There she sat restless upon the surf bounding roughly by. Once a fine ship. An Indiaman. A once fine hulk, now with sinews de-masted and sails de-breasted by a foul wind off Madagascar. A squall by not some not underwhelming sense of mistaken reckoning. The fore deck in shambles and her hull breached. The three sat high up upon the amphitheater of piled stones that now served as her quay. Barely a spit of sand that her master had found by the grace of God before wind and sea and coral rock could have any further way with her. God and the Devil only, who could now tell if her stout oaken keel had succumbed to having its back broken grinding across same? The trio now shivering with impotent rage and trepidation at the slim prospects that the curse of unexpected bad weather had left them that now lay ahead.
A search of another craft far inland deposed a curious collection of ten disassociated items. Some as mundane as a raggedy doll and an old corroded brass plate watch and fob. The most disturbing find being a living thing whose shape held to no known convention strictly identifiable as a recognized species on this earth. A milky colored greenish cast to what appeared to be an uneasy combination of mushroom and asparagus. Something that lay there the similarity of lungs heaving lost in the conundrum of what for it might have been serving as same. Where it had come from was suggested by the broken frame of something disk-like and fractured. Silver metal of a sort that suggested no terrestrial equivalent. The occupant of same offering the most disturbing element of their immediate collection laying at the end of items so much more common to their sensibilities.
The lounge room of the apartment across the hall was full as he stood before the open closet doors in the bedroom. They seemed oblivious of his presence as he stared into the limbo of his own disconcerted thoughts. To his shock and surprise she stood beside him. Barbara. Her entrance as much a mystery as the fact of the appearance of her person. Only for an moment and then she left. Leaving her discontent to mingle with his disappointment to leave an inky film about the room of regret. Now he felt that eyes were prying at him studying his demeanor at her loss. Though unbearable to his sea of raging emotions within he kept up the fiction of remaining inert and unmoved. The sorrow filling him up so rapidly that it felt in a short span of time that it would overcome his neck and burst forth through every portal above. Still he carried on perusing the emptiness of the cubicle before him as if looking for his coat.
The top of the stairs just outside the apartment revealed that this location had been more appropriately a public venue held within what might have been architecturally intended as a hotel or meeting center. He collapsed down into sitting crouched upon the upper steps. Refraining from a swirling sense of spiritual vertigo that sought to whisper to him that he might consider hopping quickly into final flight over the railing just behind him. A just solution in so many ways to cure the guilt and stupidity of his former deeds. Why was he such an empty useless vessel of vacuous circumstantial emotions that like some rare vintage was never really shared? Why had he not shared his heart with her so long ago past when she had given him the opportunity? Was he such a perennial spoilt child that he could not help but further embarrassing the both of them by carrying on for days after in pressing a quest that had clearly demonstrated no intention on following up upon?
He swayed back and forth as the feelings seemed to build to suggest that he had indeed been in love with her. Even if he had not been in love with her enough to through all caution to the wind! The railing behind him waited with the promise of its flying lessons leading quickly to a final view and true oblivion. The presence of another interloper unexpectedly casting a shadow over him from behind. A man! A man dressed in suit and tie appropriate of some formal description of public trust spoke out gently to him as if he might need assistance. The official station suggested by his voice and his manner stopping all thoughts of unbearable loss and that ready antidote of immediate self-destruction. He put on a mask of complacence all the while knowing that his current performance was instrumental to his keeping his freedom. After a few moments interchange he felt that he had rounded the bend in some way. And the man walked off leaving what was for him a chilling promise of an imminent return. Gone for the moment this house genie had set his heart to beating at a furious pace. Escape was all he could think of as he tripped down the stairs as casually as his legs would allow.
To his horror he realized that he had not found his coat back int he closet of the suite now far above. Dare he return he thought to himself, the intercession of that official stranger would most assuredly preclude its use. He had no wish to become an inmate of some hospital! If indeed this is what this space that he had lost mental sight of had truly been all along from the start? He padded back down the main hallway imagining the cold Winter wind outside and what he would do without any appropriate covering containing wallet, cards, money and keys. The trail back led to a fork where the inference of an escalator peeked out to the one side and a low stair suggested further to the left. The notion that only the risk of returning the way he had just came into whatever was now waiting for him might be the only solution. How he hated this society for so easily casting him as a murderer in mentally alleging that he was so ready to frivolously take his own life. Who were these people that demanded entry to his thoughts and felt empowered to redirect the intentions of his should when he felt that he had reach that point that he had had enough? How terrible after all was this empty pursuit of finding that lost trail of one’s long lost fleeting love.
