Filed under: Uncategorized
The last time I got played this badly, I celebrated with a few Heinekins and three packs of cigarettes. In a late night howling session replete with switchbalde smiles and ferocious gestures of questionable importance, I came to realize that making any kind of psychological comeback from such a high-scale loss would have to be big both in size as well as meaning. After I came down, I immediately saw the futility in such a moronic gesture. At the end of the day, whatever you took to get through the day has gotten you threw the day. Success invades and pervades in one of those happy coincidences that make you question whatever it was that got you torched in the first place. Sadists do it with fists.
Of course, the depth leaves something to be desired. Between chemical rescusitations, whatever it was that I was trying to say a minute ago has already been lost to history. See, that’s why Tommy Martin got a scoreboard, after he got killed by drunk driver. It was a sad story, in all the local papers and mentioned at any number of churches and synagogues. the community was shattered. Kind of. You see, Tommy ran around with Kelly Leak, and Kelly was Bad News. (If you haven’t started laughing yet, you’re either a dumb fuck or devoid of humor.) Anyway, there’s more to the story, but the truth is that the little shit wasn’t really going anywhere, and most people assumed he’d eventually overdose on something anyway. So anyway, they dedicated a scoreboard for the brat and now there are ballgames at Tommy Martin Stadium. Plus, it’s time for Totino’s Pizza Rolls.
Motherfucker. Maybe someone heard me say that. I’m not paranoid. My mind is fresh, clean, like those women dancing between white cotton sheets whipping in the breeze. Those bitches sure love to douche. Well, that’s what they lead you to belive anyway. Jargon. Mumbling, petty sacreligous affairs. Why doesn’t any of this draw the slightest protest? Where the fuck is everybody? With laughter that creates as many audible crescents and scents of phantasmagoria, it’s no wonder that illusions are so easily called into creation. Every tin-pan alley god knew how to eluciate expectation through dancing and singing and keyboards. Managing the expectations of others is the mark of positive cynacism. OK, what I need right now is a chat with someone with a better judgement, and clearer thoughts.
So anyways, uh, well, until next time, keep up the good work. Later, we’ll figure out what that means. And eat chinese food. Plus, more cigarettes.
Filed under: Sir Marshmellow Trowell
For the more religous amongst you, the many partisans of Stepford Avenue, the only thing we’ll agree on is that it ain’t cool to burn in hell. Other than that, the mercenary devotees of the gangster Sammy “The Donor” Matushe and his criminal syndicate admit nothing, and have state that they will behave accordingly. Now, sympathy for those types is going to have to take a backseat to alimentary proceedings for the time being, but rest assured, we have only good intentions and I promise, if you put your trust in our company, you might not regret it…but you probobly will.
Of course, there are no guarantees, but managing expectations accordingly will help to mitigate any issues arising from the realization that you are fucked, and the best you’ll ever manage is to scrape by, hoping that someone actually did die for your sins. Don’t worry about that, it is entirely common and is not something I expect will be much of an issue, but trust is very very important here at Foolish Drew’s Institute for the Advancement of the Common Male & Pastry Shoppe. (I put the extra “e” on shope because most people seem to think that connotates some vague legitamacy in purpose, but really it just means I appreciate but lampoon the common consensus.) Also it’s like 3:30 and my mind is spinning too fast to requre logic. Anyways, excuses notwithstanding, it doesn’t matter, and nobdoy could really care about something that fucking picayune.
After the toxic shock of the demon week that was, there is nothing more desireable than some sleep, and it hit me hard as shit. Seven hours hasn’t alleviated this acidic feeling of stupidity, but it’s a start, and will soon be complimented by seven more. For now, watching the light show out the window is really relieving the frustration of the day. It might just be me, what with all the existential help to get through the later parts of the evening, am totaled. I think the world might be covered in fuzz. There’s something wrong with the way lines intersect. My superiors remain unconvinced that this is any more than a daydream of un-epic proportions, so fuck them, and the horse they rode in on for lying and plotting my doom. Oddly enough, though the treachery is a fucking ball breaker, it is quite the honor to get that kind of acting erformance. They don’t call in the big guns for just anybody these days.
