The Crash of Nazi Robot 21224 – a film by Albert Jones

Close up on head of Nazi Robot 21224. VO screams and mayhem in background. VO of children being removed from mother. Voices of Nazi Robots barking commands. Furniture being toppled, etc. Title/Credits.
Typed words on screen:
North American Annex – Tennessee Sub-Quadrant – of The Greater German Domain.
Sixty-nine years after The Great Vanquishing of the United States of America by Adolph Hitler.
Screaming crescendoed. Total mayhem.
Digital numbers multiply ultra fast.
Robot close up. VO mayhem.
Numbers accelerate even further, even faster. Volume meter in red. Word: “prohibited” underneath.
Close up of robot. VO mayhem continues. Children being taken away. Woman Screaming. Children crying. Gunshot. Only children crying.
Numbers suddenly stop. They stay there frozen a moment and then begin to go backwards until it is merely the alternation of the numbers 1 and 0.
Close up of robot. Robot goes into motion amidst children crying and the commands of other robots behind him. He exits. Sunshine is on his face. He continues to move, soon leaving all sounds behind.
Robot walks alone down road.
1 and 0 with 0 staying on longer than 1.
The robot stops as he hears an approaching car.
Numbers roll again. Volume goes up. Words: 2004 BMW sl44 model, registrant Cara Anderson, Millsville, Tennessee, sub-quadrant, 20, two brothers, Layne, 23, Michael, 26, mother, Tiffany, 49,Father, Gabriel,51, single, Junior Class, Goebbels Institute of Mass Communication, Art and Design. 2016.
Close up as he stands there.
Numbers replace words. A brief coordinate outline of car and then the word: Disable.
Cara’s car suddenly goes dead. At first she is perplexed, but when she pulls over the robot is standing there.
Cara gets out of her car. The robot stands there.
No response.
Numbers pick up speed and roll at calm pace.
Well? You obviously need my help. Aren’t you going to get in?
No movement by robot.
Look, I mean, look at it this way, sir, I’m not going anywhere unless you get into my car and let me take you where you need to go. Are you in trouble?
No movement by robot.
You wouldn’t have disabled my car if you didn’t need my help…sir…and by law I must take you anywhere you want to go. So, where do you want to go?
Numbers rolling fast again. Volume control. Audio replay is in red. Arrest number ac5563876245axs, Janet Miller, 30, deceased, bullet, NR63869 induced fatal capture, children received for re-education, Terry, 8, Jason, 6, Tia, 3. Eighth infraction from quota. 3:23 p.m., Tuesday…
Words suddenly replaced by fast numbers. Then numbers slow down, stop, and then begin to go backwards until, once again, they alternate between one and zero.
NR21224 gets into car.
They sit there. Cara looks at him like she is waiting for him to turn the car back on and then tries the ignition. The car starts and they pull out.
Car pulling away.
Silence. NR21224 faces road. Cara is young and curious and keeps looking over at him.
I’ve never really driven before with a Nazi Robot, I mean, are you guys all as…diligent as some people say you are? Oh, I should just shut up.
I mean aren’t you going to even tell me where you want to go? I mean, okay, please, sir, where may I deliver you this fine sunny day?
No response.
Nothing but the slow alternating 1 and 0.
I don’t get it. Why won’t you answer me? If there is one thing I know about NR systems it’s that they are very good at speaking up when it comes to commands. Are you broken?
No response.
The 1 and 0 slows until it is just the 0.
Oh, my God. You’re broken.
Cara laughs.
Well, then, this an odd turn in the proverbial road of life, isn’t it? What should I do with you? Should I just drop you off with the Gestapo somewhere? You’re supposed to tell me, you know. I could get in trouble here.
The numbers begin to roll fast again. The word “Drive” appears.
Drive. Okay. Drive. We keep doing that then. Sounds good. Drive.
So, that was some Blood Flag Festival,huh? Do they let you guys go to that? I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I think I had a couple too many celebratory steins if you know what I mean. You got to stop and smell the roses, right? No, I guess you wouldn’t know what I mean.
Do you like music?
She turns on radio. Dance beat plays.
Numbers spike. Volume goes into red. Words: Accelerated beat. Forbidden.
NR21224 quickly grabs her wrist and holds it.
