The supremacist merry-go-round. ‘Whites‘ were once on it. Then they were lobbied to let negroes and women on it along with them. Now the ‘Negroes‘ and women want the ‘whites‘ to sit at the back of the bus and get off on their election. All the while the ‘Jews‘ driving the bus pretend to support all by support none. Other passengers from different identities getting on and off any only briefly engaging in the rowe. Only their own nebulous claim to be both above all things. And of course, superior to them. Supremacy is an ego-trip. Those who indulge in it seem to puff up like a balloon that go sailing slowly to the upper atmosphere. At a certain point the bubble expands as the air pressure insides exceeds that of the outside. But the structural integrity soon is overwhelmed by the internal pressure of that ego and bursts. The best that the balloon can hope for it it has lost its attachment to common sense is to get caught at a higher altitude for a while and begin to loose air. Then slowly as that ego deflates it comes down gradually in a sagging sense of humility. Of course that occurs only on calm days. When the atmosphere is stirred up There is less likelihood that the balloon with survive the journey upwards nearly as far.
This seems analogous to the ancient Greek tale of Icarus who build his wings of wax and feathers. The closer to the Sun that he rose the mores the wax softened until the whole contraption melted away. The result being an inevitable falling back to take a fatally hard landing on solid earth. Popular Western culture is too enamored with the ‘self‘. Too smug and secure in the fact that for better or worse, nothing is going to change in their neighborhood anything soon. But like anyone caught by whimsy to step farther into topics they have no right to claim judgment about they overstep their limits. And in a society as overstuffed with everything including opinion, they are easily popped. The whole culture riding on the edge of the cliff of unavoidable chaos due to unproductive attitudes that will solidify into hatreds and quite possibly to bloody violent conflict. But over what? Who did what to whom several hundred million years back when no one now living could have ever been alive. The irony being that what is considered as the most accurate history being the province of the group considered most in power and actively scheduled by other ones for demotion. One’s opponents having to learn the dogmas of it’s opposites to attack it. More absurdly yet these same attacking groups needing to attempt to believe in their own collective fantasies that are at the same time both arcane and far afield so that they cannot bear any scrutiny beyond serving as an excuse for animal blood lust. Whatever they hope to gain from those that they consider as too dominant simply being destroyed. And everyone being the lesser for the exercise. That old adage of, “Cutting off your nose to spite your face!”, coming into play. No one able to be right because the popular harangues of the moment has made every other for of exclamation wrong. The mindless philosophy of a stirred up mob trying to find some mischief to get into so justify its ill feelings. Any and all scapegoats may apply.
Of course, seismic events do not simply occur from nowhere without someone behind the scenes expending an awful large amount of effort to get them going. The principle of finding a harmonic upon which to apply a scalar situation of discontent that effects all sides equivalently badly so that depending upon the point of view everyone is both right and wrong. The fact of the matter being that they are not in control of themselves in either way beyond simply being swept away in the prevailing stormy winds. Throughout history there are always certain groups that wait in the wings who have been born in the back alleys that seem to prosper on continued chaos. They take great lengths to not be called out in public as the instigators of trouble that they really are. Part of their art being to not only remove common sense logic from any discussion, but to convince any that might stumble upon their chicanery as crazy or unfair in their accusations countering their insiders innate behaviors. These are the human virus’s and parasites in no way different to that a similar species that affect both animal and man. Who is to ultimately blame? What can one say that over the long term it does not really matter. For to go beyond pointing out the roles taken by all and going on from that moment to deflate the egos of all to a reasonable size depriving them of the intake of further drama, there is nothing more that can nor need be done.
No engine of man in terms of an abstract governing body or popularly recognized saint of current reigning authority can take the place of the almighty of the fact that all sides remain pint-sized and minuscule before the insoluble mystery of the universe. Those simple questions of existence that the ego-bound would so easily hope to ignore and leave behind as they pump themselves up to escape same. You may think and therefore thou art? But can any in the crowd of those doing same collectively prove that their attempts are really more than just another passing fad or folly. In that ways mankind is it’s own worse enemy. The final judge being the inevitability of an inescapable ending to their tale. The story of every endeavor coming to a finite conclusion. That is what recorded history at its best can offer that those living only in the moment of their own folly cannot.
