Month: November 2017

Guess Ill just Die?

Guess Ill just Die?

I grow weary of the majority. They have never justified their wants by being vaster and consuming more space.  The minority which despises ignorance and hate, needs to take their chance, short of advocating an actual revolution, i can only advocate a complete and utter revolution. And an education of the ills of the republics to all.  The majority is only the majority because they have allowed themselves to attain such a clunky ungracious label.

Terms like basic bitch “imma”, ” when you….and your…”, “blank look like they about to drop the hottest blank of 2018”,  recycled memes losing their flavor with each negativists approach to make funny the ills of our symptomatic ape society attempting electronic sublimation.

Why wouldn’t we want to burn all this down. On literally all points of the globe suffering is happening on such a scale that it cannot be reversed, and not long from now we will all be dead. This is not a hypothesis. This is a fact, a fact you won’t face ( i mean you’re gonna die) or I but our grandchildren, and i’ll deserve every curse my genetic legions fling my way.

I am the benefactor of the landfills unemptied, the smokestacks blackening their sky of stars, satellites making the leaving of orbiting materials more difficult, space trash falling willy nilly , thrown out plastics, overabundance of certain animals and the entire species of death of limitless others. How would you not curse such a one, who sat and read and had coffee while this happened in his vantage, his very backyard, the time he lived in.

The dystopian novels written badly by people with no ethics flood the shelves, self fulfilling prophecies for the semi-literate guided only by the morality of their flesh.



The advent, the fizzling out of things, the falling apart of base infrastructures,

the last exhalation of  a dying monster, the acidic crust formed at the edges of arctic pools, as improbable as us, this, all of it.

they tell me tonight i will build a fire, around it go the traditions of a billion beings, a repetition unknown, a record playing endlessly, never hearing itself but moving in the same grooves nonetheless.

and today or many days later i woke and watching the sun rise the poetry died on my lips, and language slipped in a pool at my feet like a silk dress fallen swiftly from the shoulders of a woman giving herself away unabashedly,

and the umber burst of light between trees made the branches look like the veins in a hand of some higher being, and it stung to breathe in such an atmosphere of beauty,

a crane gathers itself in the morning on the fog ridden water of the pond, eating at the mollusk upon the shore, it is a  grey : the light which shrouds it like a pall,

Matinetanal: of the dawns neutral breath,

Now it is a drunken Schubert night, the novembral urgings of the autumn smoke smells in the coal smothered sky ride high on the primal needs of ours and us.

Downtown in the grey light the shadows from the silhouetted false heroes in front of the court house fall short of their meaning, the homeless smell of rust and yearning, hushed and flushed away by the police, they always patrol the streets, its impossible to not feel ragnarok, the essence in the blood is one of fear of punishment and or wrong clearly being done and nothing but vapor as our reaction.

High rise men in high rise suits burgeoning and groping towards their own false destiny grapple us in their wake, power men in idealized suits give speeches they are expected to give, people who shouldn’t bow, bow as they are expected to bow.  Broken court etiquette : an aping of Versailles fashion, the subtle excess more disgusting. The figures incalculable the wealth so vague and small, almost below numbering.

in the slow writing of this i have been four men, one who hates and doubts, one who calculates and smears his own name, one who begs for the publics approval, and myself who is none of these.

a new bone spur has formed on my shoulder like an accusation, i can hardly walk, but it is bearable, all things are bearable when the attitude is found to tolerate. people are concerned but i shoulder my shortness of breath, the agony of tendon meshing against bone and the blood in my spit and i make them models of forbearance and i walk rather than crashing to my knees and committing some mighty/weak seppuku. I also complain a lot but mostly i handle things as if they were mine to have chosen, as if i stood on a corner and begged for diseases to cripple me so i could get out of various social situations.  I am a building crashing down invisibly.

I beg forgiveness for my doubt. May i be vanquished by love and replaced with a truth of self i know nothing of yet.





On Ethics

On Ethics

Ive spent my entire life fighting a passive and quiet battle against evil, so have you, so have we all.

For the record philosophy isn’t a family trait, or at least not to the degree which i wish to pursue it. By some in my family it is considered unnecessary and as these men are happy i say by all means attend to your wants. Who am I to say otherwise?  For men like my father an ethical code long established in his heart has served as a guidepost which makes the reading of most philosophy merely the reinforcement of a known ideal yet to find wordy fruition, often upon hearing a quote i would read to him he would merely nod in recognition as if i had repeated something etched in his brain like a petroglyph only waiting to hear it for it to spring to life, come off the wall so to speak. To others like my brother it is a plague like mine, a plague he gladly picks up and puts down, both a burden to bear and a mitre to swing Bishop like at the antithetic vileness of the worlds lack of concern for itself.  We stand as witnesses to a crime committed on a vast scale, some days it is tolerable, other days it is not, hence philosophy.

May it also be said that philosophy is a luxury. But though a luxury, it is not passive nor is it pleasant.  If it is, you are doing it wrong or you have done it long enough to see what its about.  By this i mean you have reached the semi-senility of peace achieved by no longer requiring certitude and absolutes.

It is however the only luxury one reaches for and finds, ever present, always, a breath of God or Cosmos, a panacea for the modern woe( which is the woe of all man through all time as modernity is merely present hood and ever present) , a gift unasked for: unwanted. The only one which time will not decrease, which men cannot take away, which cannot be chained or killed, nay even maimed for it is more than truth, it is mans defense of the idea that something is true.