Numbers shoot all the way down to zero.
NR21224 let’s go of her wrist. She turns off radio.
You’re not going to re-educate me for that are you?
Just 0. The word “No” appears.
No? You just witnessed a foul and you say you are going to do nothing? Oh my God, you are broken.
Still just 0.
I always wondered why all the Nazi Robots aren’t given eyesight. You’re like bats in the dark, but, I guess you really wouldn’t know this, but you know people by their faces more than anything. I don’t have a face to you, but you know I exist. I always thought that was a little weird.
Numbers pick up speed. A few computer co-ordinate images appear. The car, numbers, a girl’s co-ordinate outline, numbers, a computer co-ordinate flower outline,numbers, a computer co-ordinate sun outline,numbers, then the girl outline again, numbers. Then the words: flower, sunshine, odd pets.
Flower. Sunshine. Odd pets.
Where did that come from? You’re my favorite Nazi Robot.
Numbers roll calmly between one and ten.
I mean why didn’t they give you guys any video capabilities?
Numbers spike again. In one corner of screen is a new meter with a high number on it. Underneath are the words Video Code Protocol 7956jlm-4226- Emergency Activation Sequence. The other numbers continue to rise with great speed. They then slow down to a stop. They then begin to fall. The words: Highway 9-3 – Road Marked Fuhrer’s Peak. Go now.
Highway 9-3. – Road Marked “Fuhrer’s Peak.” Go now.
Video protocol number stays static. Main number goes down until it is once again 1 alternating with 0. After a moment the video protocol number begins to count down.
Fuhrer’s Peak? You’re not going to kill me are you because I don’t think local Nazi Robots are programmed to do that unless you’ve done something really, really bad?
Numbers continue to alternate between 1 and 0. Underneath are the words: Flower, Sunshine, Odd Pets. The video countdown continues.
Flower, Sunshine, Odd Pets.
Good. Here we go then to see or whatever some flowers, sunshine and maybe an odd pet at Fuhrer’s Peak. I was going to get my hair done for the Perfection Rally, but you can’t beat Sunshine, Flowers and Odd Pets.
Car drives up mountain.
How about a little music? I’ve got just the thing for you.
Symphony by Wagner, Hitler’s favorite composer.
They continue up the mountain, finally making it to Fuhrer’s Peak. They get out of the car and look out over the world. It is beautiful.
If you could only see this.
Just 1 and 0. Countdown continues. Word: Flower.
You want a flower? Yeah, sure, I can find you a flower.
She runs off and picks a flower and brings it back.
Place on external receptor.
She places flower against his forehead.
Numbers spike. Quick coordinate image of flower. Corner countdown.
Cara removes flower from his sensor and smells it. She smiles at him.
Haha! Sunshine! You’re actually commanding me to bring you sunshine! It’s all around you! It’s in the air! You can’t feel it because you don’t feel but it is here. If you could feel you would know. Sunshine is everywhere and it is one of the things that make people very happy.
Alternating 1 and 0 turn into just 0. Countdown continues.
NR21224 extends arms. Raises palms then puts them back down and lowers arms.
1 and 0 again. Countdown in corner. Quick coordinate outline of girl. Words: odd pets.
Odd pets.
There are no odd pets around here. There might be a squirrel or raccoon or something but they’re not really pets. You can’t pet them. You know, touch them, feel them.
Just number 0.
You can’t feel them because you can’t feel. So sad.
Just 0 and countdown.
Come here.
She goes to him. Faces him. Touches his sleeves. Gets on her tippy toes and kisses him on the forehead sensor.
Numbers spike at fast pace when suddenly the countdown ends and the words: emergency video activation enabled.
Through a fuzzy fish eyed type of lens we see Cara’s face moving back from NR21224 the moment after the kiss. She holds the flower and wears a peaceful, loving smile.
NR21224 moves forward. Cara stops him briefly.
Where are you going?
NR21224 walks past her.
What are you doing?
NR21224 keeps walking in the direction of the cliff’s edge.
What are you doing?
He moves determinedly forward.
He moves to edge and looks back at Cara through the fish eye. No sound.
Don’t. There’s hope for you. I care about you.
NR21224 steps off of the cliff and terminates himself.
Cara falls to her knees, picks the petals off the flower and cries.

