Jai la Jai la Jai la and the hunmphs

Somebody told me to write something. Something. Anything. Something new. Something else. Write something. Something. Anything. Just write.

So, I decided that I would write something. Not look something up on the internet, but write something without any connection to the internet. That’s “research.”  Well, here I am back again. Now what? Cleaned up the yard. Wow. What now? Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah!

 

The world is alright today. Today the world is alright.

 

What do you want? What do you want? Then why do you want it? Why do you want it? What worlds are alright? What worlds are alright? Everyworld. Everyworld. Taste. Taste. The worlds we’re led into through taste. Taste. Taste in every respect of the word. Taste. Respect. Respect taste.  Your best works will be written by angels weeping for you. Your best works will be written by angels weeping for you. Wandering Jew. Deny literature! Rustic ways already as you reach for words and the hunmphs have already come. The hunmphs have already came. Wild wandering Jews words wandering forty days and forty nights. Wilding wandering Jews ways away into the sandy day. The hunmphs came. The hunmphs came.

 

Good, never thought I’d get out of that sentence. Sometimes it’s like sentences are chasing me and I’m looking back and they’re gaining on me and I keep running or, er uh, typing and when it stops I stand there breathing hard and suddenly there is this place, the sudden place and you are stopped and you don’t know where you are really or even hardly what you are but you stop and you look around and you think about why you’ve been running and you see the letter A standing there shaking his head like “ you shmuck” and he comes up and gives you all of the great things about the letter A that you’ve ever wanted to know and it’s cool and stuff, you know, coupons and samples and stuff and then B and there’s just so many of them and you don’t know where to put it, but you take their samples and some coupons for a few dollars off at a cool coffee bar or something and you go there and after it is all said and done and you’ve met the entire alphabet, you can then go use those letters for your own advantage, like you make money off of them and use them as tools and make things right with them and some people can really screw things up with them, but this is America (I hope) and all kinds of things and because you listened in school you make No money, but if you hadn’t and had just started working on engines and been a bad, non-caring student you could be having a nice big house and a wife and kids and four by fours and really cool things, but no, you listened in school and tried to “take it all in.” Thank God for a sense of humor to debug the reality of our modern education system. If you’re going to teach a kid English it’s important you’d better also tell him that man does not live on spirit alone either. Everybody needs a little dough. So, the “smart” ones, they make it to the top in law and government. We’re the ones left out so we’re trying to make the best of it. Because we’re good with words we lead the discussion about politics, religion, law, war and the difference between “right and wrong.”  But if only we had worked on our own engines! What if we hadn’t “learned” what “they” said was important. Maybe we wouldn’t be dreaming up all of these silly reasons to “fight.”  And I do use the word loosely. I would like to see some of these trumpeters of war in a fistfight. They would look silly, so, instead, they send a kid who thinks that since someone’s gotta do it it might as well be him because he is the “strongest” person around anyway and here goes and yeehaaaW….gunk. plerp.  I wanna go….hOme.

 

Right off, the paragraph size thing is off. Second, the words, the words, they aren’t clear. They’re scattered come on, man, wake up! Third, well, there is no third I guess, but if there was you’d…..well, anyway. I can’t let my anger get away from me. Jai La, Jai la, jai la.

 

 

Published in: on June 17, 2016 at 6:38 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Neville, Wilma and Charlie – Albert

Charlie stooped down to pick up a multi-colored pencil. Just then a bullet flew over his head. Right where his head would have been. A man stared at him holding the gun. He still pointed it at Charlie who simply looked up.

-Can I help you?

-You stole my Wilma!

-Your Wilma? What the hell is a Wilma?

-My wife!

-You must have me mistaken for someone else…

-No, you’re the guy.

-What’s his name?

-Who?

-The guy who stole your wife.

-I don’t know, but I know you’re it.

-How do you know that I stole your wife if you don’t even know his name? What if my name was Ron, but the guy who stole your wife’s name was Stan?

-I saw you coming out of that building.

-That’s my building.

-224 sound familiar?

-I’m 222.

-Do you know Esther?

-Esther?

-224.

-Mrs. Williams?

-Yes. That’s my sister. She seen you.

-Seen me?

-Yes. Seen you. She seen you going in and out of the apartment with my wife.

-How? From where?

-The laundry room.

-How do you know your wife and I hadn’t perhaps come to the same point in the same hallway at the same time and entered the two doors at the same time. They are right next to each other, and it looked like we entered the same room from the laundry room which is a good ways away down the hall, I might add.

-She said it was you.

-Were we in my apartment or Esther’s?

-Yours.

-Didn’t she go back and find your wife?
-She was gone. She was in your apartment with you.

-I see.

-Well, I guess you better shoot me, because that’s some pretty heavy evidence.

-I’m not going to shoot you, the gun just went off.

-Well, you almost shot me.

-I just wanted to scare you. I don’t want to go to jail.

-You don’t think there’s a charge against waving a gun in someone’s face even if you’re not planning on shooting them?

-I guess so, but I didn’t care.

-Because I’m cheating with your wife.

-Right.

-Well, why would you think she’s cheating on you?

-She doesn’t like me anymore.

-That doesn’t mean she’s cheating on you.

-I’m soft.

-Soft?

-Yeah, soft, weak, filled with fear, afraid I’m going to lose her, obsessed. Stupid, stupid!

-Don’t take it so hard. So, you’re soft. Everybody goes limp now and then. We can’t all be superman all the time and as for your relationship, maybe she chose you because she was having a fight with a mythical mother in the distant past or a father who hated her or something and realized that she got into a relationship with you because she was afraid of turkey or something.

-She ain’t afraid of turkey.

-I didn’t say that. What I mean is, what if she loves you, but she doesn’t love you the same way anymore, but she still loves you and you guys just need to figure out how you love each other as you both keep changing in this world. I’m sure you’re not a total shlep. I’m sure you’ve got some good qualities or she wouldn’t have married you in the first place, but I have to tell you, you’re blowing it with this gun bit and all.

-I’m sorry.

-It’s okay. Sheez! Will you at least put the thing in your pocket or something.

-Sure.

-Okay. Good. Well, now, have we got it established that I didn’t cheat with your wife?

-Yes.

-Good. Well, then. I’ve got to go. I could call the police, but I won’t because I can see that you have had a setback into insanity and I’ve had a few of those myself, not quite like you, but I’ve had them and I won’t call the police.