Dusk is the time for melancholy when everything before you is so beautiful. Falling and empty of substance. When possibility is fleeting any all hope for the future becomes bereft. Symbols and events and faces pass by without evidence of ever being so. The linkage of all those former memories defaulting to incomprehensibility amorphously incidental and brief. Another day passes into reckless recriminations. Of what might have once been possible. But now is irrecoverable beneath the rapidly spreading tide of endless night.
Wrestling with the border guard who took liberties with my eyeglasses. Taking his tit for tat. The battle for each in clever words and a over the shoulder flip while my mother looked on. I was not Douglas Fairbanks but I took his cue.
A struggle in my bed and reach for my gun but it is suddenly too heavy to employ. I wake up and drop it back down. A lady salesman appears and shows me a pellet gun and a small revolver. A Daisy. The two remarkably like what I had in childhood. The younger generation hates me. Hates my generation and wishes it would die. As I wished for my own father to pass on sometimes. All for the mortal crime of being out of step with the way things tend to change. And daring to become ancient in spite.
“And God took away the power of speech and thus all humanity was confounded.”
The state took your balls. They leave you no options. A woman of today is not complete without a man to order around . Very publicly so. No more room for being male. Picking up the check perhaps? Daily life from one crisis to the next. Long train carriages leading one boxcar to the next all a foregone conclusion. Only one’s demeanor shifting.
The cold air format the gray world outside should have frozen the empty heat within. It merely challenged those supposedly within its reach to recall it. An artist’s life struggling constantly like fish just taken fresh from the water. That shrug of an explanatory smile. A fearless display of the plunge out of earthly existence. Mystery posed by a pair of over ample hips. A portal? One absurd assumption posed after another. Life cannot be that bad! Aggression barely clothed in the thinnest apparition of humor. A coffeehouse. A lifeboat.
Escape through a wooded glen. Pile of old weapons of war. Everywhere the shade of rust of what was. Supposedly was? Small arms and machine guns. Everywhere! MG42’s, a memory minefield foregone. Conclusions waiting patiently just behind the treeline.
There was a certain restlessness in his demeanor. Something beyond the collusion of opposites. Of the imminence of joyful times and simple relaxation. And constant disappointment. As if he stood before his own closet trying on old items from his wardrobe. Seeing if they still fit? The scheduling for the operation was on this coming Monday. The best part of the day and Sunday to work out or discover whatever enjoyment was left. Whether his usual routine would continue? Continue or not.
Death A. Head. The surface only skimmed. Raked. Above the tender surface below. Of, “who I am.” Of who I was. Or whom I had become. Life, purloined thoughts. Interposed with maybe? Maybe not. Maybe not my own. Trivia, Trivial. Vitality to be sapped. Childhood destroyed. Old, old like the odd fellows. Their bar close up. Up upon the ceiling. The phone falling apart and rendered un-fixable. My lady friend far ahead long gone. A head. Time to write the will. The world gone gray made sick . Turned afoul. Destroyed. Humanity. Godhood gone.
What would have been like to be in the arms of someone who loved you. Again? What! As if it had ever happened? Old memories buried in each other on a pile. A pyre. Locked in place and no longer available. But you’re here. Still? Aren’t ya! That’s it. Walking around like a ghost without a clue of what brought you to this haunt. What kind of love is that. Smelling the stains. Laying on an old broken down mattress. Pretending that you know something. Like something, someone knows you. Who is kidding who. Who has? Yourself. A thought after thought after thought after thought. Echo. Two mirrors! Someone’s truth lies between. Is it you. Your’s? You want her talk. Talk, talk, talk. You wanted them all to talk. Safe to talk. They did! Then they did! And it was all about something. Anything!Nothing. But not you! You couldn’t understand that. Not you. That you didn’t enter into the equation. You never did. Never! You were a ghost. A ghost of a dream. A ghost in a dream! Your dream. Never! Never, never, never. Neverland. You were a child tucked into pajamas. Not a man. No! Never. Sucking your thumb. Sucking their tits. Sucking and fucking. Fuck off! You might have felt their passing fury. Felt a tremble through their body. That tremble. Trembling? For a moment. For an instant? Never. But you were not available. Never were. That was you sin. The sin of self. You alone. The key that wouldn’t open any door. You were locked out. Out in the cold. Cold. Dead cold. Like dead. And so why? Why ask the questions. “Where’s my money?” Why ask. Why! You know the answer. Don’t you? You do! Now. Now is not the time. The time. No longer the time to ask.