Published in: on December 10, 2022 at 12:57 am  Leave a Comment  
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     Modern man/woman is in a predicament unlike they’ve ever been in before. I refuse to call this the “travails of the information age” because before technological advances made information as readily available as watching the evening sunset, there was still the fact of the over-abundance of image in need of processing and this feat has been no small one by any means.

      What I mean by being in an altogether new predicament comes from my belief that not only are we being given information, but the competitive human spirit is tying the assimilation of that information into our economic well-being.  The onslaught of the computer age has left most people grateful, and yet perplexed, as to not only how to use its machines but what the meaning of these machines is.

      There is no easy answer to this quandary. Man has given himself a mechanical brain, a brain that disseminates information, if not in the same way, then in a way that mimics it. This predicament, some would say, is no predicament, but a joy, a way to make it so that our own brains do not need to work harder than it has to.

      Unfortunately, our brains are also our minds and our minds continually seek, but irrationally. It does not seek to know like a computer, but to feel, to experience.

      The artist is an example of both the victim and victor over the chronological mindset of computers and the almost virile power that this heightened mechanical process can inject into the previously virgin soul.

      We are supple beings. We meld into the latest thing as if we were born ready to fall into its arms even if when we were born it had not yet existed. The utilitarian power of computers is undeniable, but can we really ask ourselves to strive towards a purely rational mode of thought when perhaps the creators of this world, its leaders, mentors, sages were among some of the most psychedelic of minds?

      Can we ask the two worlds to merge in Peoria?

      But the worlds are merging. We are becoming softened to the realities and being given a chance to say either “yes” or “no” to them via the images of internet and t.v. We have given ourselves over to the wiser powers. Those of us who want money or prestige attempt to break into the inside circle of software-creating hives where they will be accepted by a fearless leader whose original vision came anywhere and everywhere but from a computer.

     In a way we accept the “trips” that others have taken at the expense of taking our own. Timothy Leary understood the nature of computers, saying in essence that it is the new high for the coming millennium.

      But there is something false in it. Just as a word cannot be what it connotes, we, too, cannot be where we “go.” In fact, we go nowhere except into our own minds.

     True, the computer we use is our tool, where images are given to us and we grasp or duck them. The accepted images cling to us like burrs to our socks. The dreaded ones pass on only to be accepted by somebody else. When we are thus so well fed then how can we turn away from our feeder, the giver, the mother?       

There is no straight line walked simply in this world unless it is away from something. That which we accept needs be taken deeply into the soul.

     A Buddhist, when he sits, often does so facing a blank wall. A modern man needs the pictures. The artist needs the rounding out of the pictures in a search for meaning or structure.

     The philosopher needs to turn off the screen.

     I use a computer to write. I have a screenplay writing program, a graphic-design program and I have been an avid user of e-mail. This is not about using the computer. I’ve watched children stare in amazement at educational programs. I do not want to rid the world of a scourge which is not a scourge.

      My aim is to perhaps make one person who needs to, consider the nature of their modern existence. Perhaps my first concern is only for myself. When my faculties of discernment become too thinned and I insist on placing more and more food on my plate as if to devour all of the food in the world in the shortest amount of time will make me healthy, happy, wise and strong, then I am fooling myself.

      The mis-education in our society is not that we learn too little, but that we learn too much. We don’t take the time to sift through what we’ve already got and allow the natural connections to unfold in a manner that we may see.

      I don’t blame our educational system per se, for we only want what everybody else wants, teachers included, that is, to give to children the necessary tools that they need to live productive and happy lives.

     But there are too many accidents. Too many deaths. Too much violence. Too little acceptance for difference. Too much hate stemming from too much pain. There is no one panacea for our societal ills. There is no one answer. We are ill-equipped to ask the proper questions whenever two or more are gathered. One mind believes in reality as such and the other believes in a different world. All that we can ask is that “we get along” as Rodney King so poetically and simply stated it.

     We need to unplug our worlds at times and ironically enough, after we do, we then need to plug back in and take a few more strides towards the ever flowing stream of technology, political kindness which some would perhaps call an oxymoron and the rosebud, never to be picked mind you, of an infant dream where morality is as the whirlpool and our greatest feat is not to dive, but to hold sacred without knowing fully or even expecting to in this life, its answer blurred yet glistening like a diamond in a stream.

Published in: on September 26, 2022 at 10:10 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Even Then

Before the night fell the grasses swayed. All life was somber and still. A cricket bleeted alone as crickets always do, this one, too early to sing, waiting for night as the orange sun disappeared behind the mountain.

 The water of the lake was smooth, not a ripple, grasses grew out of there too. Tall grasses sticking up like trees with thick stems and the brown, very brown, dark brown almost browner than the trunks of the trees on the shore stalks, as I said, stood perfectly still.

 What happens when the stopping begins. Eyes wide open we seek movement. The poets always sing of themselves in the whisps of winds and sways of leaves, but when selves disappear the remaining former proof lives on, soulless, unknowing, lost.