-Thanks.

-Well, I’ve got to go.

-Wait.

-What?

-What’s this?

-What? What?

-This picture.

-What is that. Give me that. Jeez, porn.

-Not porn. That’s you.

-Let me see.

-That’s me?  Are you sure.

-Positive.

-But he has red hair, reddish brown hair and my hair is black, dark brown.

-Same cut.

-But you can’t see half his face and that is definitely not my nose. A button. See?
-Close enough.

-I thought we’d established….

-Look, you talk a lot. I can respect that. But I know what I know and I know that you slept with my wife.

-But I thought you said…

-Forget what I said. That was to shut you up. Get the fear out of you. Now you got to pay.

-You are going to shoot me.

-Probably.
-Great.

Pause

-Oh well. Okay, I might as well fess up. I did it. I don’t know you’re wife’s name but if that’s her in that picture then I certainly must have enjoyed it. I think I’ll always remember our night together, the way that she weaved and bobbed for me and then insisted I take her laying down from behind…

-Wilma. I told you. Wilma.

-Then she said that she couldn’t stand it anymore and then I really let her have it…

-Fear…

-Fear. You’re filled with fear. Everything you do is filled with fear. From the way you hold that gun to the way you stand there looking at me right now. Fear. Fear fear fear fear fear. You’re filled with fear. I’ve never met your wife. Definitely never fucked her if I never met her, although I’ve heard such things have been attempted.

-You never met my wife…with your clothes on…

-You can’t learn can you? You don’t get it. I didn’t fuck your wife!

-Then who is that in that picture?

-Some guy fucking your wife.

-You!

-Who looks like me!

-Who is you!

-Who looks like me.

-Who is you.

(removes gun from pocket)

-Oh, so now you’re going to really do it aren’t you?

-I don’t know. You look like him.

-I’m not him.

-Esther saw you. Wilma was gone after.

-She wasn’t anywhere near me. She may have been near my apartment, but she’s never been in it.

-Charlie!

(Charlie turns)

-Charlie?

-Neville, what are you doing here?

-What are you doing here? And why are you calling this guy Charlie?

-Because he’s Charlie. God, Charlie, I missed you.

(She snuggles close into him)

-Excuse me!

-What!

-Who are you!

-Oh, God, Charlie, what?

-Wilma!

-Oh, God, Neville. I forgot for a second.

-Forgot what?

-God, I’m so sorry. I just forgot.

-But we’ve been married five years!

-I know.

-And why did you lie to me!

-I’m not lying to you! I’ve never seen this woman in my life except for in that picture.

-Charlie, just tell him.

-My name’s not Charlie!

-Charles.

-That either.

-Chuck?

-No.

-Oh, Neville…it’s you.

-You’re drunk!

-I was at Esther’s. How was that Charles?

-Great. I guess I’m Charlie after all. Good enough. I’ve got to go.

-Wait. I’m not going to shoot you. It wouldn’t be right and I don’t want to go to jail. But if I ever see you around her again I will do it and next time I won’t be kidding around.

-Great. Awesome. Groovy. I’ve got to go.

-Just a warning to you.

-Bye, Charlie.

-Bye, bye, “Wilma.” Bye “Neville.”

-Remember the warning.

-Roger that.

Charlie exits.

-So, Nev. We going to go home and make love?

-I don’t know. I don’t feel it anymore. You make me weak. I don’t feel strong. I feel full of…fear. Fear. That’s it. I am full of fear. I can’t do anything anymore.

-Why?

-I don’t know why. I don’t trust you or myself or something. I don’t trust that you love me anymore and maybe I’m seeing too much into things and you’re drunk and you’re not usually drunk and that guy and why did you just melt into him like that…

-I don’t know. I just did.

-That’s what I mean. You just did. You just did. And I’m weaker for it and fearful and cold and, I gotta go. C’mon.

-Okay, but I can’t go yet. You go. I’ve got to get my stuff at Esther’s. I’ll be right there. Make me a bath, okay?

-Alright. Okay. Be quick. I gotta go. I’m sick of this. Sick of this fear.

-Just go and make me the bath and it will be alright.

-Alright. Fear. Fear. All this fear.

Neville walks away. Wilma walks into the building when Charlie meets her.

-Christ, what a bastard. Almost killed me.

-Just kiss me and get me upstairs. We only got a few minutes this time.

-This is getting ridiculous.

-I know. But what are you going to do?

Published in: on May 19, 2016 at 5:30 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Product

Dave, Jenny, Marta, Johnny, Peter, Brenner and Janey sit together in a storefront.

 

Dave

Okay. You, Brenner, you’ve got the existentialist shit, you know, the cloud of unknowing, we’re all going to die, but don’t worry be happy.

Brenner
Why do I have to be happy dying and you guys…

Peter
Because Peter will be handling that.

Brenner
You know I asked that before Peter even came along.

Peter
Look, Dave, I can give up hedonism. I could go with Epicurianism or something.

Dave
No, no, you’re covering hedonism. How the hell else are we going to…

Peter
Be bad?

Dave
Exactly. Look, some of the coolest cats in the world have tackled existentialism and come out okay: Sartre, Camus, Kierkegaard…

Brenner
I know, I know, okay.

Dave
Jenny, you’re the rationalist.

Jenny
Are there a lot of numbers?

Dave
Sometimes, but you can bring to it what you got.

Jenny
Can I make my beads?

Dave
Ask yourself.

Jenny
No.

Dave

Good. It’ll work then. Marta, you’ll be covering the darkest night thing, way beyond existentialism. This will make you ultra cool, though. Can you handle it?

Marta

I’m not sure how my mother will feel about Nihilism.

Dave
She’ll love it. Rather, don’t tell her about it. It will be okay.

Marta
Okay. I feel depressed.

Dave
Good. Johnny…

Johnny
I know. Idealism.

Dave
That’s right. It’s a sunny day. Everything is going to shit, but it’s a sunny day. We’re all going to be okay. The meteor isn’t going to hit. Cows will eventually talk to us and tell us that they like us.

Johnny
Do I have to smile.

Dave
Yes.

Johnny
I’m going to end up wearing a nametag a lot, aren’t I?

Dave
I’m afraid so, but we need you. We have to smile when Marta pipes in.

Johnny
Okay, I can see the importance in that.

Dave
What are we missing?

Jenny
What about Janey?

