Well he could intellectually commiserate with the moth when it spotted a flame. And he of course with an emotionally broken toy. A combination that had more than a baker’s dozen times had broken his heart.
“Men are so stupid!“, his own voice chimed in on behalf of her expression. Easy marks when a lady flutters her handkerchief or eyes closed proceeds to hold her own brow. A lady in distress. Instead of course a distressing lady. This was an era whose time had come. That is if you were a rotten to the soul self-serving Third Wave Feminist bitch. Someone that when it came to men saw only a meal ticket in the form of a pack. And that was at the very best of her estimation. It was in vogue to hate all men after first taking everything of worth that they possessed. And that was not even with a hi howdy! A weak knee approach of a wolf in victim’s clothing to life in the land of the privileged lane without ever having to admit that one was privileged. “Hey that same sentiment was on TV last night and Huff Post this morning.“, a mental chorus scat singing tired rationalizations in his brain. “So then it must be true!?!“, he responded. So maybe it was time to stop picking up his noble share of the institutionalized guilt that society passed out to his demographic. “Christ!”, he thought, “Before they killed religion in this country at least with the Catholic’s you could financially bargain your way out of hearing about what a sinner you were!” He couldn’t every imagine buying a drink for a woman much less going anywhere in the company of the same to fork over for a dinner. Somebody was getting a raw deal alright! A MGTOW #METOO foggy mountain breakdown. Soy boy’s and Metrosexuals. Fifty-seven plus that one officially conjured in today’s broadcast varieties of gender non-specific coding devised by the politically insane. Scapalomine MK-Ultra’d explanations for AFC behavior considered erratic until it hits the ASSPOWALT airwaves and develops into its own over-Liberalized LGBT splinter cult. Prides of land whales swimming over weekends in ensemble searching out NT response by monkey branching as MRA’s to any and all available Mangina’s promoting Gynocentrism blasting virtual holes in that ever-reliable non-existent shooting gallery of the illusion of a patriarchy. Ulysses sirens replaced by Spermjackers entrapping the unwary Captain-Sav-A-Hos’s back to the plantation while the ever solitary Tradcon’s wait by the wayside under scorn of the Misandrists. All are being slowly bred out of the existence by a rising tide of a Third World influx of towel-headed camel jockeys and Voodoo Mambo welfare Obeah’s. Could there be anything found to be sane in this hapless era that he had fallen into?
But then, he had really loved his mother, and father while they had existed. Simple folk from a simple generation of right and wrong and ‘The Depression.’ And he spoiled and over-attended to like any good son that had failed in the nuclear families expectations of his having his own and children plus grandchildren. The big dream of the nineteen-fifties that didn’t even rate mothballs today. Certainly not by the parasitic standards of all the online Tinderella’s. It was a wonder that he hadn’t ended up as just another courtroom supervised vassal under the liege of perpetual child support plus alimony. For then, he had never been a team player! Having never cheated on a spouse or roommate one time. Or caught a SIDS, wore a gray haired ponytail, or even condoned any notion of going to bed with his own sow’s prettier sister. A real drop out from the progressive world of the perpetually ever hip and cool. The terms Red pill and Blue pill just didn’t apply to his era. He was brought up on the conservative dregs of Mickey Spillane and John Wayne. And therein lay the fatal flaw. This white privileged male monster in plain view feeling superior enough to forever step in and play that ole’ lovable Ubermensch alias known as Clark Kent. He was part and parcel of the mainstream of SJW lamented blight casting a shadow upon the land known as a one in a million ‘regular guy’. ‘Oy g’ John Galt! Something to whom a ‘Cis’ or Mansplainer was naught but concoction by a weak sister Misandrist’s pathetic idea of a bad joke. A face int he crowd someone who didn’t just could not comprehend the true revised meaning behind the term ‘RELATIONSHIP’. A bozo bouncing through life hoping for one like a boy in a bubble sealed off from taking it all in so seriously as to let it directly affect him. No wonder he no longer had any friends! They had all been worn down and blown away like Lot’s wife. Each at some point having been unable to resist that temptation to turn back around in the other direction for one last go at it. The difference with him being that for all his failures that he had held up his end within, he had always quit the game before it got too real.