Too much silence can kill a man says huxley. But huxley doesn’t know anything. He cuts corn down when seasons of corn cutting come. He rushes out to strip the land and comes home a richer man for a season, the good season, in between the times of waiting and loneliness.

 The poets are always looking for friends in nature. Somehow they know how to relate. Sunshine becomes God and moon the almighty mother. Loneliness doesn’t grip them. They don’t need the flesh and blood of their soul sisters or their brothers. We all fall down.

And stories, expanding in underwater silence, our talents bubbles bursting upon the water’s skin. If we could tell our stories, let our stories come up and be as real to each other as they are to our all too often unknowing selves, then we could breathe.

But breath is but another dream, another wasted thought to the drowning man, his story and his being watching the round orb of the sun blur and decrease. Eyes on deck. Keep watching says you, but the poet knows that even the underworld is there for him to relate to. Even then.

Published in: on August 23, 2022 at 10:24 pm  Leave a Comment  
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You’re Not Scorsese

There is no choice but to do what you want to do. They’re always saying to do what you love, but then people always wonder. They think maybe they should do what they love while they’re doing what they have to do. I can see their point.

It ain’t easy to become Scorsese if you ain’t Scorsese; if you’re a filmmaker. You’ve got to pay your dues. Why? Because you’ve got no choice. The world is as it is and to change it for your desire to have life work out for you and everybody else does not change the fact of what is. As they say: as so it is, so as so it is, as so it is so, so it is as it is so.

In effect, if you do what you want to do it will be better than doing what you don’t want to do because you will have to do what you want to do eventually anyway and it might as well be now.

That’s why you should become a big fish. The small fish will gobble you up one snip at a time. Till you fall to the bottom upside down staring at the room of Timmy.

You have better things to do than give your life over to nonsense when you could be giving your life over to sense if that sense includes your ability to have the wherewithal to take the most minimal of jobs within your industry.

The next Scorsese would never do that, yeah, well, you know, need I again say it? Christ. You’re not Scorsese!

And once again, plopped down into helplessness. I don’t even remember the subject matter at hand.

Published in: on August 17, 2022 at 10:58 pm  Leave a Comment  
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A Fellow Walked Into a Bar

A fellow walked into the bar.

Of course nothing would happen.

 Why would it? He paid the bartender who threw him a wink,

 a real looker, he thought, how droll.

So sweet American you look sorrowful to me,

with your pitiful ways and poverty stricken days,

 your best country in the world is all tired and worn

 because you’ve been shorn of your reason and vote

 for lullaby glumpers, con-men, who want to do you harm,

want to take all your money and you give it to him

 because he can get you to itchin’.

 Just scratching llke a greyhound.

So you do nothing.

You move up to the bar and you look around.

 You hear some music. A Sunday song, a soft one from the seventies

with women with white lace around their arms

and sunshine that fell honestly and sweetness,

 if there, found its way to you and yours in so many ways.

 Used to have the writers to document this utopia too,

people who lived it, who lived a life of ease and beauty,

 those lucky enough. But not you, you sit at the bar and ask for a whiskey

because you want to get a little drunk after Lucille and all.

How? How? How? How? Mara’s going to know about it

 and then she’s going to be gone too but you can’t keep it in.

you blew it with Lucille and now Mara’s gotta know

or you yourself won’t want to be in the relationship anymore.

A real bummer.

But that’s what you do, you, who write because you’re supposed to make money

and you write about the way that words sound through horns of echoing loveliness,

you remember that and you write about it, and it is something good that you remember,

 like those other writers of old and the only reason you remembered it

was because you wanted to, all good feelings are like that,

 they just need to be invited back in. Betternnostalgia.

Published in: on August 11, 2022 at 9:58 pm  Leave a Comment  
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For When

For when writers got smart. For when.

For when lovers got heart. We win.

For when sun glints not just shines. We win.

For when we finally believe but we don’t know what

We believe but it doesn’t matter

There is always consciousness and there always will be

And it will be a refreshing thing

For when nobody is going to take care of you and you don’t care

Because you know about life and death, thought about it, considered it

For when you were just sad and hoped that being sad would make you

Go all the way through to something deeper, something beyond, sadlessness

For when all the computers can’t compute you into the place you want to be

For when you are the very last loser and that’s okay

You still look up, poke up, your nose, like a deer

And see over the brush mountaintops thousands of feet away

And you feel the cold air on your sides and then the rush of the brush

The movement of your side, you a stag, a doe, runs, runs, runs,

For when mountains of evidence become clear

For when tomorrow rears its ugly head

For when today seeks solace knowing this about its future, as though

Tomorrow could be something better and you at least have to give it a chance

For when the chance happens and you slide down, happily, like a raft on a river

For when, those smart writers who found out but then remembered they forgot

They’re the ones we’re doing it for, the dreamers, the shleps, the two-percent men

For when those same smart writers knew something else, that they were secret members

Of something totally not understood, life, the simple dumbness of it. Never prepared for that.