Dave
Janey, you’ve got all religious ecstatic motivation, got that? You got the ear of God, that sort of thing. Totally effulsive, mind blowing God exists type thing.

Janey
I feel like I’m getting bigger.

Dave
Don’t talk in tongues. At least not yet. This thing could blow out of control, but you will exist in this form. You know that you know that you know. Got it?

Janey
Hallowed be thy…

Dave
Keep it. Now. Everybody. Go!

They all sit silently not knowing what to say.

Dave:
Jenny?

Jenny:
Oh.

Jenny runs to the window and turns the open sign around. She returns and all sit once more in silence. Then the door opens. A man, Robert, walks in.

Robert:
Hello?

Dave:
Come in. Come in. How can we help you.

Robert:
I was walking around outside and I saw your sign.

Dave:
We have no sign.

Robert:
It says “open.”

Dave:
You’re right. We have a sign.

Marta:
We can’t really help you.

Robert:
Why not?

Johnny:
(stands) Of course we can help him. Come in. What’s your name?

Robert: Robert Mayhew.

Johnny:
(Shaking his hand) Gosh, it’s good to see you, Mr. Mayhew. Isn’t it wondrous how things work out? Here you are. Here we are? The world is out there. The world is in here. But, in here, (he points to his heart) all things are possible. Wouldn’t you agree?

Marta:
That is if you believe that this turning world is not a diseased soon to be corpse patiently awaiting self styled annihilation. You see, Mr. Mayhew, we are on a downward spiral and it’s going all the way down this time. Corruption, sin, evil ways produce enough ugly corroding acid to assure that this world, including the one in your heart, will not last the millennium. Have a nice day.

Robert:
Perhaps I should go.

Dave:
Go? No, how could you go? You came in, did you not? IN has nothing to do with out and…

Robert:
Just what do you do here?

They all just stare at him with blank looks.

Dave:
Do?

Robert:
Yes, do, what do you do here. Why am I here?

They all look at each other.

Brenner:
May I respond?

Robert:
Of course.

Brenner: Look, I can see you came in here looking for something. I’m afraid that you’re not going to find it. There’s too much to find. Ultimately, and I know because it is a universal thing, you’re probably looking for answers, meaning, maybe even “God,” universality, foreverness, whatever. Look, how do I say this…

Robert:

Do you have a product? Maybe I’ll take one. Sure. I’ll take one. Give me one of your product.

Silence again.

Brenner:
Okay…Look, as I was saying, maybe you came in here looking for something. Maybe a “product” or something. Something to hold on to. Something tangible that will let you look at your life and feel good inside, some lasting promise about something good, some sense, maybe, that this life is not the only life we’ve got.

Janey starts to speak, but stays quiet.

Now, Janey may have a different opinion on the matter and I can respect that, but in forming the business we, I think, and I don’t know how it could be refuted, it is evident that the product that you seek would not make you happy because attached to every product is the promise of that product’s demise. Do you see? You are really, I’m sorry, wasting your time here because, really, nothing lasts. But that’s okay! That’s okay!

Robert:
Then I guess I’ll go then.

Peter:
Wait!

Robert:
You have no business, you have no product, yet the product I would have purchased here had you had one would not have satisfied me anyway. So I guess I’ll go…

Peter:
Wait. Wait. You can’t take his word for it. You cast aside something that does not work, namely, buying a non-existent product and what do you have left? That’s right…a reason to totally party!

(Dave, Brenner and Peter break out in guttural laughter. Janey, Jenny, Johnny and Marta remain silent)

Robert:
Right. I gotta go.

Dave:
Wait. Wait. We’ve got something for you.

He scans the people in the room and then nods nervously to Janey.

Janey:

Thank you (relieved). Hello, Robert.

Robert:

Hello.

Janey:
Robert?

Robert:
Yes.

Janey:
I love you.

Dave:
There’s something. We’ll find it guys. We’ll find it. There’s gotta be a product somewhere that we have. Something.

Marta:
Prostitution is as good a way to go as any, I guess.

Janey: I love you with my width. I love you with my height. I love you with my morning. I love you with my night. I love you when all love seems withered. I love you if you don’t love yourself. Imagine a universe of holy love. By being here you are inside of this universe. Your soul floats on the starwagon hitched to eternity.

Marta:
Oh, Christ. You think, guys? You think? What are the odds…wait for it…

Janey: oh lalabadanallallapoalapolafolawalaoshkalasa…(speaking in tongues)

Marta: (singing) and we all go down together…

Dave:
Janey….Janey!

(Janey wakes up from her trance)

Janey:
Do you see, Robert? Perhaps you can call almighty universal Love the only “product” that you need. I can.

Peter: Here here, as long as you share it with your friends.

Marta: You holdin?

Peter: Hell yeah!

Peter goes for his stash, but notices the stern disapproving look of Jenny. Instead, he and Marta run offstage together.

Robert:
Why do I feel…

Jenny:
Confused?

Robert:
Yeah, confused. That’s it.

Jenny:
That’s normal. If you think of the amount of confusion that you deal with on a daily basis you will soon come to realize and see the threads that if you follow will lead you out of your confusion. Regardless of what some people think, there are things to know. The basic process of living is enough to keep your mind occupied happily throughout a typical day. You really don’t need much more than this: Life, Love and Happiness. But you’ve got to start somewhere. You’ve first got to get your ducks in a row. Make sure everything you do is going to get you somewhere. If you don’t you’re going to get stuck and then if what Janey says or anybody else is true then you will have come to it on your own. Just keep your eyes open, Robert.

Robert:
Miss…

Jenny:
Jenny.

Robert:
Jenny, you make sense. Can I ask you then, what exactly can I buy here?

Jenny looks at him with a blank stare in her eye.

Dave:
That’s not important right now, Robert. There is something to buy, I’m sure of it.

Peter and Marta return. Stoned.

Peter: Sure we’ve got something to buy.

Dave:
We’re selling, Peter.

Peter:
Selling now? Oh. We’ve got something to sell. Imagine it, Robert. Starting with a nice 1972 rieseling to compliment the Oyster Marmaduke in a slightly reversed onion and tangerine sauce. Beef Wellington and asparagus tips sautéed or braised, your choice, in an eastern Ethiopian frame of which I could speak all day followed by a port so influenced by the French that the Italians after years and years of trying finally outdid it. Of course I’m talking about Dell’callabrezia, oh 1982, possibly 1983, followed by hand rolled spliffs from seeds imported from Holland and grown in cat feces, I know, I know, it sounds horrible, but the high…

Marta:
I can attest to that.