The woman in a quandary still stood there still looking at her phone repeating the building’s address as if by sheer repetition she might magically transcend the fact that she in fact had been asking the wrong address. A mental Mynah bird? Or the perspective of a true junkie! A trait that demonstrated an admirable persistence in forever denying reality in favor of one’s own habitual illusion of, “I’ll quit tomorrow.” Once again demonstrably pointing in its direction of the building’s directory he explained again that no such organization had, or ever had its roots there. Her chance vocalization coughed up in happenstance of the name of the local neighborhood liquor store on the next block as being the motivating landmark. This fulcrum put forth hard against this recycling conversation finally dislodging her from these halls and back out into the pale dry coolness of the morning in lapse of another heat wave. How similar in their own fashions the two of them really were!
The perennial stark guest of fictional personages that emulate people that were actually once alive. A giant of a man extremely powerful and impossibly large. Almost up to the limit of what people in general think is humanly possible. Someone with a temper but also intense pride. An another who was his rival. The two were always on the edge of fighting making nearby bystanders very wary of getting caught around them lest they get injured or worse in the heat of the former’s capacity for unchecked rage. People that he encountered generally played verbal softball with him so as not to inadvertently anger him. Quite frankly, the less they said the better chance for personal survival the would possess. But inevitably, peaked by this rival the contest would start soon on the basis of the bad blood accumulating between them. He would tear up the furniture and threaten others with mortal harm for the most minor infraction of his pride. Some fully aware of the consequence of such a meeting some neighbors had already evacuated the area going into hiding fearing the continuation of wrath that might ensue if he won the battle. Though no one would voice it out loud the smaller less powerful looking David vanquished the mean spirited Goliath making everyone who was still physically weaker to keep their joy to themselves. The nervous exhaustion of such an all out showdown had left him incapacitated which eliminated this possibility from occurring. So beaten down was the giant that some couldn’t help but feel a certain degree of empathy for the totality of his total defeat. His spirit had been permanently crushed by losing the title of the meanest and strongest bully around.
The final confrontation had been held in the yard of the house nest door. The owner had sent his wife to her mother and was going to sequester himself in his basement having turned off the lights and locked all the doors of his abode. The fight kicked off before he could get from his garage to the back door and he had to hide behind an overturned metal lounge chair. He knew that if the giant got a cross the fence that he would be toast. He might have been able to reach his own door but was stopped by a strange compulsion that told him it wouldn’t be right to abandon his neighbor if things would go against him. As mentioned, the severe beating that had been doled out had left the former bully with a degree of silent reserve that he had never before exhibited in the past. The man even demonstrating a degree of unaccustomed humility to the local neighborhood royalty, such as it was, in his midst. A displaced countess enjoying the pleasure of being the first. The giant seem to settle for the personality of a gracious loser quite opposite to that of his former self. Being very vocally apologetic for the violent deeds resulting from his past anger he soon became part of the group. Everyone glad that they no longer had to fear seeing anymore examples of spontaneous mayhem. Equally glad that the few having previously demonstrated mixed loyalties would not be hunted down and treated like a traitor.
He was in heavily occupied enemy territory in some place within South East Asia. Japanese soldiers were everywhere. The presence of the group scouting them was on the verge of being discovered by a garrison of the same traveling on sampan river boats. The few native militia members with the small contingent of British was barely adequate. Too often these ‘militias’ were neutral. Their loyalties bound to shift with to stronger of the two invaders. The native boys that we had were told to play dumb and stay away from any direct contact. But to no avail as the the Japs treated those that they encountered like escapees from the colonial rule and encouraged them to defect with gifts to find out what they could.
Someone had driven a school bus onto an ice rink and was attempting to perform tight circles causing the bus to start to slip around. The absurdity of this situation being that this very same event was taking place in deepest darkest Africa.