For when we all remained hopeful and silent and still

Winking at the candlelight in the street next to ours

For when we wake up and realize that this all American Now that we feel

Is ours and ours alone. We should grasp it, hold it and seize it, like an eagle a dawn.

For when we all fall down and then all stand up again

For when we get a dollar or two for our wage and we smile not frown

 For when we finally grow up

For when you expect nothing from your practice but do but try not to but do

For when you realize that you shoulda just given up a long time ago. You’re that big of a loser

For when you figure you might as well go on.

For when you go on.

Published in: on August 10, 2022 at 10:10 pm  Leave a Comment  

words; ambassadors to your soul

Writing is a very strange endeavor. In fact, society now tells me, although I had come to believe completely the other way, that writing or talking to yourself actually means that you are not three cracks shy of a fiddlestick as opposed to being the manager of the last McDonalds on the moon. So, in the interest of mental health, I will choose to write what I am thinking even though I am thinking what I’m thinking already. So, I do it for you, don’t I? Well, not necessarily for you. I’m sure if I were to do this it would be for me as well but it is meaningless to me if you aren’t involved in the process and I don’t even know you.  

It must have to do with my ego, my desire to write.  I need to believe that I am worthy in your eyes through my words. But that is nonsensical. Everybody thinks. Is one person’s thought any greater than another person’s thought? I suppose it is when it deals in morality. If your thought makes my life difficult and my thoughts do not make your life difficult then my thoughts could be said to be better than yours. More important. Well, what if what you need is to have a difficult life though? In other words, I could challenge you with my words as well so I could make you uncomfortable with my words. That can be a good thing because I am actually trying to help you. But if I harm you with my words then I am correct in stating that my words would, in that case, be worse than your words, unless you were trying to harm me too. A word can be a weapon or word can come in and save the day without lifting a finger.  

But we hate words, don’t we? We get sick of them. Everybody is blabbing. The Internet is blab central. There is so much noise in the world today that a little patch of silence can go a long way in the sanity of a human being. Words are being used all the time by so many different types of people. It’s just too much isn’t it? Apparently not.  

A word is an ambassador for the soul. We don’t know what the soul is but we have an idea. It is somewhere way down deep like inner space, a place that if we got to, we would be inside of in the same way we would be inside of a cathedral. Words we use like underwater rescue balloons. We hatch one and then we hold on as it takes us to the top, into hospitable air we live. Pop. After the words have provided sustenance, the ability to live more peacefully in this world, we begin the float back down again, only to rise back up. But it’s never-ending, isn’t it, the need to rise again and again through words. 

Words words words words words. You can live inside of a word. Entire novels have been written by a writer having glanced inside of a stranger’s window. There are worlds inside of words, even individual words. Try this one out for size: rappel. Once again, the notion of going deep, rappelling into the soul, discovering new things there, seeing different color shades, sunsets, orange blue skies on fire. A world that does not exist except in your imagination. Dog. A breathing, furry friend whose notion of you is like your notion of God in a lot of ways or a father or a mother. A dog is God to God’s dog. Wait. That doesn’t make sense! But we try, don’t we? Even if it means we’ve become bad poets and bad philosophers, we keep trying.  

We keep putting the words together because without the words we almost feel as though there is no journey. We all want to go on a journey. Why? Because of the stories, because of the images that will produce words in the future. Not that we’re after the words but we’re after the experience that the words can help us to remember, moments of utmost life, thrilling living, love if you’re lucky.  

Our memories are good and bad. Sometimes all we want to do is just escape the words that arise from memories and other times we want nothing more than to keep the flow going; love, beauty, music, poetry. Regret, loss, last chances, gone people forever. It is a mixture of good and bad always for each of us.  

As children we grow up believing that to know the dark edges of existence is important for survival. Writers, the creators of words, are especially haunted by this idea that they’re husked mollusks in a world too rough. They have to experience and know and not be afraid of the dark. To do this they direct their eyes towards the night where ugly things squirm and lose control and threaten you. To stare down evil is an admission that you have integrated good inside of you sufficiently, for everybody knows that good can destroy evil. Of course, sometimes it’s the other way around too. Hence the motive of the daredevil to stare down evil death. 