Dave:
Robert, of course we aren’t selling drugs.

Robert:
You’re a restaurant then?

Dave:
No.

Robert:
He’s high, right?

Dave:
You got it.

Robert:
Then what? What! What am I doing here? I’ve gotta go.

Dave:
Wait!

Dave jumps up and does a quick dance number before sitting back down.

Dave:
You like? You like?

Robert says nothing.

Johnny:
God, Robert, it’s all right here! The future starts now as they say and the heights that you can climb if you only start when the world wants you to start! Instead of doing this or that, battling that thought against that thought and always spinning your wheels, just accept that life is Good. Got it! Life is there for you. It’s as high as the sky and this future does not need a nice meal or a good joint to make it a real fact as long as you embark. Take off! Go! Be with You and all things will come. Your loves will appear to you and the next step will always be followed by another and one day, one day, Robert, you will quite simply, be sitting on a cloud.

Marta:
Or in burning embers.

Janey:
And his Eyes will behold you and His demeanor will state to all that you are worthy for the entering of the light and once the light is shining upon you the world will bow to the goodness of your soul until you disappear into the light and all questions will have been answered. Nothing else will ever be needed again.

She closes her eyes and is about to speak in tongues again.

Dave:
Janey.

Janey opens her eyes, smiles, and acquiesces to the request not to speak in tongues.

Marta:
So, your sitting on a cloud, right? Robert, listen. So you’re sitting on a cloud and God comes up to you and sees you. You maybe masturbated earlier that day and maybe cursed your neighbor because your neighbor is brain dead and deserves to be cursed and then suddenly it’s like wham! Off you go. No more. Sayonara. No more high-rise cloud living for you. Down you go. Falling. Falling. Seven, eight, nine miles until you land flat on your back in the land of the doomed. It was nice to think that you could make it to the cloud planet but ultimately you’re just like the rest of us imperfect specimens avoiding points from a pitchfork and watching full time the type of things that got you in hell in the first place.

Brenner:
Hell is other people.

Marta:
Not for Robert it won’t be. For Robert it will be full time anguish. Gnashing of teeth. Ticks, electric shocks, abject fear, blackness, death fucking death fucking death. It’s not going to be nice.

Brenner:
Robert, at least you don’t have to believe in fairy tales while you’re here. We may not have a product.

Dave:
We have a product!

Brenner:
Okay, maybe we don’t know if we have a product.

Dave:
We have a product!

Jenny:
Well, technically, Dave, while we have a lot of desire to have a product we don’t really, as of this moment, anyway…

Dave:
Sssh!

Brenner:
Okay, we have a product, but right now…anyway, if you want to listen to Nihilist Nancy over there I can go get you a rope from the store right now and you can answer all of your questions yourself.

Janey:
Go on, Brenner, testify.

Brenner:
Or if you go to Saint Janey’s school of perpetual elation you’ll end up being as dumb as an ox. No, listen. There is a product, but it isn’t what you think. The product is…Now. Eat, drink and be merry la la la for tomorrow we die.

Peter:
That’s what I’m talkin’ about. But it’s a science, man. A goddamned science!

Marta:
I need a new rat.

Robert:
I see. I see. Well, thank you. I really must be going.

Dave:
Wait!

Dave jumps up and goes off stage. He comes back with a dirty rag.

Dave:
Here. Here it is. Here’s our product, Robert. Thank you for your patience with my salespeople. It’s a rather new staff that I’m still mostly training.

Robert:
You’re joking, right?

Dave:
No, no, not at all. This isn’t what you think it is.

Robert:
It’s not a rag with oil stains on it?

Dave:
No, not at all.

Johnny:
It is an emblem of all that you can be when you wipe clean your past and start anew.

Brenner:
It is a testimony to the fact that you will not be a victim to nothingness after you have asserted yourself into the truth about life, that you are born to die, but that shouldn’t put a damper on things now should it? You will still have this as soon as your personal assertion is made. There are really very few, if any, products like this one.

Janey:
It is what you will use to wipe the feet of the Universal One when your time comes. It is the flag of surrender that you will need more than anything else when all spiritual embodiment comes to compliment your hereafter. It is a valuable lifeline.

Marta:
It could sop up your blood when I kill you.

Dave:
Marta!

Marta:
Oh, never mind.

Jenny:
It’s a rag…

Dave gives her a stern look.

A very nice rag if you ask me.

Peter:
It’s a start, you see, when you harvest there needs to be a certain amount of moisture held within the soil and by placing this over the cat mixture essential nutrients will remain. This is how it is done in the casino districts of Somalia.

Dave:
There you have it. It’s only a dollar.

Robert:
You sold me. I’ll take it.

Dave hands Robert the rag.

Robert:
Thank you, Thank you. I’ve so wanted a rag just like this. Well, gotta be going. Appointment at four. Thanks again. Bye bye.

Robert exits. The group sits around and says nothing

Dave:
(to Marta, disgusted) I need a new rat

Published in: on April 26, 2016 at 9:17 am  Leave a Comment  
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absurdity- king saint finnerty the festive

absurdity is when the bad guy wins and everybody then laughs at you, the bad guy’s nemesis, because they didn’t understand either.

absurdity is when nobody understands but you and you are actually right and not the standard fool they expect you to be.

the world is absurd when your idealism destroys you

absurdity is when the world insists that you stand in the wrong line

absurdity is the victory of moral wrong

absurdity has no patience for the elimination of the status quo

absurdity wouldn’t mind if you die

absurdity is insane and always right and earless

absurdity is brushed off as protocol

absurdity often is protocol

absurdity is mean

people accept absurdity to get what they want

absurdity says black may as well be white if that’s what everybody wants

absurdity is an easy ride for many, but not victimless

if we do not see absurdity as a powerful force then we will be its victim eventually

the law can prove that the absurd is not absurd which is just another example of absurdity

god, if loving, is the grand master of all absurdity

is absurdity pure evil? perhaps, but only if it creates casualties

absurdity is like a toxin that debilitates its victim. in this way it is used as a weapon since there is no way to respond to its brash, forceful assertion. it is the equivalent of its progenitor saying : my way or the highway, end of story. it’s a coverup most of the time, a ruse, a weapon closing off all debate because you are made to believe that you just don’t understand and will never understand because you are INEPT.