If there was a saving grace, that would be it. Proponents of philosohies reresenting the vapid beaurocracy of mini-empires are forever trying to justify to others anything that can’t be justified to the self, end of story, ad nauseum. If anything, spending this kind temporary energy on the whole subject is counter-productive, but fuck it, there isn’t much else to do, so character assassination seems a recourse, if not an honorable one. Luckily, nobody believes in shit like that anymore. Who needs honor when you have a credit card? First time, the devil made me do it, after that, I figured out how to do it myself.
What the fuck, right? How much can we really accomplish without the aid of the righteous examples that every so often reveal some fundamental wisdom that brings us all one step closer to progress. It’s not any kind of travesty of justice, nor the actions of anything more than a scared, stupid and misled creature that would be better off ferile. True enough, that describes all of us at one time or another. Also that it is a rather open ended statement not to load up with qualifiers. Fuck it. Someone, pass this message along if you see any of the representative members and compadres of Ms. Morgan Altamont.
“I know what you did, because my friend told me. The game is up. See you next tuesday.
Love,
me
Filed under: Philosophy
I’m not sure where this ride is going, but there had better be a bowling alley at the end of it. It seems there is an ever-decreasing amount of focus and energy on romantic pursuits, which is a complete change for a born-sucker such as myself. Having long accepted that I define myself by my ability to ignore social graces and everything that anyone else finds remotely important, the underlying quality of the whole self-recognition thing has become far more an attemt to break free from the misery and dejected nature of these surroundings. I’ve mentioned it many times before, but it bears repeating; We, the denizens of the suburbs, are, for the most part, luckier than 99.99% of every person who has ever lived. If you gave me a list of everything you need, I’d bet my debt you are only passing on a list of desireables.
That sunny bit of construction aside, there’s too much misguided focus and bullshit idealism around here. This is the land of no movement; that is a fatal disease. From architecture to the stylized imagism of gluttony in all of its various forms, this is a land of last resort. This is “Back East.” Letters from the frontier drift in like lazy seagulls looking for free food, each passing along news from all the places the dissaffected have scattered to in the last 250 years. The one saving grace of the suburban zone is the charming attitude of the townsfolk. The behavior is a cross between old fashioned East Coast stuffiness combined with the overwrought sensibilities of Southern naivete. That makes the people something of a paradox, both free wheeling constructionists as well as hermetically sealed theorists, always ready to display idealism as long as it comes as a removeable magnet.
I’ve always imagined this comes from the cognitive dissonance that must be required to resolve the stark differences between the aforementioned idealism and the hard-nosed reality of paying the mortgage and keeping up with the fucking neighbors. Envy is a hard cross to bear, maybe more cumbersome than any other of the “major sins” for all of you Judeo-Christians. Shit, every other sin, from lust to gluttony to theft is just a physical expression of envy. What that must do to people! Setting aside all rhetorical sarcasm, that probobly explains most of the bigger problems the world over, not to mention what it does to the philosophers and artists that feed on the pains and pleasures of humanity.
All ranting about this elegeant geography is fascinating and all, but it’s really a lead in to another subject that’s been occupying my time. Talking to Dr. Faux Greens about lazy subjects like the social contract and it’s impact on romance, I let it slip that my understanding of passionate embrace has changed considerably in the last six months. Western interpersonal relationships are a fucking case-study in the addage that “might makes right,” and this is reflected in the more businesslike stance of individuals in dealings with repetitive fucking (i.e. relationships.) When I was much younger, this would have horrified me, but now it seems only mildly disappointing. As with most other myths, it’s tough to give up on something with that kind of reputation, but it shares the standard weakness of a myth in it’s complete divergence with reality.