So, underneath the laying down of word after word after word is fear too. The great Swiss psychologist Carl Jung perhaps would have called it the shadow, the other side of our personality that we are enthralled with, to some degree, because we know that it is controlling us. Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. But that evil that you see is not you. It is the fear of the opposite of you, and as a human being you are aware that if you were not capable of being the opposite of you, in other words, a beast, if need be, then you can die. The world can scoop you up and dump you right in the garbage dump. 

 You don’t want that. Nobody wants to be dumped in the garbage dump of life. No, we all want to run free and fly and climb and speak and dream and then we want to do it again and again and again. Then we grow up. Sadly. 

When we grow up that’s when we feel fear for the first time. It doesn’t come right away, hopefully, although for some people it does very early. Usually when you feel the fear, you’re well advanced into adulthood. Something horrible happens to you, something odd and off color and stilted and real, usually at the hands of a criminal or an act of God that can come in the form of death of those around you, can come in the form of becoming prey for the first time.  

A sign that you’ve seen and experienced this adult fear, using a clinical term, is when you have post-traumatic stress disorder; PTSD. The brain races where the mind needs just a few words. Now the mind has millions of words and they rush through you like a firehose so that when that flow hits you it comes through your body and it lifts you up off of your perch, you pace across the room, you can’t sleep, you get down on your knees and you pray, you try to meditate, to get it away from you. 

 And so, we arrive back at why we use words in the first place; partly to alleviate fear, to help ourselves get through the fear, a fear so great that it should not be allowed into the soul of man. Humans should not be allowed to see the darkest, most evil aspects of their fellow man, but some of us become monsters and we can’t avoid all the monsters all the time. Sometimes it’s our turn to see the monster. 

But those monstrous fears producing monstrous words in our heads, often the result of monstrous people doing monstrous things, once we are safe, have no more power over us. With time we can bring ourself back to a slow doable pace again inside of our minds and the words can rise again and we can relish them again. We can smile at the word dog we can dream again at the idea of rappelling into a new world.  

We shall overcome with time and with the proper words due to a conquering of our fears, only after our suffering of course. So, words aren’t there for me to impress you. They’re there for you to impress yourself with when I give them to you, when I place them into your soul from my perch way up here. 

 And maybe just maybe you will hear me and if my words are good then they can be fruitful for you and I can know that I am doing something good for somebody today. I, perhaps, helped to lift them up from the bottom of the ocean as your spirit was sinking. That seems to be even better than just writing for my ego. I’d much rather do it to help save your life. But you have to promise to do the same for me and you can do that by living a good life and if so, may chance bring our lives to meet. 

Published in: on February 13, 2022 at 11:43 pm  Comments (1)  

the soul

The soul by fargo kantrowitz

We all have a soul. Some of our souls are rotten. We can’t see out of our own eyes. Why are they rotten? Because we are afraid to see out of our own eyes. Why? Because if we see we see or expect to see something horrible. We were disappointed somewhere along the way by something.

 There is ultimately no way to stop not just the next word but the next place to go, the next step in the feeling of your soul and when times get hard, sometimes one’s soul clenches down underneath the flesh of the person’s body and sits there while their body fights for them and sometimes ends for them. Then what?

 We like to think that the soul is forever. But there is no going there where the answer is. Past mistakes make people want to live better, to make them want to send out their best stuff to the best people, all of the time. But there is pain and confusion and their rotten souls, which aren’t really rotten, it’s the person’s life that is rotten and that can be changed or made worse depending on numerous soulical and physical and social things.

The body clamps down hard on the soul against the world.  That’s where you see people and you think that they are rotten. That they have rotten souls. But they don’t. Their soul is hidden. It is just that they are afraid and they automatically close up like clams. People always know when someone else is going through a bad trip and they pretty much just stay out of their way. Everybody has some memory that makes them close down and if they don’t, which some might not, they are lucky beings. I wish I was beautiful said the Counting Crows.

 Allow yourself to be. And you will start to become. Even if you are flawed. If your soul seems sometimes rotten. Allow yourself to be. With your words which are your actions. Allow yourself to be by being the best person that you can be and fixing yourself where at least you know for sure that you can be fixed and do it.

You’re going to get muscular if you actually do exercise and what they say is actually true that the better you feel the happier that you are. Elementary science. Believe in science. Believe in you, your soul, even when you are in your body. Even when you are in and of your soul in your body.

