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.


October in the Warmth

October in the Warmth

Outside it is the twenty third of a month in Fall called October, it is warm enough for a t-shirt.

I type , angry that the rain will stop the sun rising earlier or rather mar the pinkish glow which I’ve come to greet as a brother. One is less lonely with a burning star in their view, and the knowledge that a ball of friction held in by gravity and the hand of an invisible mathematics: an orb which will warm me, this undeserving creature, is reassuring. As I’ve said before the constancy of the sun has always inspired worship, for good reason.

Of late i write very little. Ive discovered it is difficult to suck the marrow from life if one is always recording on papers and or this device.  Reading is much better and taking notes for later writing, and this is all for me, pleasant : an abstraction, a legacy of sorts. I’ll leave my sons no fiat currency,  only knowledge which is all i have, and cannot be taken from even my corpse. Ill die burned with it in my crematorium: this wealth.

Ive ordered many new books, mostly obscure but well written books, minus the derivative of modernity which seems to have infested us with an idea of a promised synthesis of thoughts.  Ive discovered contrarily, that knowledge is best studied in subsections and history in microcosmic form, this works better, one has a chance to synthesize at least what they need before they expire.  Examples of authors: Fermor, William James , Epictetus,Dillard, Henry Adams, Baker’s the Peregrine, D’Ormesson , Rufus, Zeno, Physiologus, more of Senecas lesser known essays and writings etc.

Lists aren’t for me (nor is this one even close to total), and I’m not bragging. No one knows or cares i’ll read this, no one is wowed by my girth of interest. We live in a sleeping state and men who care are so far between that i would kiss the feet of a person who could merely hold me entranced with a new thought for just an hour without the aid of alcohol as a lubricant to fuel my interest.  THC makes me less interested in their company, in it i only have an urge to seek more in books, and perhaps I’m some wunderkind but it effects my memory not at all, i don’t even use book marks (or hardly do) , because i can find my pages simply by rereading a few key words.  Forgive my talk of this, i have only one other talent or two: 1. I am a mediocre but husband who tries hard. 2. I love my sons more than myself and will work to help them grow beyond me. Hence my speaking of the books of the philosophy, and the endless tirade of speculation on what seems as if it could be exhausted. But books cannot be nor knowledge. Only wisdom has limits and its is the basis of wisdom mohave a demarcation .

Now as i do often ill begin anew as if i weren’t writing about anything, which i suppose i wasn’t. I was writing about everything. The sun behind me still lurks and it rains, bones swell and i care not. French minimalist electronic music fuels my ability to pervade through my morning like a ghost of silence, my headphones loudly urging me to press play yet again. I shouldn’t be writing such tripe, i should read one of the 20 books I’m reading, i only have so long to live. Will my reflections have been wroth the time spent upon them ? Have i gleaned anything ? Has anyone?  If this is all, if i am only to be food for the earth or sky, what is it I am doing? I prefer to think it our duty to smear our existence and spread it with as much love and erudition as possible, until one can sound the depths of the human heart one cannot begin to do so, hence the need to reflect i suppose and to reflect on others reflections. Also we are all lonely , every night we are in another world akin to death, so all are lonely even if they say they are not, at least for the hours where their mind is not here. Truly elsewhere.

I say let the warmth come or go. But let Fear never have the option to remain. Live in accordance with reason and love, and die according to them as you have no choice.

Bishop Aimed at Unprotected Queen

Bishop Aimed at Unprotected Queen

The books gather in stacks, judging, waiting to be judged, preferential treatment accorded to those which held me in their grasp as mothers do babies,

I’d imagined a contrived poem, some vestige of what i believe I’m supposed to write but I’m a husk today, not an unpleasant husk but a dryness of mind which i appreciate, I’ve absorbed enough let me be reticent.