Before the accusations of ripping off “Down With Love” by Bobby Darin come flying in, let me end with a more traditional (for me, anyway) thought. The tendency to weigh ethics, morality, and comparitive levels of progress/success by the difference between getting yours and ending up an endnote to a footnote buried in some never opened history book is fucking retarded. Is rich a number? How do you score life if you have everything you need and most everything you want? Where is the line between selling out and cashing in? The detrimental nature of competitive relationships is so obvious, but if everything is negotiable, what difference does it make where compromise can be found? The gentleman who shot me into Mom’s vagina wants peace and quiet, with a chance to refine his craft. I’m just the offspring, and I am much cheaper than he. What does a guy like me need with anything but the chance to see how this comes out? The treatment has been atrocious lately, but things are so good on this side of the equation that I can’t even feel a sensation of a fly in the ointment.
Another day of work, another night of bowling. I’m finished with this day, but by now, I’m 45 minutes behind the clock in acknowledging it. Obviously, I’m not looking for anything to take, as even a Fool knows why Shakespeare complimented those able to be truthful to themselves above all others. What I want is for the regression to even out, and to know if I’m the only one seeing any of this, or if it really is just smoke and mirrors. Silent phones no longer embody anything other than the peace I keep for my own omniscience, the price of admission to this curvature. Of course, darling de NoVa is always here to keep me company, though I can never quite tell if she’s laughing with me, or at me…
(in a bemused and confused tone of voice.)
With Totino’s Pizza Roll’s, the world will beat a path to my door. People will really like me. Some girls might fuck me for my pizza rolls, saying things like “give me that gooey cheese and pepperoni mixture” in a sultry voice whilst tonguing my balls and fingering the glory hole. I hope she washes her hand before eating the delicious pizza rolls. But not only would girls get wet and love the idea of tiny bites of pleasure, more people would like me for who I am. I’m a guy who enjoys Totino’s Pizza Rolls. That has got to count for something! What are we really saying here? What the fuck is the problem here? It’s really getting to the point that I’m only waiting for confirmation of the most vile and debasing conclusions one can form about the world at large. I want to find someone in the know to shake down for vital information. This whole fucking map is bullshit synthesis and ointless to boot. What possible difference can any of this make? Somebody? Anybody? Nobody has an answer? How the fuck can that be?
My anger is building, feeding on the frustration generated by my own disappointment in the slow speed of everything. Madame Roux is too far from here to offer any kind of liquid help, and the other gypsy with the blue tattoo is just fucking useless, despite my earlier theory. Well, confirmation of a negative assessment is still helpful. Everything will still come together, of that there can be no doubt, but I have a nagging feeling that this little exploratory committee is not going places that I really wanted to explore. Honesty is not her first option, but I think what fried me was that I should have been able to see that. Hear what you wanna hear, see what you wanna see, I know baby, I forgot what you told me and it caused me to get burned. Not badly, but enough to remind me that I don’t need to walk down that path again for anybody, no matter what packaging she comes in. It’s all a clusterfuck at the Drew Memorial Asylum & Funhouse. Welcome, welcome all.
Pronouncements aside, the fucking smile comes from the good things that I keep hidden, taking only what I need and moving from entirely justified rationality to maudlin and philosophically unsubstantiated decisions. The point is that I don’t know how to get the attention of the one whose voice sounds like a harpsichord. Sentimentality is a shortcoming of mine, but especially now, when the potential for real help could be safely guaranteed, it only makes it harder to tell what the next step should be. If there was any way to know for sure how to approach…mother motherfuck, mother motherfuck I guess. Ha! Disdain is really the best tool we have for disambiguation of the horrendous other. You aren’t a hero because you made a few mistakes. Remember, there are hiccups in the gene pool, and you could just as easily be one of those. I’m not. But you are. (laughter and amusement, mirth and joy.)