As you are aware that you are a spiritual being in a physical clamshell and sometimes people who seemingly have bad souls are just like those clams too, they just shut down quick and sometimes it hurts others or maybe you are the predator, oh, yes, that’s right, you are the predator, oh yeah, you forgot. Sometimes life isn’t fair.

This is when the world rises up without you and you float down further and further from enlightenment and, yet, it is all untrue. You have been gaslit you have been made to think that you are CrAzzY! Wonderful way to steal. That’s why I’m poor actually.

The world is alright today, today the world is alright. If the world weren’t alright then what would be the point? Why would we want to be here? Oh. Because we must go on. It is true! We must go on, but must we? Could we stop? This is something I find most people don’t want to talk about because they don’t know about the extent of the mystery of existence and you just confuse them about everything. Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy. Stay happy. But the soul is real.

But what if it weren’t. What if the soul was nothing at all. Was a dump truck on the way to figurativeville. Everything made up. In fact, we are various glands and brain tissue and organ that makes us who we are. Hey bob hows the hypocampus going today? Pretty good, Stan, how’s the amagydala? Makes you feel like a giraffe sort of, sort of stilted and stuck. So, we have souls. Well, well, well, welcome to the party.

Now you may not want this soul but you got it and how do you know you got it, why, you got it because you know you got it. Simple. I’m am because I know I am. What does to know mean then? To, uh, know that you know that you know. But what if you forget the question? Uh. Cut!

We exist. We do. We actually exist. And we all process it differently and we all get stuck and we all do our lives in the exact opposite of how we wish we were doing our lives and we’re just plain stuck. But don’t fret. For 14.95…you see, we all want simple solutions. We all want to just go home. There is a world of wonder and a world of glee and we just want to go there. Just want to be free.

So, we know, but we don’t do. We are clamshells all waiting to be clammed up. Quick. Some of ‘em even carry guns out there in these here United States. I say here because I know that people with country accents are proud of it. So, hail! Heck. Am I doing it right? Well, nobody knows.

There are fewer of us in the world, but we exist too. The ones who are silently watching on from the sidelines, making jokes to ourselves to amuse ourselves, waiting for more quiet or more noise, always waiting, silent, nice, respectable.

But we don’t know our task in this life. We hover over what is real and don’t know where to enter. So we see and we feel and we drift and we hide and we get lost and we get found and we get scared and we get anxious and we fear so we clam up.

And sometimes others fall off our sides. We are Gods in that way, psychologically speaking, we are gods in that we are giant clams on which civilizations build cultures and when we clam up we shake some off our sides. Some want to shake everything, psychologically clamlike off their sides, like anti-social/pro savvy win at all costs business people.

We must recognize the power that we have when we consider our own needs first. Yes, we can go off in our own direction, but we cannot sacrifice others to get there, to our safe space, our Gary Vaynerchuck’s New York Jets or Elon Musk’s little home on Mars.

If you’re scared all of the time you can’t do the things that you want to do and when people seem like they have rotten souls it is because they are chasing their dreams and being chased by their dreams too and the results of their attempts: family (payments) haunt them. They must make money! But remember that person making money is the outside you. You are hunkered down for the ride on that one. You like to think you steer the ship, but you’re being bumped around just like every emotion in this big clunker’s head. He won’t listen to you.

Do you expect the monster rotten souled person he’s talking to to listen to you? Don’t be daft. You are you your soul, your “cool guy or gal.” But you don’t know that. You’re not stuffing your face and worrying about money and wondering if your life is over, you’re all washed up. Do you stink? But you? You are sitting there in your essence picking at grapes upon red plush pillows and wondering when you’re going to have a good view again. Will this person ever calm down? Seems like you’re in it for the long haul. But you’re always nice. Get it? You. Are always nice. It is the wrapping around you that gets confused.

 True, you control the wrapping to some degree by keeping its view steady, making it know that you are there just like a stupid dog its master. But when stuff goes down, well, hold on to your grapes. What to do? What was the question again? Do you have a rotten soul. Can your soul be rotten. No. But your life can be rotten and drive you to doing things with rotten consequences hence the idea of a rotten soul can be transferred back to you in others opinions of you.

For all intents and purposes, socially, you have a rotten soul because the anger of being a victim of a hasty, unthought out, malevolent action does not allow the victim to overcome their anger very quickly and when you secretly hate somebody you hate everything about them, especially their damned soul. We try to be “Christians” in that forgiveness is required, but we can’t get over it. We were wronged and somebody with a rotten soul did it to us. We can’t shake the image. Perhaps with time people learn how to forgive, truly forgive. I imagine when they do they will feel of great relief that the anger has truly been washed away. They no longer care, truly care. They are free.