A trailer sized motor caravan that all had arrived in had then just as quickly disappeared. In it’s place was a twisted wheel deprived frame dragged up high in the air by a container crane. The story leading up to it equally absurd in it dimensions. An effigy of a failing life gone unexpectedly off the tracks into an unimaginable sense of twisted fate. The sin being one of exploration in that latter point of life when prospects disappear and fast moves forever always inadvertently go awry. Perhaps what had occasioned if might have been the fate of an acquaintance at the local bar? A big guy named AL. An old dry soda biscuit dry humored billy goatee bearded rascal whose best days might have been seen in the jungles of Southeast Asia long ago in youthful manhood. Someone from that ‘tough shit’ universe who carried his innocence wrapped tight in shards of broken glass to be broken open much later in life. Only if the situation allowed! He had taken a spill landing against a table and chairs. When the blood could no longer reach as high up as his head causing him to unexpectedly pass out. That big heart having gotten even bigger in his chest impacting into his lungs and sealing up the envelope of the little matter of his continued mortality. A routine known all too well at that age! The family legacy hit home having slowly arrived over decades. The last few years leaving a big house to play in to an empty audience. Now the wheels were gone and the buckling aluminum whale supported above by the derrick was high out of reach. No way to return to that former place, that for lack of anywhere else, was called home. That lingering impulse of change of state to go from someone perpetually landlocked to freebooter on the highways leaving only an uncertain limbo. The lingering past and prescience of possible future gone before the immediate ‘here and now‘. That big redwood trunk of that man felled laying on his side. A bloody napkin freshly pulled off from his temple still too cogent to duck recall.
The big box store occasioning these tale still seeming fresh in the first years of its life’s cycle. The setting for that motoring behemoth parked up the lane so that its occupants could easily depart towards its main entrance. Old and generally stiff of the joints, it was a customary courtesy afforded without question. Much to my surprise and shock of those remaining within the vehicle it suddenly became apparent that the establishment had been sequestered by too eager a crew of motorcycle paraphernalia attired Satanists. A coven of bored Middle Class stalwarts that had formed a pact among themselves out of a lifetime of boredom to lay down ritual mayhem on the easiest most accessible place where innocents could be found. This cavernous well-lit environment a place of possibilities for violence perfect in parameters of containment and a potential to inspire terror over a substantial number of inadvertent victims occupying it by chance. The caravan’s arrival coinciding with a perfect near completion of the first phase of their murderous riot. Loyalty keeping those left behind int he vehicle from immediately driving off. That pulsating animal impulse for self-survival quashed out of some vague noble impulse. A foolish thing experienced over a matter of minutes of indecisive discussion of pro’s and con’s before the pirate crew mounted an exploration of the caravan’s insides. Their first ignoble act being to throw a ninety year old colored woman out of the side window impacting the pavement and breaking her neck. The poor old soul caught in the midst of trying to pull on the pants of her equally arthritic husband who lay pathetically weak and prone upon the carpeted hallway’s floor.
It seemed to be a very unfunny joke to denigrate anything deemed ‘white‘ especially if it turned out that the orator was classified as being a ember of that group. An adaptive form of dialogue equally viscous as practiced by progressive immigrant Hitler minded Hebrews all nestled in the midst of the audience. One evidently taken up the burning torch to their perennial ‘straw men‘! Ritually victimizing others as scapegoats for their woes! The historical crutch of arcane magical numbers of the craft in six and nine and eleven ever summed in their math. Those same perpetual discontents living by an ancient time weary code of an ‘eye for an eye’! And eternal task of vengeance handed down to successive generations to be leavened upon the descendants of enemies justifying the tibias perpetual mentality of constant deceit. The entire world outside the coven, a mortal enemy. Human nature defaulting most to group and to ground in applying ignoble customs. The big fat Italian on stage entertaining the select group about him in what appeared to be constant self-depreciating dialogue Sex! Blacks! (whores!) All manner of ‘no go‘ women topics! His patter sallied about the safe harbor of what seems to be conventional Saturday morning conversations ‘German-ness‘. The legacy of an era of vitriol fanned by a ‘half and half’ race mixer President. Who in the Hell knew ‘whom‘ he really was? A hero or demonic saint? The divided land. Self-Isolation by the telling of the tale of the Springfield Race Riot of 1908. Who would dare to give anything less than a dispassionate account? Persistence and empty liquor bottle. These disparate groups switching roles but continuing on essentially just the same. “Who created them!” “Who enforces them?” Who has any respect enough for anything to surrender their God given power without a fight? The man that no one wanted. He was tried and tasked and tried. And when he thought about it. He was also so very much alone. The pirates only being a figment of his ailing mind.