A gunman shot fifty people in Vegas, he will not be called a terrorist, because he is white he is merely a loose cannon, an errant fool, his case will be viewed with sympathy when he should probably be quietly smothered like a kitten in an insane asylum with a pillow laced with razors , yet such is our way, he will be paid for, until a long drawn out trial and endless appeals, death row and invested taxes fed to our vile corporate jail system, fascist in all but name. Democratic in nothing but our socialization and local government.

I picked my boys up early, i really honestly have little regard for any laws especially educational ones: when the food is edible and nutritious, when the curriculum is a lifelong pursuit of truth, then i will bow to such  a system. Either way , screw waiting in line with a bunch of irritated parents most of whom id fall short of speech with in any normal encounter. Or rather id capitulate and talk about the only sport player i know in order to evade any real conversation, if thats even a possibility.  Needless to say this is torture for me, i sometimes wear headphones i smile foolishly at everyone, as if to pay them off; like kids in war zones looking to me for chocolate i do not have.

Electronic music is now playing as i type this, my sons have hugged me often and told me of their love. I diffuse essential oils, and listen to odd electro funk music from the late 90s and literally whenever the hell it was made, by an artist i consider not shit.  I skim memes, I read a few pages of various books by men i should read books by ( and women not to be a sexist, as i love well..both sex and the abilities of my equals) and i sip merlot , the kind made en masse by people who must have been tasters for Thunderbird and were hired to help market this as a step up.  Does the trick as they say.  I write this almost as if it is necessary to me to have a point about today. But honestly i remain unmoved. Men shoot often, what makes it different when i can commiserate is this, i can commiserate, quietly and alone over what is wrong whether it took place here or elsewhere.

Somewhere, men in rooms with ties and suits which we couldn’t afford throw around words like “necessary loss” and ” how will this effect donors”, men and women who think of things in the rhythm  of four year terms , who have shit on democracy and made it a horserace for fat bottomed and cadaverous beings of wealth to bet upon like the play of whores after work in saloons.  Men who have given us a religion in the place of truth and called it freedom: endorsed boundaries when freedom knows none, built when they should have shown restraint, destroyed when they should have held back, compromised, made peace.  Often i find it odd that i am represented as a member of a designated class or social stratum in a nation-state, and that i must take this as matter of course and so must you and we think nothing of the fact that getting killed for speaking too loudly, is a thing which occurs out of hand as well.

I wake each day and walk to a quiet field of battle, it takes place on radios, and phones, pornographic websites, social media outlets which vacillate between honesty and a bland death like embrasure of free speech so inherently self absorbed, it ceases to be free or even speech. I often wonder how much skinheads and Antifa realize they are much alike, especially to men like me with more shit to do ,than get involved in their factions, children to raise, books to read: other than the few i felt necessary to reinforce my own assumptions. ( Though i must admit my brother and i debate whether one gets anything from books other than what one already inherently knew but couldn’t articulate, which is something i’ll address or not address another time).

Let it be known to those who feel they may hide from war, This is the war.  If you wish to hide from poverty, you’llve poverty of another sort, even less quenchable and more prevalent… a rich man, has less chance than a camel passing through the eye of a needle etc. … If you think you can avoid the masses, know you are the masses, your ability to function as a feasible unit within a mass of contradictions is your only goal. Let this at least be attempted with a sense of decorum. Truly it is all i wish of my sons or I.

And may you unite with one who’s bond is beyond that of themself.  And together you can study the architecture of the truth, bodies entwined until your death.

A Successful Failed Essay on Self- Inquiry and Partial Madness

A Successful Failed Essay on Self- Inquiry and Partial Madness

Credits and debits in an ledger, always I see it in my minds eye, I wonder if all see it, mark time by nonsense, an ideated false obsession, take their pulse by the beat of another heart, have given up emotionally in a respect which isolates them to this, this account book of a life which attains meaning only in the most blissful of stupors like sex and parental love and unconditional compassion, a sunrise un-impeached or a day with only smiles and the ability to move on.