This private ongoing conversation with you. You, whoever you are. You my friend. You my enemy. You, and just you! The mental fiction of the whole wide world beyond these words. This endless stream of myself that I send skyward in the fiction of my heart transcendent. Some form of wishful immortality to be heard at last. To call out and know that all this lonely struggle was not simply for not. To you who I will never know. Assuming much along the way that such a thing could be possible. There is no strident sound breaching my reality of some sharp tapping upon a water pipe in the dark of night! As if I were in a tiny prison cell. And this same prison being the world outside that cell of me as myself. I would like to believe that all the world is mine. But I unfortunately am of it. Something I will not see! But you are beyond all this! In storied castles or dark mud huts. Anywhere and everywhere. Waiting in the realm of my own fantasies to hear how I explain you in some small part from the tiny pieces of myself. Old rags from the previous day’s washing hanging out to dry on this ethereal clothesline. Who am I kidding?
To you my best confident! That I am never in danger of knowing. Of ever saying, “no!” But just staying there perfectly silent as I find new ways to speak my truth. Yet never to offend.”Impossible!“, you may say? But then my lips are your words. Vainglorious notions that all these well-worn symbols of currently imposed colonial patois splatter forth. That will serve as fit language and will penetrate. How selfish I’ve become? How pathetic this symbolic death of verbal commerce evident within my own land? That my own kind and I are so wrapped up fatally within ourselves? That we fear the weight of so many others just like ourselves that might steal the very oxygen from out of our breath. What fools! And yet this nagging fatal impulse to cast loose my shell and fly forth into places unknown. Unknowable! To conjure and to fly off further still. You and I, we form this very flock of restless birds as tireless as the Sun. Daily put upon to rise and fall and then rise again. To renew ourselves by these hopes, however impossible and flawed. To reach out and hope that hope that there is truly someone else there that understands.
It is a much larger game than you can imagine. All the bothersome minding of these petty treasures and useless earthly cares getting in the way. These larger avatars of the heavens spin about us, or we about them. For them we are so much less than the blink of an eye. Yet justice is justice, and truth as it may commonly be known is an ever evolving work always in progress. The lunar companion above at its zenith if you are allowed to see it poses so many questions that you are not supposed to ask. Your business is Terra! Or so you are told. But what about this celestial shooting gallery seemingly eternal far above? Collision after collision scarring some unexpected infant that so briefly appears newborn. Everything has sympathy and synchronicity. Like that baby still lurking within you. Continents and other suppositions that the mind consistently betrays the intellect with. Do you not believe what you are told? Just simply look for yourself. We are simply wispy glowing little bits of passing glimmer. Caught for a while by something much larger pretending physicality. We have to struggle, struggle, struggle for whatever ounce of truth that we can find. And then never forget that we only, can see it for ourselves. This singular madness to be found amidst the light. Are yonder crater’s brilliant dots dimpled cities? Or does one simply paint self-engendered scenarios with the mind? The why and the wherefore never coming to task. Paint if you will whatever face upon it you choose. You are only beginning to see the majesty of your own reflection.