He awoke. A nervous shaky feeling pervading his upper back running immediately down the length of both his arms as if he were in electrical contact with something heavier and more metallic. It might as well be something to do with him? A carry over perhaps? The tingly tingling sensation feeling now descended into his lower back as if some electricity was constantly discharging its waning potential slowly from him back into a state of equilibrium. The space beside him in his bed was empty save for wrinkled sheets. The previous two that had inhabited it so long before him. They were now gone. Long gone and in the grave. It was still all too easy to see them slumbering unawares within this space. It had started out as their own! Decades passing where he was just some occasional visitor. Sometimes a squatter and ever a guest. The day was forming itself up just outside his window. Massing in strength to mount a rising illumination. One that began to seed flickers of light into a sky. Graying the ground from the grip of darkness lurking below. An utterly still and silent animation transitioning two realms, one to the other. Each instant suggesting that one had been switched off sometime in total darkness to hearken benefit for the other. The readout on his personal assistant stated the dead of Summer and the midst of August. A light touch of warmth fading quickly from the top edge of twisted covers. Now pulled back slightly and left open suggesting something in seasons ahead being much colder. What would the weather be today? Uncomfortable and sweaty and hot like last week? This last weekend having been cool like the middle of Fall. The light feeling of unheated air dancing upon his extremities extending down to his knees then halfway up the front of his thighs. “Circulation?“, his mind ingeniously pondered.
He pulled off his over worn black nightcap. Slinging it back over his head and set about rearranging the covers back to their nighttime convention. Imagining that he could prolong the night in order to compensate for the raw sensation that had deprived him of the full measure of needful rest. The disorder of the nights disturbing dreams defaulting to random misaligned images without hope of plot or drama. He lay back again in a flood of excuses. The impressions left by the fading visual imprint depositing deeper more lasting impressions that like some form of ultimate penalty would be levied for the coming day. An hourglass of sandy bothersome grit running out. He made an instantaneous sweep of the arm pulling off the covers once again. Unexpectedly rolling to the side onto the carpet to swiftly venture forth to the ‘jakes‘ of his kingdom. Fragments of dream rattling about his head. “If they weren’t recovered“, he reminded himself, “Then they would be lost.” And he would have to walk around the rest of the day under their burden. Trying to piece them together from loose threads suffering that nagging feeling that he had missed something important and telling about himself. Something that might hold a key to ending this current époque of stagnancy. There they lay like random bits of broken glass, sharp and pointed in his mind’s reflections. So much certainly like other ones of a previous vintage that he could barely recall being related to other more random experiences unearthed from many years back.
The world awaited out there. An apple to be plucked. An immovable lodestone that needed to be cracked open.
It seemed that it would be a fight to the finish? All dignity aside. Two dogs wanting the same bone. Barely any meat left for one. The dream offered little solace and it was the dead of night once again. The sky lay upon the cage like and over washed purple cloth spread upon a birds cage. No sound of snoring but a clock’s steady tic to and an icebox’s hum. Two weeks now of waking up to this skittery weak feeling drenched in sweat. A stomach full of carpet tacks. Little to say for another nugget frugally spent alone. The dogs seemed lucky! They had the diversion of each others dedicated company. There were worse things than mayhem! Maybe than even a perpetually stomach? There was being completely and totally alone. Even the most miserable of all the dregs mankind so unrepentant to the sting of the whip must tremble at thirty days in the hole. What could they do with three-hundred time three? It was so easy to hallucinate a passing auto defaulting to the distant call of a listless wind. The hum of he icebox pump now angry attempting to eradicate that. The heart had swollen up hard against the internals and the lungs ached as if a ball of cotton was heavily lodged and mucous soaked descending slowly like the clog of a sink. At least the hard inflexible unstoppable galley slave beat had not begun. The system had turned to rust. The only current pleasure being a slight caress of cold upon bare skin. The dichotomy of mild extremes diverting all the rest from total domination of all things thought to be real.