But life goes on. You forget what you were going to say. We are not always connected with our consciousness. We are blind. This is where the questions come. We are trying to come back into contact with ourselves. We realized that we have lost our way and that we need help and we seek out our true selves to find the way. Some may have become so cynical that they refuse help from themselves and that’s why we see all of these people with their heads in the sand these days.

We are kind. Don’t fear kindness because it leaves you vulnerable and you don’t want to cry out loud for everybody to see. Allow your kindness to overtake you, to enfold you, to embrace you. Say a kind word because of it and don’t feel ashamed. Kindness is not weakness that must be destroyed.

And when we recognize that we’ll all be alright. We will accept ourselves and feel free to come out of our clamshell. Then good things can happen again and hopefully we learned from our lesson that it isn’t fun to be mean because you think kindness is weakness. It all sounds like preaching, I know, but it isn’t. It’s for your own good. You can’t live in that clamshell forever. Think about it.

You like to think that you can come to an end on a subject like the soul, but you can’t. Your soul is immense and it never ends and when you think just know there will always be another thought. We fill our world with dreams that we paint in our minds 24 hours a day. After we are safe and taken care of then it is our turn to open our clamshells and enjoy the world all around us.

Published in: on June 28, 2021 at 4:34 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Deal by Fargo Kantrowitz

The Deal

Ive had enough. Enough is enough. U got guys carrying guns in their larynx’s. you got people doing stupid things for people not you but them. Our representatives in congress on the Republican side are ALL working for corporations without admitting it. There is no other explanation for the tax bill.

You can’t win the argument on the street because nobody is watching the same program. But you’re ready to pick up a pitchfork and make it out into the streets anyway because supposedly there is an enemy there and you have to pitch in and join the fight. But you don’t admit that you didn’t see that internet show and realize that you don’t know why you are holding that pitchfork. You pitch the fork anyway. You wait. Why, you wonder. Why did I do it? But now it is too late, you are part of the plan. They will tell you what to do from here, in the meantime the elite, not the liberal elite, but the conservative elite, are going to eat. They are going to eat your children and you better smile and say yessir if you want your crust now. Without now then how could you have then, you imagine. But then comes and you watch the leg go down. Slurp. The deal you made with Donald Trump.

Jimmy ambled down the road. Not much going on with jimmy today. His official stance pertaining to his state of mind was left open. Of course, he was unconscious about so much but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t try. You had to pull from the pit the sustenance that you need. It all feels so empty, like there is nothing going on anywhere that matters. Hopeless, pointless it is. Pitiful. Over. So what then? What then? What then? What’s the point and what is the point of thinking about then? When there is no now from which to grow a then.

In another sphere above the fear that he was aware of was a huge blue sky with birds flying and breezes that held meaning. Beauty, he supposed. But enough about that. The thing that everybody wanted to know about Jimmy was whether he would become a success. He too thought of this and it ultimately disappointed him greatly until he stopped doing anything that would make him a success. He was too put on the spot.

He made it down the street but didn’t know to turn left or right so he just kept walking. What’s the point? There was no point. Might as well keep walking forever, he thought. His feet kept moving. His mother was dead. His family was gone. His love hopes abandoned. The blue world above him or meaningful beauty always lived there, but it was impossible to connect to. So he walked with a fake blue sky above him as he did. Fake clouds. Fake birds. No accompanying feeling, the one thing he wanted. Nothing that mattered could permeate his skull. His skull, not heart. The heart was just one big lament by this time. Something that didn’t matter that much at all. Life didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing.


Of course some things mattered, like sunshine and the best next word. Why would Jimmy want to cry? Post modern writers were all fools. That world wasn’t real. Only the real world was real. You know, that one. But then, you don’t want to say that, that the world is near one pickle shy of an empty barrel. Done. Nothing matters anymore as they say in this era of Trump. Nothing matters anymore. Exactly what jimmy was saying and feeling. Who cares? Who cares? You? Do you?

Published in: on June 23, 2021 at 8:10 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Slander Artist


     the turn of events precluded me and

sunlight where now?

bitter aftermornings of you and me

where this afterglory now?

Firm handshakes on glories be known

where glories when the sun don’t shine?

Glory be! It’s a morning of translucent meditation

gripping satiety.

Published in: on September 6, 2020 at 10:39 pm  Leave a Comment  
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