For once, I’m not into blaming a singularity for issues relating to a multiphasic cause. Some people do that in the name of simlicity, but it never really works, like shoving 220 pounds of shit into a 200 pound bag. In fact, I can barely remember what I was so worked up about. Tomorrow is a Monday, and that means MENTAL HEALTH MONDAY!!!!! Being somewhat therapy resistant, we approach this super-duper important subject armed with all manner of meds, tabs, disucssions and of course high speed movement. Chemicals with names so complex I won’t even try to spell it out here, plus my nature of taking whatever the fuck I’m given with little or no expectations will combine. Dear Mr. Fantasy indeed! I reread all of my August correspondence with the luscious Ms. Marischal, that one that stands for my other addiction, the six month marker and the sirens call. Like I’d ever let that happen! Ha! You’d have more luck with honey, and I’d have more luck with a bigger dick and a wad of cash to stick it in. Why can’t any of this be systematic instead of systemic? We can never just go the easy way, can we? Oh well, that’s why I’m madly in love with you my raven of the arc-sodiums.
Well, all that anger aside, it is late on Sunday night, and I face all of you so smashed I can barely think straight. I’ve read all the important Sunday bulletins, all of the various demarcations being made and announced, and seen all of the smiles and frowns. I know who danced between that raindrops and who fell down in a pile of vomit because they drank too much. Life’s a bitch on route 66. Let me tell you, it’s a big bad world out there, and for those of us watching on the sidelines, there isn’t a better show anywhere. What with all the music, all of the characters and plot lines, the what have you’s and all, too fucking funny for words. I have an idea…you come on over and watch with me, and I’ll explain the little that I know about why Tuelo Honey is a better song than anything Furby could ever write or sing. You don’t even have to agree. It’s 2 a.m. and I have an errand to run before the clock hit’s 3. For now, that’s all I can do for you. Later, there will be more, nobody is eating a bullet on a warm spring night. Those sicko’s save that behavior for christmas. Sweeter than Tupelo Honey indeed.
Nothing like the offered proof of the masses to take back the rake for the house. Getting away with murder isn’t nearly as simple as it used to be. Offering a deep compliment to someone I admire as a free spirit seems to have been a mistake, based mostly on the short message sent with love. Things are slightly off, but still, misjudgement is one of those foretold events that cannot be excommunicated with mirthful imagery, hard as we might try to persuade ourselves otherwise. Shit happens, that’s a fact, but it is a source of minor irritation to have my motives questioned so sincerely. Even the straight dope can’t answer that kind of inquiry.
Truth be told, I know the confluence of events is doing more to twist my logic than mistaken motives. Just because I can smile at my own demise doesn’t mean I’m out of ideas about how to avoid it. To wit: questions have a way of being asked informally when the more political/sociological architecture prevents a formal meeting. Learning about why certain choices were made and personal preferences asserted becomes a sidelight, the minor variation to keep things interesting. Nobody seems in any hurry to come clean and admit to something that could be referred to as “inferior rationale.” That’s ok, nobody is asking me, presumably because it is of little interest to most. Still, even my own short-circuited and blown fused mentality overshadows my reasoning when it comes to my willingness to bestow the title of apostate, it can only be a compliment. Duality works for some people, just not very well. This whole strange situation is a case in point, serving to remind me that without inflection and context, the words themselves are traitors, liable to change their very meaning without any knowledge by the sender. This is unfortunate, but something tells me the band will play on without really having to stop and explain that it was just admiration, stopping just short of envy. It would be a fucking miracle to fully express the consternation that keeps me focused on such picayune issues, but I tried, and it sets up the next part well in the sense of comparitive situations. Even a fool learns to stop sticking his fingers in a newly baked cake. Or does he?