builders of absurd paradigms don’t believe what they are saying. they are simply building citadels of power that will not be contested. in this way thievery is made easy.

all it takes to create absurdity is to insist upon it

we all live within the strictures of absurdity

absurdity is most keenly felt by the highly moral

the fact that most of the paradigms we inhabit are actually games ruled by sensuality makes fools of even the smartest of us.

our many hungers as humans create many absurdities, flawed arguments based only on the fulfillment of that hunger instead of the fulfillment of a higher need benefitting more people. we dance in absurdity and swim in it.

that the strong gather everything and the weak nothing when the need hierarchy is exactly the other way around is an example of absurdity.

the victory of absurdity creates hopelessness

a sense of absurdity arrives with the end of eras in a person’s life. coping is needed. new vistas must be discovered. the vision must be reapportioned. reality must be heeded. new happiness must be found and it can be.

the fact that absurdity defeated you is what leads most to regret. regret is deep sadness.

gather here all ye who thought they knew and did know but were told they were in error – king saint finnerty the festive

Published in: on April 14, 2015 at 1:18 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Fine, Great – a short short story by Albert Jones

“(moneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneynmoneymoneymoneymoneymoney) Fine, great, thanks for asking. How are you?”

Published in: on March 17, 2014 at 1:38 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Cars — Short Story (unpublished) – Albert

There are no hills really in Las Vegas just a lot of crazy people. The crazies go there from other places. Plius, short for Pliusen, a name given to him by a father who had discovered mushrooms in the 1960s in Denver, had a thing now against cars.
In Las Vegas there is no real society. There are just people in cars. The famous Las Vegas strip is not a society. It is a tourist destination. It is not walkable. It is there for tourists only. A local would never go unless for some special occasion. A native Las Vegan like Plius was left with the society of automobiles.
He himself drove a Chevy nova, 1988, just enough air conditioning, just enough new paint sensibility but shitty enough to evoke a sense of dread in girls who might look Plius’s way accidentally. Vegas girls are famous in Vegas for being slow, dim-witted whores who live for the big bucks. Everybody knows this in Vegas. Plius himself knew it not to be true having grown up there, but it may as well have been for all the interaction with the fairer sex that he had.
Plius lived in East Las Vegas. This is close to Henderson, old Henderson which became Green Valley and suddenly lost it’s reputation for being the trailer trash capital of the world. Green Valley was like Summerlin only older; new stucco, neon shopping malls. Wonderfully new apartments and condos and houses that only those who move here from elsewhere can afford. It is a wonderful world if you can get it, but Plius couldn’t get it, working at the institute that he worked at. The institute was quite silly. The Institute for Furthering of Consciousness also known as the farm. At the farm, a unique situation for Las Vegas, he was the guy who dumpster dove at the health food superstore to feed the retarded men and women who made didgeredoo’s for sale all over the nation. The farm had flowers, corn, pumpkins, beets, squash, peas, tomatoes and lettuce. It’s owner was a fat cow of a man named Rumply, Jude Rumply, of Michigan, whose father Tom had once killed a man with a butcher knife while working at a butcher shop. Accidentally, of course. He made seven dollars an hour, but didn’t know what else to do with his life. This was good enough. The world was a world of cars.
Plius pulled into Michaels, a craft store, because he had to make Jesus out of a sock for a friend’s play about nonsense. He got what he came for, a white pipe cleaner that he would turn into a halo. He would cut a little of his hair off and make the beard and glue blue glitter on for eyes. At the counter an old woman rang him up as he stared at a nicely shaped woman looking at baskets one aisle over. All of these women were married or if they weren’t were taken by someone or if not taken by someone reserved for someone destinywise who would definitely not be Plius. Because he knew this he never initiated conversation. But they were there. The tall vixen at the thrift store who dressed like a whore, but perused alone 25 cent novels in the middle of the day, the girl who ate at the college coffee house, old enough to be considered a woman, but more still a teenager. The only difference was that older men like Plius, 32, could stare and she couldn’t totally dismiss him as a pervert. By that age she’s supposed to know how to deal with it. The pair of budding young nightclub vixens who walked nose to back almost in fear of their sexuality which had grown way beyond any turning back point. All these women disappeared back into their cars, first exiting through store doors to disappear forever, only to be replaced by another. At this breakneck speed Plius felt he would drown in possibilities that weren’t possible. Something would have to change. He would have to stop being shy or something.
The sun blinded his eyes as he exited Michaels so he put on the sunglasses he had hanging from his shirt. He walked across the driving path to his Nova. The car stank of old car stink and he threw the little bag on to the seat next to him. He cranked her over and pulled back, turning down the radio that he had left blaring when he’d gotten out of the car. The Cars were playing. Candy-O. A treat, a rarity for this particular Cars to be playing, almost as good as if All Mixed Up had been playing which was an obscure cut from that record. This put him out there, which was really in there which was nowhere really, back into traffic, back into the endless line of cars in the budding heat. Then the drive.
There was no desire to go anywhere, but go somewhere he must, back to the farm where the workers were all working and he had a little room and a day off where he could make Jesus. When he got there nobody was around. He parked the car in the parking lot. The gate latch was unlocked and he opened it and went to his bungalow, a four walled room with a window and an air conditioner. Good, nobody had seen him. He went inside, turned on the light and lay on the bed and looked up. What was it for? Leaves played upon the wall, sunlight moving around, form. Life wasn’t all about anything that he could do. It was all about all that he could not do. He did not like living like this, but it was all that he had. He could not help thinking that his solitude, his silence, his existential predicament were lost inside of these exteriors of the moving leaf and light on a wall. There was nothing anywhere. His mother had died. His brother hated his guts. His dad was there for him, but was involved in his own senior citizen world. Kay had left him for a guy with a boat. Brenda loved him, but wasn’t willing to take any more chances on his changing ass. Ally just lived off in some far away land holding a baby and a real live Jewish husband, which is astounding seeing how Greek she was.
Underneath these memories lived real silent void, air, black then blue then deeper blue then air again and nothing, never, to stand upon again, a lifting of the hope and then a realization that it would return downward into him, leaves again, light again, this solitary room, cars.