Now that the sheep’s clothing has been thrown off and the ‘wolves‘ of Wall Street are running wild in an open attack upon anything Caucasian, I feel that it is high time to unburden myself about a few things that have bothered me. Things that for too many of you that you still won’t touch like why the cartel that has always run Hollywood was so insistent that a full moon could turn a man into a wolf. As if such superstitious fantasies that could be attributed to some modern day underlying reality. The once grievous terminology that is now part of contemporary patois being mind fuck. Their mighty sword to inflict “great vengeance and furious anger” (Ezekial 25:17) against the enemies of Israel. This can literally be embodied in their products released for general viewing over the years that salved their white European audiences into complacency while tricking them into self-destructive viewpoints through artful shorelines using ethnic shills. Considering that in the classic modus operandi of the modern detective one looks for both motive and opportunity their are plentiful examples connected with the inception of same. The cult of the magus that goes back to Darius the Great, who as in the words of he old Negro spiritual “literally let their people go” in 519 BC, is synonymous with entrancing other peoples so as to take their treasure and ultimately destroy them. A cycle that has been repeating itself without interruption over all the years in-between. The true birthplace of the notion of Hollywood being to capture ones attention, confuse, and instill false thoughts being the basis of the practice of magic. Can anything explain better why the entire population of every other modern society on this planet seems beset by such inner turmoil? Who could have imagined two decades back that the most valued possession in ones inventory of material objects would be one that they could hold in their hand and daily capture their entire focus of life? The older technology being that honey trap of the old grand Baroque movie palaces of the nineteen-thirties when the national money supply was ‘mysteriously’ contracted forcing most into economic want of the dime or dollar to get in? The power of the motion picture and those singular products released at pivotal points in history precluding larger world events equally unfathomable. That is of course if one dares to directly take a probing unflinching look!
Take for example the year 1947 two years after the conclusion of the complete destruction of their avowed enemy, the German people, many events that magically occurred at the same time had a certain synchronicity not unlike so many modern ones day. On Nov. 29, 1947, the United Nations General Assembly passed a resolution calling for Palestine to be partitioned at the expense of indigenous Arabs and Christians for European Jews, allowing for the formation of the Jewish state of Israel. The National Security Act of 1947 enacted a major restructuring of the United States government’s military and intelligence agencies. And, seemingly far less noteworthy, MGM released the movie, A Gentleman’s Agreement, based on Laura Z. Hobson’s best selling novel. A storyline plot in which (white) Christian a journalist played by Gregory Peck poses as a Jew to research an exposé on antisemitism in New York City. The picture went on to be nominated for eight different Oscars and won three. How convenient! So egregious was its release at the pivotal time when the Jewish inspired doctrine of Soviet Communism was actually found to be directly entrenched within the highest offices of the USA that it upset the House Un-American Activities Committee as it was considered a tactic of interference with the investigation of some of its key creators. Elia Kazan, Darryl Zanuck, John Garfield, and Anne Revere all being called to testify before the same committee. The author not un-coincidentally being the ‘first female director’ of Time magazine and birthed by radical Socialist Russian Jewish parents in part behind The Jewish Daily Forward. A politically focused publication in its own right today now stripped down to the title Forward. Her book publisher another Jewish mega-influencer of his day, Richard L. Simon of Simon & Schuster, a company that dominated publishing. Birds of a feather having a marked similarity as of old in sticking together?
One might suggest that the placement of these and other events were instrumental in paving the way in terms of softening public opinion in the USA for supporting the implantation of the long standing project of a Jewish state in Palestine. The culmination of the payoff by the Triple Entente for twice bringing the United States out of isolationism to defeat the rising economic dominance of turn of the century Germany. One violating the greatest invention of modern World Jewry, the burned, but seemingly never singed, offering of that ongoing modern myth and money-making proposition termed the Holocaust. Forget the facts, this is Hollywood! And not ironically, this is the current state immoral of the world where most who are electronically plugged in the grid believe in space aliens and contentious generations of women that can easily physically best all men rather than partner with them. A global financial based society that thrives of the deception that its controllers are routinely allowed to charge obscene levels of compound interest just for their printing of paper alone. The notion of continuously producing that same old magic of shifting public opinion now currently singled out as ‘fake news’ and box office tanking socially immoral culturally toxic blockbusters. How odd that so many of these enterprises routinely trip themselves up under direct scrutiny in terms of pervasive violence, sexual perversion and misquoting the facts. The notion of collective guilt and self-destructive powerlessness always foisted upon white culture by the end of each presentation. Is it any wonder that the indoctrination of successive generations has led to false notions that will simply enslave them in the employ of destroying their own kind? It is too bad that the book burning of the twenty-first century goes on silently in the developed preference easily manipulated electronic media as opposed to very quickly disappearing conflictory paper.
“And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.” Ezekial 25:17 (a key portion of the Hebrew Pentateuch, AKA Torah/old testament)