To have mental problems is to say one is nearsighted in certain respects, even in loving or finding joy, it is also to be invisible to suffer quietly in ways which cannot be explained because of their individuality and impossibility to enumerate in terms with any true definition than what the beholder of them has. Thats why I’ve always truly been haunted by the phrase by Frost and I’m summing up ” its meaning was  incredible or else i fear entirely my own.”

A man with the inability to control himself burns himself up like a log in a fire, his fears are the wind .  Crowds , closeness , love : these things are the metal poker, stoking him, he fears them , like a fool but still he fears them. And in knowing he is a fool the shame and guilt are compounded to a degree which is so superficial that it is somehow believable to the fool concocting it, as foolish as the certainty of atheist and christians. Seneca compares the angry man to the madman, nothing is closer to the mark of reality than his simple statement on an unnecessary phenomenon.

Even stranger? The incredible capacity to love on a vast scale by a creature totally immutable to the laws of it, apparently unswayed by it. But no man is an island and the quietest or loudest often love the deepest. And in a solitude of nostalgia they hold onto that love, nourishing it for a better day which in hiding it from others they never achieve.  To know deeply such a darkness one must also be familiar with light.

” If I see a man armed only with a sword attack a group of machine guns, I shall consider his act to be absurd. But it is so solely by virtue of the disproportion between his intention and the reality he will encounter, of the contradiction I notice between his true strength and the aim he has in view.” from Camus’s Myth of Sisyphus and other Essays, in point “An Absurd Reasoning” , a book i would recommend with anyone battling an absurdity, which is literally all of us, but especially those who have through hook or by crook been inundated with a mental acuity which turns in itself and is called disease, abnormal, madness.

For the struggle for the man ridden by the hag of mental difference (disease though it is a stigmatic word for something inherited) is the struggle of the inability to embrace the absurdity of rules, things forced on the grid of what we perceive and call reality with such confidence. I often ask why not such a change, am I a burp ,a sequence of pained growth of mind toward an evolutionary goal i know nothing of ? Such a thought is absurd. But upon the general admittance of great thinkers and great beings, all things are absurd, but nonetheless they must be thought of , dealt with. Even this. When ones life is this though, it becomes an even heavier  weight, one grows guilty at not solving the problems of another, forgets about the things all around them because of the obsession….so absurd haha, indeed.

Thats what this is truly about.  How a man who can learn anything, can also suffer miserably at the hands of self inflicted wounds ,as much as any fool with no iota of need beyond his immediate animal satisfaction.

The normal : Let us call this group the status quo. One may describe them as wishing to be diseased or seeming to be, but truly only suffering from a symptomatic reaction to a crushing societal scenario none of us imagined or expected.( Let us not look down on that group, geniuses are only fools who can hide their faults more easily than others, or reveal them and make them seem accomplishments.) These are the people that for some reason persons with mental problems let themselves be bothered by, i personally imagine them as a heaving unthinking mass of meat, on better days i see them for what they are : individuals struggling to be, in a world which wishes for ambiguity as a rule to reign.

This is where i wish to digress, i find the form odious, the need to conform, odious, for though i write for others I’m mostly writing for myself, my ID, i do not fear death nor do I believe in the magics presented me by the various sects of magi and thought crime perpetrators, logic manipulators or believers of vast proposals without merit or purpose.  Ill not wave a flag, nor be allegiant to any thing which rose from dust. If there is a God ill not shame him, if there is not I will not shame myself.  Madness takes many forms, conformity being the one most uncomfortable to me, I pretend to be 60 people a day to avoid confrontation, not because of any real reason but because i fear letting in strangers, of which the world is composed, terrifying strangers who believe in the flags and the guns and the things….the things, jesus so damn many, all ridiculous, like children making fart noises to an adult in a quiet room trying to study : such are the ways of the mass.


I read the word Rest on the title of a book ( it was referring to the grouping of others) but i found it interesting that the word for sleep and the word for a group of socializing beings should share an etymological similarity,  It took my breath away. How beautiful to think of lying in ones brothers and sisters arms, trusting utterly that love is their position rather than what is so apparent, this missing piece, the only piece which would let us say the word “evolved” as if it were apparent in our own being.