Published in: on December 16, 2013 at 4:17 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Power of Beauty Found

I remember the snow. I wasn’t brought up on snow back in the deserts of Las Vegas, but in Boston they had a lot of it and I remember it, sitting in the giant pushback tractor trailer, a 757 twenty feet in front of me. I was cocooned in a snow globe as the men sprayed the wings with de-icer which, with the help of the emptying sky, placed me inside of a little fluffy cloud, as I simply sat back and waited, in awesome bliss.

Few people, I believe, have had the opportunity to experience such a world of white as I did during those days. Some things make you forget life back on earth and this was one of those things. It spurred ethereal notions, made me elated there at Logan International Airport, not far from the place where Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote about being a transparent eyeball. I think it was in the silence, as well, as I watched the snow fall, the de-icers exploding mists placing me into another realm.

Flight is perhaps one of the greatest proofs of the existence of man’s spirituality, the pursuit of which is often neglected in favor of feeding and secure habitation. A solitary spiritual experience such as mine in the faux cloud, the result of seeing great beauty, then lives in memory. My snowy cocoon brought me in touch with meaning through associations: cloud and heaven, the end of physical trouble through the fairy tale idea of perpetual floating, the momentary ending of all travail.

The result of placing oneself in such a situation of great and unexpected beauty is that the memory lifts you, helps you then transcend your day to day, and sort of places you in a symbolic cloud forever. A few minutes of elation, a few minutes of being a transparent eyeball, presents to the inductee to true spirituality a wealth of energy to be used for future days.

Of course, we all have to come back down to the ground. The plane was pushed and safely dispatched into the soft, white, moving sky. The cold, the freezing, was then re-experienced by the parking of the tractor, the jumping down from the icy sides, your buttressing against the cold as you run into the torn-couch and staid-chair reality of the airline break room again, where cards are played, laughter provoked almost in a competitive way. Once again, you are on your toes, you enter the realm of the real world, although the soft white world recently abandoned was secretly much truer. You don’t have the words to tell anyone what you just went through. The spirituality again. The beauty again.

And you are bolstered so you smile and you talk and you are stronger for those moments until the world again encroaches upon you and your worry lines appear between your eyes and the transparent eyeball is nowhere to be found. You know you must soon be fed again by beauty and you will find a way.

More snows come through the winter. More planes depart. One plane a minute is what they say about Logan International, a good statistic that makes you feel safe flying. A tarmac is a pretty rough place. You have to constantly be on the alert. Everybody is in uniform and no guff is taken in regards to movement or actions. Safety is key and most everybody is a tough guy about staying safe. It’s a matter of life and death. But what many people don’t talk about when they describe the nitty and the gritty of serious places is that beauty is found in the cracks. The snowy white world of the de-icing is one such crack. Another is a a quick stop at the water’s edge at night to stare out at the Boston skyline.

More spiritual imagination infiltrates you through the transmission of the colored light sparkles of the night landscape. Cosmopolitan beauty is a notion of the beauty inside of people translated into outer, man-made form. Of course, in our overalls we weren’t really a part of that scene, but by allowing ourselves those moments of bliss, stolen moments mostly, we became as beautiful in our imaginations as these night-time people were in their fashions and the body language displayed to one another. They sat, wine glasses in their hands, within the structural embodiments imagined by others who also appreciated the power of beauty, those who designed the buildings and the rooms, placed the candles where they may, chose the music that would best allow one person to see and feel the beauty in another.

It is this idea of human love that the solitary bayside nightwatch gives you as you sit there on the plastic seat of your cargo puller. The long shining arms of love given to the eye is beautiful. Even if you don’t have it in your life, its pull is undeniable, and it is through beauty that we imagine it. It is the gift that imagination gives us, the feeling of love even though we may yet be alone in our lives. We experience love anyway. Spirituality is love given to us through beauty. Simple as that.

I finally moved away from Boston to go to school in California. I traded the snow for the sea. It’s hard to say which is the better bet as far as the touch of spirituality is concerned. A lot of people would say that the sea is generally the better choice if you want to experience the higher feelings for a longer amount of time, but spirituality and its feeling of love is not about quantity. It is about moments and being open enough to experience them. Although I worked in a gas-smelly land of pavement, I found the beauty where it approached me and, perhaps starving in some way, I was molded by it, was infiltrated, was made to be a transparent eyeball. And like another great New England poet once said, that has made all the difference.

Published in: on August 7, 2013 at 2:36 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite – The Inner World – Joey Kantor

Welcome to the inner world. I used to think that I wanted to be an expert on the inner world, went to college for an esoteric inner world degree, wrote words, read books, did everything you’re supposed to do to come to know the inner world. But I can honestly say that I know absolutely nothing about the inner world. With this disclaimer, I will continue to be your guide.

You might ask me why I would want to write about something that I know nothing about. Well, there is really very little else that interests me. It is like fine music, you hear it, but you don’ t know why you love it. I always wanted to know what I was doing when I was dreaming, but it just didn’t work out. After all of the books and all the study, after all of the writing where I journeyed into the inner world, after all of it, I am no closer now to knowing what it is about than I was at the beginning of my trek and this is, well, actually a little embarrassing.

Yeah, embarrassing. Who do you know that spent $30,000 to learn about the inner world by studying mythology and depth psychology only to say these pitiful words about knowing? What is knowing? Sure this is a question that many philosophers have continually tackled and this could be advantageous to the rest of us if we could actually muck through their explanations. Who really has this question in the back of their mind?

Very few people. Not many people sit around wondering about the nature of knowing. When I tried to join the pros I always failed miserably. My questions were my questions and their answers never really did it for me. If I tried to memorize their answers then all I really had were memorized answers. They weren’t the answers to my own questions and my own questions were, I think, much more private, wordless, unconscious.

But like a good fisherman I tried to pull up out of the deep murk all of the answers that I could. I had the impression that the inner world was the same as the outer world. Big mistake. It is nothing like it at all. YOU, the all big YOU of YOU-dom (you know what you are and who), think these same thoughts all the time. You too find it hard to put any of it into words and if you’re like me you want your thought to be eloquent at least, perfect would be fine, like having the highest quality mental state which can only lead you to good things, easy answers, knowing the ineffable. Doesn’t happen. Once you learn something it is swallowed back up by unknowing until you don’t even know what the question was. After all is said and done the old pleasures and needs seem the most reliable. I should have had a family instead of dedicating myself to spiritual pursuits. No, I really should have.