Though we haven’t the width of nomenclature or skill of love to figure it out as of yet. The  “As of yet…” is the interesting the part. The raison d’être of the entirety of thoughts on ethical existence, the basis of morals etc.  Even fools wake up hoping, even if they do not know they are hopeful. Even the faithless are faithful as each day they wake with the idea that they would wake. Inferring and exacting from us what must be exacted, all is an act of faith whether it be philosophical, spiritual, or scientific. Which in all honesty are merely tools on a swiss army knife of reason living in accordance with nature not as we want it to be, but as it is.

They’d have us all shot gladly. No one in a position of power smiles with any true benignity upon the vast thinkings of men who laugh at their boundaries and call them as they are, unreal limitations set upon the limitless. When all is a belief in an idea, a unity forced (so to say) by mere association with a warm feeling which is acknowledged to be merely that. Rather than an actual existing natural brotherhood: an ethical setting forced upon one and all, to adhere to, be allegiant to!

When one laughs at this and those who believe and uphold it, one is and always will be in danger, and “A Danger”.   Even now i feel a traitor, my children go to the same public schools which programmed me like so much fodder when i should have been raised by Jesuits, or in some Montessori atmosphere, everyone should. This vast stamp or cast which they wish to mold all of us in must begin at this larval stage, a lie slowly told seems to become truth.  I hid in libraries on adderrall reading Solzenhitsyn and Chekovs stories, everyones stories, speeding, cursing my fellow inmates, never knowing the pressure mounting in their skulls was the same as mine.

The fear all too real of school and its initiation process is so blithely accepted by us that i feel myself ashamed for having gone along with it while raising my own sons. The only cure is to teach ethics and all that matters at home. Raise rebels (refer to Camus’ essays on Rebellion) with an honest and just cause, quiet infiltrators of compassion, tools for a future that is ethically bound to its people and its mission statement of truth and freedom. The public facilities we believe nurture and enunciate the nuances of freedom, are the shackles on the legs of the titan of liberty.  The laws which elongate and grow so wearisome, so that lawyers multiply in the dark like fungi are an insult to the very essence of freedom, and we , we so lazy and easily lulled by the “door out” ( see Epictetus) which is democracy, and limited freedom have stopped here. We have said ” Ill have this freedom but overmuch of anything is bad, even truth…” I shit on all such sayings and capitulations.

How did we come to this? How do we come away from this? Men speak of evolution but I’ve yet to see evidence of it in our societal attitude or in our way of conducting our affairs which gives me dim hope of any prolonged stewardship of the Earth. I see a hungry end. An angry end, an globular expulsion of us.

A brown study ad infinitum.

But all things must end. To believe they have no end is what gives us the fear, not their ending. Being brought forth came naturally to you, being called away shall be the same. Embrasure of a mixture of ethics of this sort, along with the relatively mundane societal oddities and barbarities, is a must, if one is to survive in times of  seeming safety. A time of witches burnt quietly , book’s pages erased and re-written: unnoticed by an overly narcoticised population.

Humanity is so integrated it has become leviathan itself and screams it proudly ( as a creature in its death throes seems a celebrant). Only time will tell, but i believe as a system, Man fails utterly to adhere to his own ethics and all of his civilizations are iterations of this lack.  Ours as much as theirs. The fact that we have yet to get to a point where “ours” and “theirs” is not an odd concept, when much could be everyones but mere circumstance, not providence but human intervention, ceases the happening of it. It is like being a plague victim who never dies. To be a witness silently to all which occurs is modern mans burden. The limited scope of past life set men free from the burden of the true level of the mass of guilt man’s shoulders bear , and oddly without shyness , he (modern man) totes them aside his accomplishments, as if “acquisition” was a synonym for “forgiven”.

I am glad my sons do not ask of the nature of landfills or toxic pits where go the things we flush far away ( or close) for I could not explain, no half ass excuse, no belaboring of my ancestors with the guilt of crushing the atmosphere of the present would be true, i am inactive, as inert as a substance awaiting a catalyst to become valid.  I take vitamins everyday now, but i stare out of the window and I know  it is not in accordance with normalcy for the red of electric lights to blot out the night sky, nor is it normal for my children to know nothing of stars and for my understanding of them to be so rudimentary.

Around high in the air , in the black of the semi-country nights i see the Space Station. Men of peace orbiting a globe of oddity, it is not they who are strange, all return changed for the good, questioning the very basis of such earthbound thought, even mine, so filled with self concern strikes me as feeble: the attempt of a blind man to describe light, when all he knows is the dream of warmth it seems to have upon his skin, this , his memory of the sun. In retrospect telling my son of the Russians and the dog they sent up ( i forget his name(Laika i googled it like an ass)) in the name of science was a mistake, but there will be many more mistake talks I’m sure. Ill not begrudge my children their modus operandi in their dotage, but i do hope their dotage isn’t achieved at such a young age.

I find myself still typing, though all i want to do is conclude. But where does one conclude where there is no true conclusion? And wrapping up an essay is what everyone always expects, but their expectations honestly mean nothing when standing against the needs of reality and truth.  Let it be said that the world is glorious. The world is vicious. Man is lovely . Man is beastly.

There is a middle path, one which takes effort but is more bold than any extreme, one which seems simple but is the epitome of struggle. Take the road untravelled. And when they ask who sent you, when you stand before a tribunal of Fascists or Whatevers you can tell em who sent you, ” Your honors i stand before you because any edifice which makes an honest man plead with liars is clearly a land where the righteous will be shackled. And may you all go to hell.” Im already practicing my speech.