Man is only a creature of the present like any other. His tendency to live in the past and future would be admirable did he not neglect the present. That being said, saying times are bad is an arbitrary thing, times are both good and bad. Nothing is one thing, and assuming so makes a literal hell on earth: for where lies reign, only suffering occurs. Reference the endless history of men letting men down in revolutions across the planet in every time of history.  All epochs only can be called epochal because of an invoked sense of self importance totally unearned by a creature whose sole accomplishment in the end will be to eradicate his inheritors through laziness and apathy.

As I type peril seems to be in the air ( doesn’t it always?)  The Leader of North Korea a kingdom behind an imaginary line on the northeastern part of a landmass in the east is firing mediocre nuclear weapons through the sky and sending veiled threats like an insecure bully unsure of his punches strength in a playground brawl. His people a huddled mass of starving slaves ,sent to death camps to work till their last breath cheer him on, clapping bony hands together smiling as they must for safeties sake, their families sake, pride in what they know is a lie : all they have left.

Our situation is similar but more dangerous. Unlike North Korea we actually are killing people, haven’t stopped killing people to the point that it is almost a past time and a thing we forget we our doing. When i say we i only use it in the sense that I must, so deeply ingrained is the idea of country in the minds of man, those who sneer at faith but fear boundaries which do not exist , i find beneath intellectual contempt.  Why is this pertinent? I tell you why. because i personally am the least disturbed by this than I am by what is going on in my vicinity, a reality i cannot ignore, one which i would know were it not told to me by people who think they should do the telling. i.e. News organizations, governments, busybodies and gossips, fools and prophets who’s faith is bound up in a logic so fallible the cracks can be seen in the skin of their very deepest being, or their most open argument.

How does one find peace in such a place? Where intuition is smashed, open-mindedness under assault. Become a man apart i say.  But as a man apart you aren’t away from the problems of mankind, you are simply able to look at them more objectively if emotion is not involved except when necessary and the only emotion necessary is compassion, for it and love define all others, how one reacts from these emotions will always be the way one should react. Vengeance is for those who have limited themselves to this earthly plane of base thought, just as they limit God by writing in the margins and creating holy books which are more a reflection of their beliefs than any a Just God would ever contrive.

As we speak the crusty old hates grind like machinery, men tote the chains of anger , raising the bridge once again, letting in the monster, the monster they recognize, the monster which is them which we seek to forgive but cannot.  Men look back heavily at the weighty hate we bore for those we now call friends, realizing they are ourselves, how many must die before we realize the next enemy was also us?

In retrospect or just in spect? I realize this is no longer an essay with a purpose other than itself. But I’ve read many belle letters , essays… all of them lead to conclusions of some sort. I believe the point of an essay is to pose a question. One doesn’t wake with an answer on their lips, merely  questions , enjoy mine, or hate them, read them or don’t, god save me, i am a fool, but i wish to not be, may i learn something in the breaths allowed me

We used to be free or maybe not but I’m sure we were never called to create a handle for ourself on a digital device to be viewed like television by strangers. I wonder often why nothing by real thinkers has been applied in the direction of the prostitution of words, of thought and media itself to the mass by commercialism.  Why nothing is said of the existential weltanschung felt by all using media in the modern ( i use that haltingly) world , why do we have such faith in software programmers but so little in ourselves? Why have we diminished our lives to the arbitrary numberings the overlords whoever they happen to be ascribe to us? I suppose the answer is apparent, just not to me.