The old Jewish guy who owned the big warehouse had it filled top to bottom with aisle after aisle of junk. Stuff that had been picked up on the road or traded for in bulk. Too much of it appeared by virtue of its dilapidated condition that it wouldn’t travel much further than the scrapyard. Rows and rows of it piled high to the ceiling. Somehow the many had been conscripted along with a few other unfortunates to work for him. The man had a terrible temper and a bad habit of riding everyone without stopping. God knows, you didn’t dare cross him. The look of his constant beady eyed scowl telegraphing the message that you couldn’t tell what he was capable of in terms of unexpectedly pulling out a gun and shooting you. Not to mention that he was tied up with the wrong crowd. The sort that too often literally got away with murder. At least that was the backstory. The young guy made sure to butter him up as best as was possible to try to escape some small measure of verbal abuse. The guy playing a little game with him diverting his wrath by keeping him talking about trivial business matters. At the end of the day when the boss wanted to dive the man and another companion somewhere last minute at quitting time his battleaxe wife showed up. The old harpy was worse than he was with a shrill voice that over a short period of time could drive anyone insane. The companion talked to his fellow worker quipping, “Oh great, the old bastard is going to get all pissed off now and take it out on us!” “The shit will definitely hit the fan!”, the other man replied.
A little while later the two assistants were alone in the bosses’ automobile on a mission to get gas for the old S.O.B. One of them attempting to park out of the way of a gas station’s car wash exit. His partner getting out to use the restroom. The partner returned and standing on the far side beyond the rear view mirrors of it giving bum instructions. The other one attempting to park had to half back it out slowly to pull further over in order to get the car’s rear end out of the way from blocking exiting vehicles. The ‘traffic cop’ friend kept attempting to direct the driver while getting in the way preventing any positive progress. Two other guys from the station walked over and to the would be traffic cop companion and gave him a stern lecture. “Look!“, one of them spat out, “You got to let this guy back out of the other lane and let him proceed the fuck out of here!” Having been given the opportunity to finally pull aside without interference from his friend the exhausted driver went to the Car Wash’s men’s room. He was aghast when he opened the stall door to find the commode covered in shit. The man grabbed some paper towels from a dispenser to try to clean it off the best he could without choking from being sickened. “It’s no fun being a slave to someone else’s bad behavior!“, he said aloud, “But that is how this f’in life is.“
It started out back in a suburb in Skokie. A man walking out the front door of his family home who had now become used to occasionally seeing the old generation of his neighbors being slowly replaced by a whole new generation moving in. A strange looking guy was outside and while he didn’t at first appear to be menacing. The guy approached me and asked in an offbeat way the single question of, “Where can I find a used car?” This being a time long before the Internet had even been thought of, the home owner responded by saying that the querent might consider traveling back into the city to Western or Ashland Avenues as he would be likely to find a number of used car lots run by the many car dealerships located there. The stranger stared back at the man inertly as if completely unmoved by his response like a block of stone. “There were always the classifieds in the newspaper!“, the speaker retorted to the continued silence. The now silent stranger becoming ever more creepy after the short one-sided discussion. The homeowner then continuing swiftly on his way keeping a wayward eye at the stranger. The weather about him now completely transformed into a sort of overall darkness of a typed that one would expect from an impending thunderstorm.
The next stop was an ad agency that was housed within a massive old warehouse near the city center. The man had arrived there to deliver some large art boards, that from their general appearance, suggested that they were to be used for planning some sort of film or photo shoot. The messenger was sent past the reception desk with a simple wave of the hand and wandered back on his own through a maze of vacant sections and empty spaces where the only ample evidence of photo past shoots was a layout or two haphazardly pinned to a wall. Young men and women occasionally appeared. Each walking back and forth completely self-possessed through the abandoned chaos of walls splattered paint. Occasional piles of debris hastily swept over to the side and then forgotten. One smarmy youth walking up to snatch the art board from the messenger’s grasp only uttering an offhanded command to wait. The man stood there out of the way quietly marveling to himself at the sheer amount of surrounding destruction. A diffident young woman speaking to an unseen companion startled him by breaking unexpectedly into his thoughts. She rattled on in her monotonous nasal tone conversing about the previous night’s events. Breaking away from these trivialities for an instant to question the waiting man and then just as abruptly walked past as if he was simply like a stick of furniture or any other inert object. The man continued to stand there completely immobile for many minutes wondering just what he was supposed to wait for. But no answer seeming imminent. Gradually becoming restless and caught up by boredom, he wandered slowly forward following his curiosity into each room after room. Each space more ravaged, torn down and torn apart. The next locale even more incomplete than the last one encountered a space or two back. No evidence of equipment! Nothing to suggest anyone was doing any useful beyond the languor of casually dressed teenagers lazily milling past. The messenger began to wonder if he wasn’t like some sort of ghost caught up in a dream?