The lion’s share of emotional energy is spent in that timeless pursuit of satisfaction. At this point, memory fails as to the origional allure, but that fucking realization is already here. This is going to be one of those slow burns, starting with this building desire to see if small words and careful diction are really the precursors to warm welcomes and the kindness of the world. There’s nothing set in stone, more the persuasive nature of the moment. If word ever got out, it would be something of a non sequitar, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t under consideration. It’s wild, but this post-anniversary delusion of prologues and coming attractions makes the holding action all the more palatable. Foolish doesn’t even begin to describe that plan of inaction, but there’s no reason to quibble about something that was pretty much decided months ago.
Brilliant, utterly brilliant to spend six days considering these three songlines. Like a motherfucking cosmic joke about people and places still waiting to be laughed at, we’ve been through these strange waters before, and the only thing to wait for is the punchline…or maybe something else. Can we just hurry up and do this? You already know what I want, and where I stand. Fucking hysterical this one. How did all this start?
Ain’t nothing left in the breadbasket right now, like a motherfucking unanswered phone that won’t stop ringing. The voice that was suposed to occupy the space in between the other side of laughter is missing, and for some reason, my racing mind won’t slow down long enough to think things through. Reaction time to the various factions is representational, i.e. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to, whenever the fuck I want to, and however the fuck I want to. The fucking epistemological repercussions are like a sledgehammer to the kneecaps, echoes of missing frames in the grand cartoon.
Of course, given carte blanche to be as much of an asshole as possible in the shortest amount of time available before someone finally takes notice was probobly a recipe for disaster. Roughly analogous to that slow spreading suspicion of treachery, unconfirmed but whispered, but also harmless and neutralized b y careful changes to the methodology of movement. In short, I’m locked up and out of commision for an evening. As the saying goes, water under the bridge. Add to that my window, from whence I stare peacefully at the meandering road.
I need a cigarette. Not in the sense of desire, but the sense that without it, I won’t know where to go next. It’s complicated, all tied into the real reason for the continued changes to hair length and primary focus. Especially primary focus. For fuck’s sake I just need a cigarette and something to light it with. It’s like screaming into a microphone and hearing the silence reverbrating across the fields. And the streams. Can you tell that there is something HUGE left unsaid? And this time, I’m not even in trouble, just riding the wave of prosperity, and wearing the smile of someone else, with the added touch of stolen ketchup packets for the true red coloring, and paint by number directions. To the gas station, for fire and smoke.
It’s a golden afternoon; the world leaves me alone, and the essence of my existence can expand, realigning with the more euphemisitic desires and sedintary pleasures of possibility. The remnants of a true natural adrenaline high keeps the peace at a slow boil, warm, but not painful. For now, the various factions that need time and attention seem content to ignore my existence, which is fine by me, as the doors are locked and I will defend my freedom if the need arises. So far, no defense has been required, and hysterical laughter is my only form of aggression.
There’s this guy who is always asking me questions about the future. When I tell him that I don’t know, or that too many things are undecided for me to even begin to plan out a future, he kicks me in the kneecaps. I haven’t the slightest idea why I let this continue to happen, but my knees can only take so much abuse. That kind of completely nonsensical event leaves a mark on the wandering peoples: a reference point on a map with no labels and no boundaries. It’s all kinds of madness to continue searching the horizon for signs of the coming bounty. The good times don’t need to be pre-determined or ordained. Less fun with that shit.
Cross referencing theories of controlled mediocracy reinforced the more realistic formulations of life as an uncontrolled set of random reactions. Where there is some sense of determinism in corrolating a causal relationship between statistical probability and inherent opportunity, it’s a stretch to draw any permanent conclusions from the vague sensation of maybe, maybe not. The reason is the same as always. Language, when used as a way of constraining thought (as it always is in formulating dogma of any type) is a remarkably bad method for achieving control of thought. The relationship between a word and its meaning is different for every individual. Everything is always changing. Most people consider randomness a frightening prospect, because it is the ultimate slavery, slavery to the unconquerable and unalterable maybe. I’ve always thought it provides the clearest example that morality and ethics not based on the principle of enlightened self-interest are pathetic attempts to control the uncontrollable.