A slight and subtle crack of the the neck just below the back of he skull as the head was leaned back hard into the chairs cloth cushion. Inky dark night interrupting the clear view of the same old ceiling so blatantly apparent in day. There were lives going on beyond its barrier as well. The head changed direction and the same mantra sprung out from hiding again. The building was alive with strangers. People that for the most part one never encountered nor even occasionally heard. Strange characters that would pop out of a door on occasion making both parties nervous and generally defaulting to some insincere play of easy familiarity. All parties ready to go back to the myth of no sign of life for an eternity of miles all around. To step back into one’s own threshold! And return to the conviction that they were hopelessly and totally without possible alternative to remain being alone. Trust in one’s fellow a rusty misguided key too long unused to have any trust in its ability to unlock any real hidden store of boundless felicity. Whose fault was that? Forgetfulness was the referee right now that sent all parties back to their corners until the bell would be rung. But the question coming t mind being, “Would it ever?” The shadows of one’s own existence seemed safer portrayed by paper thin phantom’s flicker long ago recorded. Every line pure and purposefully misstated as by the reigning script. The reason for any hesitation in this world of these long past phantoms being their delivery and the comfort of familiarity that it brought one. Something ersatz human that one felt that they could depend upon time and again. It was starvation otherwise.
The sticky rubber of flaccid skin upon skin. A certain rising sense of mild clamminess from muscles set too long in the awkwardness of a body over-saturated by the effects of inactivity. Seemingly astounding how an excess of flesh imposed such dilemmas? One might have thought that the satiation of an empty gut at rare intervals was a healthy thing? Instead some demon power utterly perverse demanded otherwise. This was a land of suffering and it had always been so. Transgressors who believed otherwise were always sooner or later brought back down to earth if they believed otherwise. Social pressure and an inbred jealously that allowed only the single notion that insufficient bread and fishes be shared universally with all. Leaving only the possibility of a lingering taste in the palate that inflated one’s desire for more. Those that wanted more. That took more. Most likely to suffer the worst. The crack of the head sounding again as the nape bounced a couple times against cool invisible cotton. A reliable stiffness evident now in the neck. Sleep was now coming on as both the approximation of a night of heavy drinking and a rising burden weighing down the back. Soon, so very soon, it would be time to rise like a penitent to revisit the rack. A strange recycling barely detectable whistle war whooped as if the squeak of an old outdated wooden chair creaking under the excitement of someone to patently obese. The continuous protest of a canine? Perhaps one of those unseen distant dogs that had lost the contest for that bone?
So many time I find after a particularly extensive internal drama spent under the covers in the dead of night that I find myself delivered back into the embrace of my bed once again several ours short of waking. Not any particularly random time but so very often, that exact time of 3:45 AM. On the same exact fraction of an hour being when some six years before my own beloved father drew his last breath on earth. No what makes me wonder is that my being a legacy of his genes and no doubt his eventual ailments of affliction of the heart that make it the most likely reason written on one’s toe tag. It seems curious that I should so naturally be brought to consciousness again and again at this exact time. Small tiny sharp stabs to stage left anterior just below my own thorax. Almost in some strange way as if I had been called back to that habitual place called waking reality. One in my shoes could easily speculate that this phenomena is not exclusive but shared with many others. So much so that after rising from the warmth of rumpled covers into the persistent reigning cloak of darkness I have resorted to the web to in much to some level of surprise that this precise time of night is said to be the hour when the devils come out to dance. A fact that has one’s inner self occasioning imagery from Disney’s classic of demonic ancient tribal rites, “Fantasia.”