Minutes long ago having past into what seemed like hours he felt sleepy. At one point finding a portion of the floor swept clean enough to sink down upon and lean against a less devastated portion by a wall. He soon closed his eyes. The longer he waited, the fewer people passed by him. He began to realize that his presence had most likely been completely forgotten. Then in turn pondering how soon closing time for this operation might be? The voices of a group passing somewhat close to him but out of sight talking about the installation of a unique accessory to the building. Something that allowed those few with ‘huervos‘ enough to attempt it to slide down within its series of large twisting pipes quickly to the street below. The messenger aware that his wanderings through this place might lead to him being so lost as to being unable to find the front door before it would be locked for the night. He hurriedly got back on his feet. It was obvious that there was no purpose to be served by staying there any longer. By this point there were no more voices encountered as he hurriedly made his way back towards where he hoped to find an exit. Wondering about how he was unlikely to ever get paid for the delivery. All of this was just crazy! In the back of his mind a fear arose. Would I have to seek out this terrible tubular chute as my only means of escape if all the doors were now locked? Eventually a doorway with a glowing exit sign appeared in the dimness. He put his shoulder against the door and it opened to a stairwell within. The hurried sound of his own footfalls echoing in the empty column as he hoped that he would end up at an exist to the street. Along sections of the outside walls of each a landing he noticed the intercession of sections of what appeared to be a gigantic plumbing pipe. This being the mythical device within which those with exceptional daring do might test their manhood. He shook his head as he speculated how long a journey this convoluted path would provide when fully stretched out? Maybe amounting to hundreds of feet in length. What sort of terrifying experience might it be to jump feet first into its darkness to brave so many bone jarring twists and turns? However harrying that might be was now a matter of useless speculation. For someone of his age group some several decades past the elasticity of youth it might occasion a heart attack leaving him to die crammed into a tight crook of this snake-like tube. The doors at the bottom of the stairwell now in sight he broke into the alley. Traversing the parking lot he looked back over his shoulder to see the gigantic carnival colored twisting python structure across the building’s entire side. He was struck with the thought that the entire place ws little more than a fun house for Millennials rather than a place of real business.
An experiment was ongoing kept hush, hush within a nearby glade of the forest. One that involved participants from each sex, a conventional man and a woman, one might guess? The general impression of the purpose of this event being to see how to manipulate each of them in some unique way with an energy field. The result of this manipulation being very extreme and causing a sort of initial memory loss in one of the partners. Odd considering that only one of the two would ultimately be present for view after the completion of each round of experimentation? The inference gleaned from the initial rambling whispered impressions of some that had survived the ordeal suggesting that the bodies of one or the other were remotely motivated in a very unorthodox way. The minds of each participant going totally blank within an hour or two then descending into a state of total amnesia. Thus no one either male of female would ever be aware if they had been brutalized or in any other manner handled roughly up to the point of rape. The details of these experiments remaining safe in the hands of their experimenters. The cumulative results of this program became so heinous in nature that the tales surfaced that the surrounding forest had come alive and then as if in a human state of consciousness and taken those handlers immediately in control of the victims to task by tearing them limb from limb. A coverup quickly ensued producing in its wake the urban legend of this vengeful destruction so that anyone who had heard about it would never be found near to the site again. Warning enough that was enough for all living in the general vicinity to abide from that point forth. The sponsorship of this abomination by the government never spoken of again.
[The following is faithful transcript of extemporaneously delivered thoughts directly made into a digital recorder on May 15th in the early AM]
Someone that you wouldn’t think to meet on your way to the supermarket.
Yet someone so innocuous as to be just another face withing your neighborhood.
Someone whose life and the measure of same is incomprehensible to your daily routine.
Someone whose mind drifts throughout the oceans of the world sounding the depths of the universe.
Yet is contained in a very finite unassuming structure.
This measure not indicative of greatness so much as conventionality.
Of form form immeasurable by the standards of society.
Untainted, yet conformed.
The ability to take thought then force it into the nebulous realm of material reality takes a desire to implant it in the fiction of solidity.
A question arises, merely to have the thought and explore it as far as one can take it by virtue of their experience makes one wonder if the former is not somehow a needless exercise?