Vanity has always confused me. When I was little, I mistook vanity for confidence, but was robbed of that foma by the continuing exposure to my existence. Nothing worth buggin’ out over, just food for thought from an empty refrigerator. Let’s mark it for now, I need a cigarette and I hear the neighbors banging on the walls again. They must be fucking. Good for them. You know, some people mistake fucking for progress. If there is a god (no, I don’t think there is) then that is his greatest achievement. Without god, it’s just another in a long line of unexpected consequences, which is what passes for humor when the fear hits.
As the lights fade, darkness surrounds a fool as he tries to focus on a map that says as little as a unplugged television. Well meaning aquaintences slide notes under the door with advice and clues about the territory. “The map is not the territory.” said Alfred Korzybski. More and more the words develop into the possibility of a heterogenus matrix of variant movement. It is one of those orgasmic moments that occasionally just hapen that embody the desire that anything is possible. good enough, what the fuck else is there, you know?
From the Journal of Sir Marshmellow Trowell
I was ruminating apostolic scams and petty thievery; small crimes born of the irrational, engaging impotence mistaken for popularity. In this sort of scenario, imaginary though it might be, was one of those small momentary measurements of imprecise truthfulness that seems to randomly present itself as a matter-of-fact, no matter how surprising it should be. Taking this massive moment in the ever expanding context of wide apetures, I see a picture of confusion in that struggle for the soul kind of way. It’s in the movement of them uscles in the brow, unconscious perhaps, but ambulatory and determined to say things the eye knows should be kept hidden. As the storyline torques, the machinations become more complex, the outward expression of some unsatisfied ideal, continually building towards a payoff that never materializes. I refuse to believe that such behavior oculd ever be accidental or coincidental.
That may seem a brave boast, what with the inherent problems of reading too much into any one comment or movement, but any student of humanity should be able to distinguish the capricious nature of the physical form. Grain of salt, anyone? Don’t laugh, next time, it could be you, and what will you do when confronted by the spectre of some long-haired-wannabe ideologue raving about connections positing accusations of the worst kind and asking dumb questions about nothing? Hopefully, the same thing I did. Of course, it could go other ways, and there is no denying the humor in THAT kind of situation. But what kind of sick, tormented shitheel would think like that? Many more than you think…
I mean, I’m telling it straight, and then I’m laughing. When I get to the very last laugh, at almost the same instant that genuine laughter becomes forced chuckling, something in the music syncs upp with something on the television, and the movement or the sound or some strange potion containing parts of both swallows the temporal balance and life begins to move. Then I look in the mirror strategically placed to allow me to stare at myself while writing and start laughing because I’m imagining what I would look like as a pirate. And then as a ninja, because ninjas seem popular lately, even though I personally don’t know why. The thing is, it’s funny the same way Brewster & Shipley are entertaining. This is not to cast aspersions toward anyone in particular, so let’s not all start making all kinds of negative statements about a band as “oft-played” as Brewster.
Oh, and no updates yet on the Huey Lewis front. There hasn’t been much searching going on right now, too much to do and of course all kinds of fun to get into and as always the what have you. It will just have to wait for a posthumous ost late tonight. “There’s two women over there screwing a polar bear.” I am going to check that shit out, because it is far more interesting than just imagining what it looks like.
In between visits to the more antagonistic aspects of the crowded and pseudo-polluted swamp town was distant laughter from unseen souls. Without any way to conclusively judge the laughter as unconnected, derisive, or simpatico, the situation became anachronistic; failing to satisy even the lowest threshold of logic that could be discerned from random experiences and rough estimates of definitions and finality. Of the little that could be stated with something almost approaching certainly was the primary tease; i.e. the promise of more to come with the investment of ever more connective tissue and musculature. Love was a biology textbook devalued shortly after its purchase. I’d borrow Ms. Tulsa’s “monster” reference, but I’m not so sure it is analogous to my intention here, and that would be theft, plain and simple.