But I can’t sit around and cry over spilt milk. I was taught that the inner world is important and I went down a winding and windy path only to discover, well, nothing. I don’t know anything more now than I knew at any other time of my life. This may be untrue if my mental stability is a sign of having conquered question after question. Knowing became for me a way to be strong and if strong now then I can take comfort in knowing that all of my attempts were not in vain. I am here because I ventured towards the inner world. Just because I cannot see anything of the inside world doesn’t mean that it is not there. It can only be seen through the outer world. Go figure.

If I am to know then I can only know through the reflection of what is in front of my very eyes, for the inner world is invisible, dodgy and unknowable. I think the inner world is what people are talking about when they talk about “God.” God is unknowable. Too vast. Too grand. Too fill in the blank. A flower. A feeling of love. An example of love. You can call God just about anything, choose any nice picture or feeling and you’ve got it. The inner world is the same way.

I could not begin to talk to you about it right now. I guess I could tell you about feelings. They are supposed to be the telltale signs of the inner world. You feel love and the inner world is “blooming,” a metaphor for a state of being using the image of a flower. There it is again. The inner world being described by the outer world.

Why does the outer world always have all the fun? Why can’t we just call the inner world “things” what they are? I suppose that is what poetry tries to do. Finagle words around feelings in the hope that you will show something that will prove that higher thought, an actual wonderful inner world,exists, that there is something under the feeling, the image, the thought, the poetry, and that something is either “you” or “God” or simply the inner world.

Fantasy. It is a need for fantasy I guess. I want to live with invisible toads in something something gardens. I want to mess stuff up, let errors reign so that the invisible world can be exposed as faulty. That’s okay just as long as it is exposed. There is something to that I think. Letting the real inner world poke through. You tend to think that this is the real thing. Just maybe you will find a reason to live. Not that I don’t want to live, but meaning is so important to everybody. Beauty in one’s own soul may just be a proof of meaning as a human being.

I get lost just surmising what the invisible world inside actually consists of. Perpetually the phony. Never have the full on conviction like the others that things are this way or that. Always have to use asterisks to explain everything, have to say, well, I don’t really know, but this seems like the way that it is. I know I want to try and pinpoint these things, but once you bust through and start to use poetry to do it then you are sort of lost. It’s sort of like giving up. But the poetic voice does seem like the truer voice when you are writing about this subject.

How can you know about the inner world unless it tells you about itself? This is assuming that there is a self to the inner world. If so, is it your self? My self? Is the inner world all of the swirling emotions and thoughts surrounding your very core which is just a swirling mass of unknowability? Probably. Sounds right. If so then what do I continue to write for? Seems inane to keep going. But if this were to be a book I would have to continue on and on. My publisher would demand it. So what would I say? The inner world is shown through metaphors from the outer world. Enough. Done. The inner world is a mass of thoughts and feeling which represent the moments of the real ineffable you. Or maybe God. Hmm. Back to being unknowable. So I will continue onward with the trek and find new things to write about. Poetry. Always falling back on poetry.

What is this thing poetry? Most people would say it’s purty words. Others would say it is hyper intellectualism. I guess it can be both of those things. It is definitely an exercise for the mind which is supposed to have importance to the soul. (I guess we’ll get to the soul later. I guess we’ll have to). Obviously we are not very pleased with things if we don’t have some way of registering understanding. Words do that for us.

When you discuss invisible things you of course must find words to express those invisible things so you say things like “the monkey face of the aqua worlds twirl grasses in the welknit of the mind…”you know, crazy things. Why? Because you don’t know! You don’t know what you are doing. You don’t really know of what you consist. The thrubbing and pounding of feeling but not knowing can be way too much for mortal man. The only way to throw off the coil is to face it and come to know it, but when you look, you guessed it, it’s not there. That’s what I mean about the inner world being dodgy. It dodges forever your attempts to throw a good beam of light on to it. Instead it releases little messages to you in code and your brain has to decode those little messages and sometimes it is “aqua worlds twirl grasses in the welknit of the mind.” No really. I really mean it. Then you must decipher that code with another line. Perhaps it can be done. All I know is that you don’t really have much of a choice. You’ve got to do something to come to an understanding of the whirlpool which is your “soul.”

So here we are where I promised you earlier. We’re at the notion of the soul. I could try to remember all of the people who had written about the meaning of the notion of the soul, but being a desperate member of the human race in need of understanding Now, I will not google those things. Instead I will tell you what I think.

The soul is the quicksand in which you drown when you are confused. The soul can be darkened like a burnt piece of toast. The soul can be drowned in all sorts of bad metaphorical liquids, the soul can be burnt up, can be on fire. I’m just guessing here really. But it seems like the soul can do just about anything. The soul is the center of the middle of all that is mysterious. It is where God has coffee with the invisible inner world which is you (but because can be considered a place where God has coffee is possibly a part of God Himheritself.)

Have you noticed that it’s really difficult to talk about the concept of “God?” Have you noticed that yet? Especially as somebody writing to an audience like I am right now. I know how people feel about “God.” But I hate having to do that dance. “God” is simply a part of the equation when it comes to soul and the inner world. Hesheitother is just there like an answer beyond an answer. It is the million trillion mile perspective. The notion that inner world is so inner that ever trying to get to the bottom of the notion with our peanut minds is absolutely ridiculous.

Maybe this is why I have such trouble with this whole inner world thing. I am faced with the idea that at the very end of the line itself is “God” Hesheitorother (according to the beliefs which might make you mad at me if I put it in too awkward a fashion). I don’t know. Even agnostics deal with this. Atheists don’t, but then again, why would they have to be atheists if they could not at least conceive of the notion? It must really drive them crazy, plus all the crap that has entered the world through saints and martyrs and prophets, the loons anyway. You get one good prophet for every twenty loons it seems so you wonder whether any of it is worth it. Atheists have a good point. Let’s just call the whole thing off. But if I am to go into this notion of the inner world I can’t do that. “God” may just be looking over his paper at me right now and I have to say the right thing.

So what to say about God? He lives in the soul. There I said it. If Hesheitorother actually lives then Hesheitorother is housed in the soul. That is the importance of the soul. The house is bigger than the self and the sky where “God” lives is bigger than the house and God can make himself really small and join you in your soul where your inner world lives, I mean self, where you live. You, soul, and the big ol’ Sky.