Something superfluous that, of course, is the conception of mind, of purpose, of being, to share.
For is this not a form of love to create union, conjunction in a thought or an idea transferred?
The nobility or the sincerity of that thought or image or impression that one as a singular entity seems to want to share is the essence of life as a human being in society.
What greater gift could one have than to share with another the joy of their discovery?
I find myself a solitary being.
A boundless universe of thought swimming around in an eternity of empty space.
My goal in life to be realized. To be found. To be at peace and common purpose, at one with every other.
What then impedes my attempts to reach out and connect?
That hesitation like a harbor full of sampans to connect at mooring yet avoid in progress through the harbor.
Sounding the bottom with my pole on the stern trying to push forth amidst so many other minnows.
Myself insignificant, almost invisible, to their throng.
Yet so much within to want to tap to allow it to spill forth in a measured and meaningful way.
We are all fleas caught between the cold and the hot.
The sure and the unsure.
That sense of firmament below our feet and that rush of thin air as we fall.
Contrast the stillness of empty movement.
Are we strong in our resolve to move forth?
For is not life movement?
Is not death inaction?
Is it not the will to progress, that motive force so universal, that brings us into being?
Is it not that pernicious will to preserve all the remnants of past action and thought?
And indemnify them within the museum of our memory.
How can the two co-oexist?
For without the base of past experience how would one ever find help?
How can one ever expect to push forward to reach skyward?
To swim about, to fly around, to soar . . . to find, to become, to be . . .
. . . and of course not to be.
In the material mediums of modern life.
Of inert objects that have been designed to possess the sensitivity of their own nervous energy.
To collect, and on command, to send forth that energy that it collects from material human beings.
To be able to wield that energy at will.
To make it coherent and yet keep the spontaneity.
That is filmmaking.
To work within the first person, to distill to the third person, and make intelligible to a second person.
That is the essence of film.
To take the emotions that one tries to hide.
That one tries to keep from revealing yet in their heart desires at all costs to share.
To put this in a form that one can see before the words seem to be taken in there fullest measure.
And put this in some distracted sense of acceptable purpose and mutual understanding.
This is cinema.
In the cinema of the third world, goes largely unsung, how truly prescient the circumstance is!
The old empire dies.
Along with it so much past discovery.
Yet soon to be replaced, like the walls of Troy, with yet another true and earnest purpose.
To preserve and put forth the identity and inner meaning of all that is worthwhile of ths new layered sense of understanding.
One’s enemies and opponents may be the best friends one ever had.
For their opposition needs the attempts in earnest of past anonymous self-expression.
One cannot toil as the waves eternal strike the sands without knowing that another wave is soon to be upon them, to draw them back in, and re-congeal their essence.
And yet another attempt, as meaningless as this may seem from a distance, the attempt however selfless and eternal, is time well spent.
Is effort that shows the true dimensions of the pendulum of time and the present.
And within that present lurks all experience.
All experience lived.
All experience forgotten.
All the desires wanting to be enjoyed.
All the desires dismissed.
All congealed in that instant of decision and action and inaction.
[ . . . ]
I was a pampered naive child spoiled to a fault.
My parents were forever giving in a material sense.
In some ways, too much so.
In hindsight, way too much so!
Yet, that was my school.
It was a foundation of thought to build upon, to expand.
To take those initial questions that are tabla raza and fill them.
Asking them repeatedly again and again.
Perhaps without satisfaction.
Yet with an ever greater degree of incremental understanding.
I know that though I always felt myself to be a face int he crowd I was challenged with extremes.
The fears of loneliness, of terror from the violence of others, of being kidnapped int he night.
Something as an event in my life still remains unspoken.
Something I postulate today beyond the pale of wondering if it was just a creation of my imagination
Or something that by the merest of challenge was thankfully averted.
I was driven down into the depths of darkness at a formative age when life should have been my goal.
My grail, love, was always the love and understanding of others as another inheritance past on.
Perhaps through my father’s own search for self-identity?
Or my mother’s removal from a tight knit community that was necessary to be able to discover herself?
How odd to have found along the way that the only way one could discover their own name was to surrender tot he terms that others place upon them?