Like I was saying before I wandered away, something about the instability of fame pitted against the onslaught of various plots and nefarious condemnations echoing off of the walls. With much of the day devoted to obtaining visual proof of the magnetic attraction between causes and effects, a few hours to sink back into a more temoral frame of mind and simply float along the lazy river without getting overly concerned about whom I bumped into or overtook. This is not to say there was some great attempt to beat the crowds and be first in line to see the big show; I’m not really that type of miscreant. Individual malarkey is far more to my liking, and in the slow motion shadow-stagger dance with the passing moments of the morning and afternoon, it was easy to mistake one bored smile with a come hither glance ending in something fleshy and wet. My mistake, but I can smile anyways, because the acidic sensation of impending defeat never arrived in the pit of my stomach. Truth be told, it’s one of those “hard to get” moves right out of a 19 year old coed’s playbook for sexual competition and the duplicitous bonding ritual. We get along so well, I’d almost voluntarily allow the misuse of time and money just to see if my suspicions are correct. I believe it was Bugs Bunny who said “Ain’t I a stinker?”
At this hour, my mind is numb, staggered from too much conjecture and Cockburn under the strange circumstances of the morning consultation. Without going into too much detail about the effect of cold temeratures and deified marginalization (in both a literal sense as well as in the more widely accepted useage of the term) let me just express a deep appreciation for something a lot more straight-forward to fall asleep to than this silent film. All I can think is “Holy shit, you better get off to this sort of thing, because if you don’t, we’re both wasting more than time.”
Well, folk musicians and burnt filters aside, there is something redolently exciting about the coming hours of rest. That statement is not meant to imply that we’ve reached ANY kind of limitation, just an acceptance that even this addled mind tempted by bouts of psychic confusion doesn’t need to continually challenge the clock and my luck. A strategic retreat seems wise, with an eye towards establishing a beachead soon. However, there will be time for that later… for now, lucidity is nothing to brag about, and I’m left with a blurry image of a wall decorated with a strange quote often attributed to that lout of louts Mars Trowell. “You know, there is as much liberation as accusation when considering the role of a scoundrel in the present day capital of the free world.”
Lastly, just to get it on the record, in public, as it were, let me say that talking masturbation as a common practice “in situ” with stirrups and icy plastic is always a laughing matter, no matter what anyone says, or in this case, doesn’t say. For such a brave impartiality, you decline as much as you inspire. Do me a favor, my homeopathic firefly, and fix that. I get no jollies having to laugh for both of us.
The border guards detained me for a minor infraction of some obscure rule. While keeping me waiting in a holding cell designed to intimidate the senses and diminish the will, I counted the seconds as they ticked by, becoming minutes and then fractions of an hour. I had counted off almost two thousand one hundred and sixty seconds when the door opened and I was allowed to leave. The guard simply apologized for the misunderstanding and sent me on my way, declining to explain the incident except to proclaim the whole matter a regretable mistake. I didn’t waste any time trying to question him any farther. He was too low on the food chain to know anything important, and none of it mattered enough to pursue any farther. My attention was focused on other questions, and I have no stomache for taking on The Man in such a foolish way, with such ill-defined parameters.
Watching the other refugees listlessly shuffling across the border, assuredly trudging towards bigger and better days to come, I couldn’t shake the sensation of wonder; who had told all of these people that things were any better over here? From the little I had seen, the vast majority of people meandered through sixty or seventy years, drawing close to a friend when possible, and biding time focused on some unrealized expectation that would become reality “soon.” If that seems pessimistic, or to miss the point of shared existence and pair bonding, it is because the meta-context of the species and planet is so much larger as to render the individual conscience an evolutionary drawback. That is of course assuming some such individuality exists; perhaps it is a laboratory invention undiscovered in the natural world.