What do we do? In these essays there is always some answer right?  But in a realistic sense that answer is individual and cannot apply to you, one can only say what works for their hunk of flesh, their way of achieving what seems impossible.  I hang my head and cross my lips and confabulate all things religious in my skin, i wish for things that weren’t, i know somewhere children suffer and i suffer because of it, i know a man is hungry and i regret a full stomach, i know hate is being stirred like chocolate in a pot and the obsolescent await its outcome like all who eat without need, ……with greed.  How does one sing “It is well with their soul” when it is not well within the soul of your brother, how is ones soul well when you go to a place and stand around and people pat you on the back for believing like them, is this not anti-christ, is this not the monster we were sent to slay? And atheism is more a theists viewpoint based on ignorance , just as monstrous and consuming as the non-ethics our religion has allowed us because of doctrine, so has gone the doctrine of what the laymen call “science”.  Are there heroes? Perhaps, but I’ve yet to hear of them. Perhaps we must be our own.

In closing i must say, I have nightmares of the sun which will rise on the horizon of my children’s children, but i also have dreams of a better world where the sky blue, lounges above men i do not know because they are so alien to me, so happy so empty of our war -like sense of necessity, that they have no wrinkles or crows feet. Their sky so blue it burns the skin, and their weakness accepted becomes strength.

Georgia Balm

Georgia Balm

Here i will let my facial hair grow, like a Roman aristocrat in mourning,

watch each day rise like a challenge to my esteem, and gaze at the hollow cheeked men who proliferate this district,

gaze at the failed enterpri, the toppled brick and the rust dripping from the barred windows of derelict establishments : I cannot help but smile, this is the butter to my bread.

And my eyes peruse longingly over each paint peeled clapboard homestead, all of them pregnant with history, if only my fingertips could caress the peeling paint, if only i could effervesce and grow as one with the ghost of its inhabitants,

were they betrayed by a gossamer reality ?

Did they choke on life, like too many spider webs in their path?

Fruitlessly plow fields?

Watched unyielding crops wither as their wrinkled crows footed eyes stared on,  betraying a disbelief in the balance of Gods providence,

witnessed choleric tragedy, patted fevered brows of daughters wispily lying in calico patterned linen in beds of sweat : smelling of death,

The Doctor ineffectually standing by surreptitiously sipping laudanum , steadily losing faith in his saviour, yearning to save, outside the dusk is fading to a chalcedonious odd lavender precursor to dark,

the Doctors horse snorts shaking flies off its straggling mane, a roan, eyes wild in its head,

night rises like mercury under heat,

this is no frontier, or a beginning,

this is a hallway and it seems to have no end.

The magnolia blossoms fall, the tubercular trees coughing them to the ground, covering the rot iron bench near the family plot, partially rusted smelling of verdigris a Bronze Angel overlooking it all, hands outspread in a benediction, but silent forever, as the voice of God has been for so long, hands outstretched nonchalantly like the love of Stoics.

Emanating from the stone hearts of the the inexpertly inscribed tombstones with their misspelled latin epigrams, the voice of the earth rises.

The bole of the nearby Oak seems to laugh and the birds refrain is that of profound disregard, a cackle of existential absurdity, a parody of speech, a laugh in the face of those without wings.

Often they go there to pray, the vase is never empty of flowers, in the winter a bouquet of dried  milk thistle is maintained, God never forgets either,

Gabriel is marking time, practicing the already far learned tune he must play.

Some of them are dying to hear it, I know that I will waltz to it, though not a fan of simple horn music and dry the perspiration from my forehead by the wind created by the wings of cold-eyed seraphim ,

clouds will settle on our souls and we will become the Gold we so cherish,

All of us United in the anarchy of the after us.

Labour Day

I stand on the shoulders of the slaves of the past today, grilling, eating cheeseballs, celebrating the victories of unions amidst the ashes of their defeat in a capitalist playground filled with joyous celebrants unwilling to look in mirrors and or address reality.  I love family i love gatherings but i also love truth and while i stuff my face and drink now, high on existence , i stutter to myself in my head when i try to find a reason to lift my hands in a unison with my fellow man and claim a moment of god granted pension, a peace deserved, but in order for this to happen i had to go buy booze at the store where i saw an 70 something year old friend of mine Bobby working, the flavor of freedom lost from my tongue, i wondered what world i live in when this man, must serve me: his lesser. And i , i go to celebrate my undeserved victory over the nothing I’ve conquered.