To be exceptional, and therefore, shunned and unwanted perhaps for the fears that they inspire in others.
How like a club of a base brutal blunt object, creativity is used today!
We live in a world of material inferences that when dissected, examined, and are taken apart as far as the boundaries of technology and the religion of Science allows.
It’s found to be nothing more than the fancy of the collective mind of humanity.
The greatest occupation I could find as a man was to be involved with the discovery of this starting out simply with pen and paper and taking that scroll and scribble to fashion something understandable and reasonable.
Perhaps initially to convey the photographic reality of the eye in a universally understandable form and then take it on a journey into someplace so unique and eccentric that it would expand the insight and vision of the beholder.
Perhaps it is vainglorious in this Socialist world of Communist inclinations and Bolshevik desires to proclaim one’s self and their individual desires in the present sense of all things?
Of leaving some record or form of their individual view of the world.
Perhaps in these times of saying things, meaningless inferences meaning the exact opposite that this is the ultimate heresy.
Say one thing but be damned if you do the other for you will bring down punishment on yourself as a hammer upon an anvil.
beaten into submission by the slow decay of non-relationships of seen but not feeling, of reaching out but not touching, of being and yet not being there.
All upon the screen of old Plato chained.
Chained by the screen and the phone that one holds voluntarily like a shackle around one’s throat.
Around one’s soul.
The pinpoint of the camera obscura of the cave that one exists boxed within the world cockeyed that is projected upside down.
This is the truth of the fantasy that one has been born within, and is expectant to choose to be existent within.
Within the eternity of the desire of parties unknown that wish to enslave.
Society as such that it wants its ducks in a row, its cogs in order, no broken toys allowed, no divergent thoughts.
Only an orchestrated band, a Red Orchestra of precision yet emptiness.
A slow march, step by step, foot out forward, pushing off the instep of the past.
All the little soldiers in rank and file, all in order. all timed precisely to give the impression of a cross over, of perfect step by step by step.
This is the world that I currently l;ive withing.
Something if explained to others they would no doubt in their way agree it was so.
Yet in what little identity in sense of self they would jealously defer to yet another more sympathetic explanation to their own sense of being.
And so it must be.
This is just insurance for the material world.
The wold of fantasy.
The alternate universe.
The waking reality to the endless expanse of entities and destinations to one’s soul can travel to.
I am [. . . ] described as European, in the lexicon of the day, white, balding, overweight, male, of blue collar extraction who has masqueraded in the province of the middle class.
Someone with little respect for the material inventions and conventions of this current society that buys one on the cheap and sells one as dearly as it can get away with.
Currently residing on planet earth int he great empire of the United States in the middle section along one of the great lakes known as Michigan.
Some [ . . .] miles west of its shore along the Gold coast of [ . . . ] traveling west on [ . . . ] avenue to the intersection of [ . . ] where stands an edifice [. . .] that satisfied the greed of its investors.
[. . . ] in a second master bedroom upon a double bed once owned by my parents [. . . ] furnished by all the artifacts of my now deceased parents.
Many of which I have known since my earliest years.
Here I sit, my physical form, restless, acknowledging my heart wishing like a boat moored to the shore, wishing to pull away the waves that the unconscious.
My intellect waxing, wishing to express itself, perhaps one final time in a last testament.
The Testament of Sardanapalis.
All his treasures, his treasured memories, his wishes and desires, he loves he had hoped for, those that he wished to impress, the understwnading of all those that slipped away due to the selfishness of his own hand.
[ . . . ]
In conventional patois, the bucket brigade from the unconscious from the depth of thought where everything is perfectly congealed all the way up the spiral to the lips into this very imperfect sense of personality.
Never been a friend of society, people when they group together do some pretty awful things.
Dependent on those awful things but he conformity that is demanded never submitted to.
The latest current in world society is Socialism.
Like any Masonic instrument it tries to contain by definition.
All the great works of human kind.
Those creatures and the material manifestation of those creatures.
Bipolar characteristics of left and right, of two hands, two legs two eyes, but a single head.
Trying to get the two to work in consort what you realize is that there are two major extremes.
The once extreme is the self, and the other is the larger sense of unity in the social sense of their being a culture, a belief, a religion, a national identity, a sports identity, a regional identity.
All of them in this era being organized fastidiously in a pyramidal structure.