With the help of various contacts spread through the land, it becomes easier to move from place to place without even a pretext of interest in anything temporal. My current quandry, recognized as such while wandering through the scrub brush by the side of the road, was one of morass; morass and the lack of anything resembling a plan to evaluate my current situation from. Without some goal to work towards, there is no way to know whether I am moving at a suitable speed towards my destination. That is a scary prospect to seriously consider, but when the fear dissipates, the reality begins to sink in, first like drops of rain, then like an avalanche. Imagine for a moment that you are sitting in a chair in the exact middle of a circular room. There is no other furniture or decorations, just you in a chain. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all white, with no ostensible source of light to reflect or texture the surfaces or produce a shadow. Before you leap to the conclusion that any movement is likely pointless due to the mindnumbing sameness everywhere around you, think about what you could do if your motivation wasn’t limited by expectations. Maybe, if you meander around the room long enough; look closely enough; think clearly enough; you might discover there is more to the plain room than you first thought.
While that analogy ended on a positive image, the problem inherent in this lack of comparitive planning (i.e. acting on the influence of the differences between what you want and what you got) is one of confusion. Confusion is the end result of a total failure to discern any kind of narrative to explain seemingly disparate events constantly occuring and perceived by the various senses. Without some kind of internal logic, any stimulus is liable to provoke a range of unintended reactions seemingly unconnected to the stimulus itself. The degree and severity of the action is comparable to a non-random number generator operating on skeleton rules. With no way to gauge a proper connection to an incoming stimulus, a person must choose and execute some kind of reaction without the express knowledge of the context in which the stimulus occurs.
I have tested out any number of ways to combat this contextual fatigue syndrome, but without a larger guiding ideal or principle to govern the creation of a meta-context (or internal logic) there is no central formulation of ambition in the name of a greater goal. Actions become disjointed in and of themselves, less aggressive, lacking intent and coordination while confidence devolves into negative imagery and wildly ambulatory diplays of emotion. It isn’t a death cycle, but it is a recipe for any number of problems that are easily avoidable with a simple goal to work towards. Well, simple in theory, but more complex than any other choice to be made by an individual walking down the road camoflaged within the mass of humanity seeking something slightly better over the next hill.
It is that image that stays with me more than any other. Trying to purge the contemplation of this madness is a veritable self-defeating declaration of martyrdom, complete with stigmata and the accoutrements of sainthood. As funny as a diagnosis of cancer. As I watch the millions and billions of strangers get kicked in the face and beaten down for wanting only a chance for something better, I realize there isn’t a choice about any of this. In this situation, choice is a mirage. What is real is that my species is farcically talented in the creation of artificial lines of demarcation, and has built a superstructure from unwritten laws, codified obligations, and illusionary principles. This is a mindfuck of collosal proportions, as illustrious and logical as insantiy can get. If it wasn’t so vicious, it would be beautiful to behold. The size alone is breath-taking.
My most urgent desire, to wrap this up in some way that leaves some possibility and promise for succor and solution, is going to have to go unfulfilled tonight. After another day of playing great determinator, the mirror accused me of lying and the shower called me a scoundrel. Any retort I could come up with seemed forced, more a bellicose reaction than a bold declaration conceived and executed. I found myself right back at square one; confusion. What do all of these people want from me? Why do they think I can help? How can I be the only one cognizent of everything lacking that other’s swear is sitting within easy reach? Usually, I abhor demoralizing the loyal few with these types of questions, but psychic help has not been forthcoming, so far. With that said, it is a poor excuse for a sonofabitch who can’t remain hopeful in spite of overwhelming odds and a completely empty bag of tricks. Who follows the foolish, and why? If this is going to go any farther, it certainly seems there should be a goal of some kind to grab onto, at least for the sake of appearences. I mean, I’m just saying, ya know?
It is so quiet and cold out. The red tip of my cigarette was jumping in the aftershocks of my teeth chattering and my muscles spasming in a display of evolutionary genius. Movement keeps us warm, and warmth makes everything else a little bit easier.