I think to myself, i could spend my days writing litanies for my children to become nothing like the man i am, the man who accepts all, with fear of losing what is already his by right but granted by the more aggressive amongst us( not the most powerful, just those with seeming power) , i shame myself and them when i bend in this attitude.

As Seneca says, let us at least die fighting on our knees, even that is valiant, victors never were too farsighted, their victories turn to dust and are forgotten, the losers often leave more from their loss than the supposed champions, who die alone and filled with regret, covered in the blood of their supposed victories. Everyone remembers Hannibal, even fools, but do they recall the generals who contended with him? He is only a slave who fears death,

Why do i assume things are mine by right? Why do you believe in good and evil or vague approximations of such? Why any imperative moral or otherwise? Your faith is disturbing especially when it bases its faithfulness on lack of faith, it is a lie, calling itself science and or religion, each as false as the other when done for the wrong reasons. Wrong reason? Anything obvious to be counterproductive to the good of man i.e. most of what occurs beneath our stewardship on this benighted planet filled with such hope and such effervescent beings never intent on any but themselves.

I would write of the love burning in my chest like the last strings fading from a concerto written for the end of time, but it would be words, and i wish i had more.


Fear is the Mindkiller

Fear is the Mindkiller

No one wanders to a wall which they cannot see passed and glories over it, one is merely limited by it.

No one builds out of hate and doesn’t have what stands ,

fall as easily as it rose.

No one gains peace from sorrow,

Or joy from release of hate,

love from a standard they bear ,

understanding from the pain of another’s experience. No not one.

Prophets do not profess the good times, for those times have been few, they merely point out the truth when men are skinning their knees praying to monuments of idiocy, they help them to rise and stand in the proper posture.

When we uncover ruins we only ever find the same basics, the same implements, the same science which discovers this also allows us to dream of a place further from needing be found in ruins with our implements as well, but we spurn it. And we spurn God, simultaneously, every act a hatred against faith in the future, every moment of rage or anger to a stranger: a shortening of the life and peace on a Planet for my children and all children to share.

Who are we to be so important, who are we to not gnash our teeth at ourselves when hate fills us, why are we so weak, why do we scream about our strength, worship muscle and metal and all that ends what gives joy. A period you ask, why no question mark? Because it is a statement.

Man Writes Again, Leaves out much from Laziness.

Man Writes Again, Leaves out much from Laziness.

Of late I have kept quiet, like Lewis and Tolkien I consider all news as we call it to be the nomenclature of nonsense, a perversion of reality perpetuated by men who have no interest in truth.

Our rulers are arbitrary and to be untrusted, we can look only to ourselves for freedom, and some might spend even this freedom in chains, of their own making of course but no less heavy.

Do not fear wars or death, or leaders who promise it.  Do not reiterate a fear proposed by other men who know nothing of the future as none can prove seer-ship to my knowledge as of yet. They must wait for the future to happen like everyone else.

Like Franklin says in his autobiography and this is a summation , he has a distaste lifelong brought onto him by his indentureship to his brother , for arbitrary ideas of assumed power. And like Tolkien says and this also of course is a summation democracy is merely a mechanized form of an ideal society and doomed to failure as it isn’t natural but forced, we witness this now, or we don’t depending on how one may see. As he also says leaders are naturally corrupted by a perceived sense of power however harmless and become Sauron’s ,wielding rings, always the song is the same , why should our fear be so?

On that note until the bombs fly i will not scramble for cover, until there is something to fear i will hold my head up and laugh until the end of my days because they will come whether i wish it or not and I do not believe the struggle for mere flesh is the most powerful one we will face, nor do I believe an end to be in sight which can profess to know, i believe there is truly very little we know. Only love is worth our time, love loudly and without shame and shelve the worries of lesser beings , look at them like a kindly father who chooses to not admonish his children in a hope they will learn from experience.