Those at the top, perhaps sentient, more likely not, pushing buttons and expecting certain results, specific results, precise results.
Because of the many generations and eons of organization of these entities into coherence.
Coherence being Socialism, Communism, Bolshevism, Capitalism, ism’s, ism’, ism’s, being both unique but also all inclusive.
The all inclusion on the base, the unique exclusivity on the top.
To those theoretically in the middle this is a form of slavery.
The deep unconscious of items unspoken, unformed, untried.
The other end of the spectrum is the enfranchisement of that which is reliably been done as a sequel.
The repeat performance, the security in one’s actions, no matter what they may be knowing they have been molded and guided into a form that can do no wrong.
The middle road bereft of these boundaries.
There should be no boundaries.
There should only be the erasure of new limits to be erased, to be expanded, and explored.
The all expanding universe that is talked about that expands within itself.
The ultimate conundrum.
That aspect of life or the opposite of same.
The unity of creation at that split second when form is created and the empty undiscovered self with the creator from which all this comes forth.
Is this, the Vishnu that sleeps eternally?
Is this the Kali that in the fire of passion consumes?
Love and hate, life and death, infinity.
Man, woman, life, death, infinity.
That’s the platform.
That known about what one is doing here is the same as day one.
[. . . ]
This current sense of Socialism that’s expressed by the record of the public media, something that always wishes to convince totally without exception or doubt.
The way this little thing works is to create a consensus.
Consensus among the old in terms of thinking that they know everything.
Consensus among the young that they do not have to fear being alone and therefore vulnerable.
To be abandoned because the carrot and stick of this society is to be absolutely sure and not abandoned.
That surety coming in community, collectiveness.
The fallacy of this whole proposition is that one is controlled totally through fear.
Fear that you might make a misstep.
Fear that this misstep will lead you to being cast out.
Feat that being cast out you will be really dependent in terms of your animal needs.
Your hunger, your need for dignity, your animal excretions in the material plane you will need to express in public.
And be taken to task as a lesser entity for not having the resources or the connection to be able to hide from view.
God forbid that you are found to be human!
God forbid that you reach out and ask for help from another without a sense of acceptable guile!
God forbid that their reaction implies that you have no connection to central command in terms of how to proceed!
This is exactly what I detest!
This si exactly what I fight against!
This is why I will never ever surrender!
Shifting thoughts throughout the day and night.
awake from a given situation and see all fade with a single step
concentrate as best you can in the color pink then arrive at blue
try and try as hard as you might your former intellect is shot through
the conscious mind within a protective covering denying that anything is amiss
a life experience drained and depleted of all save an imperfectly beating heart
this shattered brain spending most of its time correcting the increasing flaws
that hapless keystroke and errant pen increasingly deposit in their wake.
I live in a time where there is too much knowledge
and too little wisdom
Too much is fact
and too much contravenes what once was fact
but now is considered dangerous fiction
Sometimes facts are brought to the fore
and presented as if anew
and the previously held notions are overturned
Then, at some significant point later
the old facts are rediscovered
and the new facts are destabilized
On and on this process goes
back and forth
the purpose of course is to destroy wisdom
Why? Do I care?
Why not just go along!
Would it not be easy?
It certainly would
Fifteenth of May, calendar year 2018. I was born in 1951 in the last century. The distance from now seems staggering. This world has put away its past. All neatly tied up in a hundred years. My thoughts and aspirations are from that past time.
I am born into a new era that sees only the material. That only embraces conformity. That only wishes to maintain consensus. Consensus, not only in terms of volition. But in terms of ritual and habit.
What role am I cast into? An observer.
For I cannot be an active participant. Even if I was allowed to. All I can do is serve out my time.
The desire for material things at this point comes with a cost. The cost being setting one’s self up for their own surveillance. To be pigeon hole’d and placed within very narrow confines. Always a passive sense of a larger entity devising a means to more efficiently supervise and contain. Such thought is heresy. It can only be likened to a person that has lost their mental facilities. A malade! Someone mentally ill.
My stomach churns. I cannot trust the food that I am forced to pay exorbitant rates of compensation. To enjoy. To survive. One by one, all of life’s pleasures are found to be lies. Misapprehensions. Egoistic, smug self-satiating fantasies that do nothing in terms of substantial . . . sustenance of one’s soul . . . of one’s perspective . . . of one’s identity.