My own road to this awareness complete with palpitations of an aching chest beginning in the still cogent memory with some vague scenario commencing on a farm where I had been handed some vague assignment to work with a woman at what I might have described as an inmate of a ‘hen house’. The downtrodden collection of sheds and barns, stables and smithy all gathered around a central court focused upon a raised platform serving as stage. A convenient coven for the faithful of a small congregation of earthy looking females playing both main performers and primary attraction to the audience of themselves. Myself now outwardly the inescapably noticeable Caucasian male sticking out in naked view like a big red sore thumb before this aching distill crowd. And as such, my opinions considered as being completely unacceptable. But in that contemporary humble guise of as a simple respectful ‘cucked‘ male quiet mindful of their ire barely tolerated as spectator. I sat beside an old female friend named Sharon who in her own usual way seemed forever diplomatic in avoiding awareness of such obvious schisms. This universal war on the topic of male potency as heatedly conducted each tongue successively carrying equally sharp barbs dripping with venom. Time and again, the overzealous spittle of biting little speeches boiling over to outwardly condemn all things evil as being defaulted to a failure by that element of ‘man‘ within ‘mankind‘. It all seemed so silly to me in my silence. The presentations, one after another, evidencing an all too obvious inherent weakness of internal character within each of the speakers in their barely concealed lack of any internal self worth. “How odd?“, I thought on the fly sitting there. That this sort of mutual Achilles heel was so blatantly shared and evident within this group? And being so easily interchangeable among them like some form of emotional currency acceptable as a form of unquestionable communal wealth within their dogmatic Feminist realm? One particular verbal arrow loosed my way daring blood as the speaker expressed he venom in a particularly loud fashion. The spoken projectile striking home bringing forth an immediate knee jerk vocal response in kind from me. “RACIST!”, my own voice rang out loudly over the throng towards the speaker. Barely a murmur within the crowd was detectable for the next moment. But then a wave of expected mumbling struck like lightning through the entire crowd. One in a fashion that one would expect to evidence in a stormy wind cutting forcefully through the un-plucked sheaf’s of wheat. Its virulence disrupting the entire field in a wasteful shower of unharvested grain. It was now time for me to exist this farmyard in order to carry out this vague mission. The unspecified collaboration of a sort with another party involving the collection of facts on a topic that might be of possible interest to the general readership of an unnamed local publication in seeding an article of passing generic interest.
I didn’t look to see if another woman was parked on the the bench seat next to me as I exited in my big blur and white outdated sedan. Relieved to be away of such unwholesome irritations, I headed down the expected stretch of road that unexpectedly identified itself as a place and proximity not too unfamiliar to me at all? Some place claiming ownership in my own routine vernacular as not being, “so far from home.” The segment of highway just beyond the intersection offering a shock in the specter of a cathedral-like malevolent vision of several city blocks crammed full of old derelict buildings. Ones so hoary to my first glance as to judge the lot as being completely abandoned over centuries. A second cautionary glance affording a stark impression of their having collapsed upon each other in such a manner as one might expect of wax dripped haphazardly over an extended time by gravity onto tightly packed votive candles left too close over a long night. The red dirt street splitting into a matched set of lanes diverging to either side of an undefined median. Both completely unpaved inching upwards over a steeply inclined Hell of well-worn ruts and muddy potholes that seemed nu-navigable to the eye. Most incredibly of all in the midst of this inhospitable environment families of suburban tourists rambled about unperturbed as if amidst some form of holiday carnival attraction? My own course forward already plotted by inattention in crossing the intersection I carefully ambled my vehicle up through this gauntlet as carefully as possible. These roughly tumbled lanes betwixt derelict structures inhabited occasionally by boutiques of the sorts of barely stocked store one might expect to find serving as commercial way stations in those bleak economic deserts of inner city black ghetto neighborhoods. Large German shepherd dogs were in evidence everywhere. Their universal popularity within this marginal municipality possibly as a form of general warning. These quarrelsome looking beasts roaming about the streets with a brash arrogant independence suggesting a communal sense of barely contained menace. You could hear them constantly growling from within your car’s tightly closed windows. As if each was marking out its own territory vigilantly stalking some potential target to quickly harass. Their collective demeanor surpassed in belligerence only by an occasional uniformed thug sloppily attired in the threadbare trappings of law enforcement. Driving further into this mess seemed some form of unconscious death wish courting disaster.