I am eroding away like stainless steel in acid. My better properties in longevity being compromised.
Of course, this is all done in solitude. For no one is allowed to believe that any of these claims could have any credence. That is too unbearably impossible to sustain. No, I must worship the rearrangement of all things past. And celebrate them as if they have just been created by the latest of these new reconditioned minds.
I have no respect for any of it. I have no desire to be part of it. I have no admiration to waste on it.
I am just sitting here waiting to die. All my finer points have been washed away. This is just my obituary.
It is cold nearly half way into the year. I could say that I miss those that I once loved. But have become too tired to continue. The dream of the evening was of being in a large cemetery. The colors of green grass and gray limestone being the only accent within the large grid of stones of varying heights. Many of which acting like tree limbs in the forest. Here and there, throughout the cemetery dangerous presences lurked. Their eyes like those of hawks marking wide circles of surveillance. The assassins, the henchmen of Mafioso. All dressed impeccably within tuxedos. And I wending my way just outside of their view. The vastness of the cemetery my greatest ally.
What I was trying to find escapes me. However the analogy does not. Each night people rest . The sky comes down. An evil foggy presence engulfs them. And their minds are washed clean by an electric plasma. Over which, one can only surmise, all manner of perverse messaging designed individually for each head. Some maniac machine. Some nightmare! That somewhere someone has devised. Perhaps the thing is effective . . . works? Perhaps it is just there for namesake value only?
Just something to make the whole fantasy plausible. I cannot tell.
I only know that my own life has descended into being a non-entity. Even onto myself.
Chemtrail white sky manmade attitude adjustment. The big elephant in the room that we were warned about long ago. But that no one scrupulously pays any mind to. The general population gripping their I-Phones like crucifixes double handed tight to their laps. The EMR doing its best so it is said to continue to eliminate sperm counts and trash any remaining eggs capable of supporting future human life. Chickens in the coop trancelike at the cities’ center. One big village of all numbers and no names. The educated young black man just across on the train who saw the Federal Reserve bills laying untended upon the seat after another black sister had absentmindedly left them. Now pouncing like the real black panther leaping on them as prey in the flash of an eye. To scoop them up and in her wake merely offering a nonchalant shrug to any shock at such behavior. Morality in his end of the jungle merely an issue of ever more race based Karma.
Who after all imposes these labels and cliches upon the outward appearance of any given individual or their forebears? A glance in the mirror telling them their assigned category and how they are to be treated for the entirety of the rest of their mortal lives. These connotations bestowed as long as the marble of culture exists from generation to generation. I know those people behind the bar charts and pie shaped dials that are there to so as to fool the rest into believing that their ultimate adversary is naught but a monolithic and infallible machine. That technology is God, omniscient and invincible issuing commands like edicts that are inescapable by all. Society as such had so long ago resolved itself to become good little pill poppers downing same on command. Eager consumers to poison themselves likes clockwork without questioning doctors orders. And convincing those about that outward form born into that they are naught but human bulldozers. The validity of experience merely a one way conversation that might be influenced by unseen players. But not by ‘dogs’. Nor by the diminishment of the validity of even having membership in a society at all. Selective dissonance by animal proximity. The switch turned on and then off externally at will. Midlands elocution inferring erudite thought as a legacy of demonstrated foppery based upon those lost empires of the recent past.
Cliche after cliche of handy explanations spilled forth from a trick bag filled with ready phrases. Trite dialogues built like brick forming what seems an impenetrable wall sufficing as ancient Greek to the average layman. Brain dead old fossils packed into the auditorium. Making one wonder what sort of life might be left within such withered packaging! Perhaps a fractured memory or two? Those keen habits asphalted over common sense? Impediments to this latest morning edition significant of our modern age. Each one an island always to their own. Sunny days and threadbare worn out stories ever to remain untold. That woman limping in with her back bent over nearly double so that it makes one want to scream, “Stand up straight!“, at the top of their lungs. A caravan of those otherwise ignorant of any world outside of their own, patrolling only their own immediate borders. The natures of humanity in this age not unlike a circus midway zoo specializing in exhibits both eclectic and the bizarre.