A gray area of unconscious mist accompanied a transition to someplace not quite explicable. My next appearance being within the battered confines of a large mold ridden disabled structure that served as the lobby of the town’s main hotel. The reason for my foolishness in having allowed myself to be there only be explained as a tacit compliance to that unnamed female consort whose presence was more characteristic of some form of phantom sylph than a real life flesh and blood companion. Exhaustion taking the place of caution, I recall settling down on a patch of floor by a wall to lean back upon some bags and begin to fall into a snooze. My impulse being brought to an immediate hasty conclusion by the intercession of the probing of an adolescent shepherd dog that struck his its tooth bound nuzzle hard against my temple. The young demon snapping angrily at my ear for good measure. Where in any other place on earth the infamy such an interruption might have been a form of blame placed upon the head of the hound’s owner in this case it summoned the immediate antagonism of a local magistrate. Jumping over me like a canine. he solemnly warning me to quickly move along lest I be arrested on the ground of some minor infraction if I did not exit the vicinity immediately. He seemed to seethe from within from an inexhaustible wellspring of rage as it was the true inspiration behind his profession. Not needing any further hints I made my way out of range of his general locale and back towards my vehicle. The exact location of which now seeming to be playing hide and seek trickery with my foggy memory. My companion now an astral entity whose presence I could barely sense anymore at that point. The ceiling now above me cloistered in shadowy dark offering only speculation as to the underlying meaning of such a flighty episode. The connection of thoughts invading the inclination to fall back into sleep charting a direction to the inference that there might be the possibility of another source for this unpleasantness. One that had equal resonance with the notion of the hand of other realms interceding with the conduct of my own. And with those of my now long departed family members. The dance of demons at their high point at the most expected hour of their nightly revelries. The passport allowing their visitation upon a victim being the unhealthy lifestyle of the ready host accompanied by the possession of his long overburdened soul.
. . . discovered!
walked out. . . ?
pissed of a lot of people
because somebody died
because I got in and should of (not) been there
went to Michigan
the guy that ran the
3D print shop
said he couldn’t deal with it
because . . .
he just had too much to do
he’s a big snowflake
big pain in the ass
came all that way for nothing
“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.
All of a sudden! It all went away. Any hope of getting anywhere. Gone. Perhaps the body of a human is but a chrysalis? Something that wears thin. Does the caterpillar fear its own transition?
For some unexplained reason my old aging Lincoln Continental sedan was the only car parked in front of Sears completely covered with snow in the dead of night. It was contingent upon me to move it or risk having it towed. The fact that I was there to begin with subjected me to the vagaries of the unexpected. Some form of violence by parties unknown. Predators perhaps looking for just such a situation where a motorist is alone within the confines of a vehicle their perception of outside events interrupted by the thick covering of snow blocking vision. Transported almost instantaneously to the bed in my own apartment laying totally paralyzed beneath the covers unable to move. Trying again and again to roll out of it as if some impending harbinger of doom was approaching but frozen in place. Tugging and pulling at the sinews of my extremities tangled in covers that seemed to weigh a ton. but receiving no response. That was until I finally woke up and realized it was a dream. Now awake basking in an amazingly uncustomary degree of clarity in the recall of this experience as well as a building list of classic symptoms including night sweats and occasional shooting pains in the chests wondering how much more time in this material plane do I have?
What ever the drama of the night though I cannot recollect the narrative I live in the wake of that experience throughout the morning. Does it matter? I catch instantaneous glimpses in odd corners of the day.
I cannot surrender to a world that is a prison. Run by fools for the behalf of criminals. What happens when regular people realize that they based most of their lives on the lies that they have been told since childhood? Belief collapses and the population begins to hate everything that they once held dear. A sort of emptiness appears. Live a corpse without entrails. A cleaned fish. The only satisfaction possible being in returning to the myth and reliving it like a movie. A rerun of one’s life imprinted upon its context. That is a very angry was of being! There can be no worse jailer that someone who was formerly imprisoned by their victim. Who in this world knows more about someone ha has robbed them of their innermost self through debasing them. The ‘boreau‘ then becomes a form of recognition of an intimacy that is unsurpassed in relationships that have conventional boundaries. Producing pain in those circumstances becomes the most exquisite form of pleasure. To torment those who have tormented you without mercy becomes a high art. An ultimate high. That is the real danger of this sort of mental violence that is advised against in New Testament virtues. It has nothing to do without he misfortune of the victim of retribution but the addiction of the party initially offended by the transgressions of that person who they will later take great pleasure in debasing.
If that sounds more than vaguely familiar then consider that those who have remorselessly taken power again and again are cut from the cloth of these sorts of persons. People who have no connection or conscience for those whose lives they affect. People that after a while realize that they have become totally reviled for their efforts and now become ruthless and uncaring for the unintended consequences of their ministrations. Nazi’s and their much more terrible counterparts in Marxist revolutionaries who drive their ideologies through conventional society murdering and traumatizing rather than administering competent rule. The only offering being leveraging nightmares through hatred’s long evident and deep seated. Waiting like rabid animals for a chance to sink their teeth in deeply in the arm that beats them. At that point, any arm will do!