But of course all of this is invisible so you don’t know who you are in relation to the soul or God and after awhile, well, you guessed it, you try to figure it out poetically or you read book after book or you keep your nose in your holy book in hopes that it will keep you alive through osmosis. Invisible is invisible. “God” doesn’t send emails. Your soul house is a nice little idea and you, once again, are a swirl of emotions and thoughts that will only really let you know what they consist of if you beg them nicely by placing them into words, rather, allow them to be placed into words that sound like, you know, the grasses of the welknit thing.

Isn’t it funny how knowing becomes unknowing in a blink of an eye? We can say that we know something, but the next minute we realize we have no idea what we’re talking about. We might go around for awhile proclaiming that we learned something about ourselves, but then it doesn’t even matter. We’ve moved on. What was the question again?

After awhile, especially if you are losing on the regular playing fields of regular everyday life, it seems to be a nuisance. You wonder why you have to be cursed in thinking the way that you do. Nobody else seems to be that way. Of course, other people also seem to be able to handle the outside world, but you can’t. Your inside world is too vast, too important to you. So you begin to fail. You lose. You can’t join the fray and after awhile you realize that you are sleeping on the ground with a stone for your pillow. That was once claimed as likely to happen for playing this game. But is it really worth it?

Perhaps it is if you are the type of person who might go a little batty if living any other way. Sometimes we have to deal with who we are. Our attention is where it is because that is where it is. Because it is where it is doesn’t mean that we are bad or unworthy or losers, no, but it does mean that it is where it is at and you might just be a candidate for the role of starer into the void your entire life. That’s okay, but you’ve got to be aware that maybe it won’t be all peaches and cream for you. You’ll keep going for as long as you need to and one day you might wake up and realize that you have grown a long beard, have no money, no family and everybody else does and they’re all long long gone. Boo hoo. Navel gazers or star gazers. They don’t know which one you are and you don’t either. You are just who you are and you’d better accept it because at some point you are going to need to pull out of it and go back. Just like the Boddhisatvas in the Buddhist philosophy. Do it and then go home. Give yourself a break and be an all around good guy or gal. That’s your mission. It’s unfortunate in a way because you miss out on a whole lot of things, but some people just don’t have a choice. Often society will reward these people. Maybe it will be you. Most likely not, but maybe. Maybe you too can have love. Stranger things have happened.

Published in: on March 9, 2013 at 6:35 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite – Albert

Welcome to the world that I know. Am I alone in the world or just alone now? When every thought must ring of some philosophy then that philosopher is living wrongly. Although pleasure should not be the end all of existence, a pleasureable moment should be expected, a breeze, he sounds of birds chirping, the passing over head of an airplane. Too often these sounds make us sad if we are all alone. Loneliness is the biggest problem. That and misunderstanding.
I have spent all of my words. A word has become a dollar to me and I have spent them. And yet I have received no compensation. I have let go of these dollars and allowed the words to remain. Surely words must have some value inside of themselves, maybe even more value than if they were paid for which I no longer for them to be. So now that I have back the useless, monetanetary free word what do I do with them? I suppose they can bring back memory. If I feel that by writing them I can go back into memory and revisit feelings from my past then maybe I will bring back some of that to my life. Those words are valuable because they can present emotions and feelings that money couldn’t have bought anyway. I guess letting go of the hold of the dollar upon my words could have a lot of positive effects. I’m sure, though, that the next time I start to write” seriously” that money will grasp the throat of my words once more and I will lose all joy. I am a failed writer because I cannot help but want to turn the words into cash. I am impure. I am desperate. I am inauthentic. Inauthentic words do not sell.
Maybe some day I will be lucky and have somebody read my words and, although they won’t give me money, they will read them and get something out of them. I am not talking about what I have written in the past. All of that is tainted by my desire for success. I am talking about my future words. Maybe somebody will read them and feel something. Maybe somebody will even pay me for the words, but I won’t have received the money because I was writing for them, but because it was an accidental repercussion of having written honest words. By saying this I presuppose that I am capable of writing honest words. I would like to think that I am. I admit that I am a writer but I have very little to say. I write mostly of moments. I write of where I am at the moment. In society nothing changes. I have no interest in writing about the moments of society. I have no interest in writing about the hysteria of modern man and throwing my two cents in and acting like it matters. It is all a flurry of activity like a bees hive. When the uproar has passed the bees settle down. I don’t need to be a bee. I would rather contemplate on the state of my existence. I first recognized this when I was a young writer, sixteen, when I noticed the way of things. I noticed the breezes, the temper of an afternoon, the sounds of distant dogs, the squealing of children and the silence. That was when it seemed that the spiritual had more sway over who I am than this car manic perplexity we call society ever gained victory over my soul’s needs and fears. I was purer then. I had not given up. I had not transferred my words into slashed s’s, I had hope that the words that I created mattered.

Then I saw the way society takes ( or doesn’t take) our words. I looked at who the stars were, the sixteen year old sex-pots. The wise eyes of seventeen year old heart-throbs who pretend to be saving the world when all of those over thirty have dropped off the face of the earth or at least lost their significance because they could not give the impression any longer of being Barbie’s dream date. Back then I never hoped that I woulde be one of them as I do now, sitting here, realizing that the bee swarm dictates whether or not I am a fruitful member of society or not. This is especially hard knowing that I have a desire to produce a family, to continue my trek in the manner it is meant to go. Having failed to sell my great American tale of love, daring and angst all to be played out in the hip mind of a young American male I sit here and what I think of can be thought of in terms of others, others much different from those who rule the world now, those who the world forgets as soon as they are forced to stop thinking about them: Thoreau, Gandhi, even Christ. In a world where man is not living on bread alone but on every word that comes out of the network’s mouth I feel a readiness to pull back from the electronic words and re-enter the soft spaces, the quiet spaces, the spaces where I used to feel. Where I didn’t ask so many questions of my worth according to mhy profitability prowess or lack thereof. Words, failures of transmissions, emptiness, these are pulling points for those of us who need to be extricated out of the morass of mass communication, those of us who bought into the hype of selling words for fame and money. Those of us who sold out I say forgive yourselves. I’m going to. Now, maybe I will be able to write, be published, maybe even be paid someday, but never again will I strive for those dollar signs if I have to gut the integrity of the words that originally were held so sacred by my naive yet wiser younger self.

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Published in: on January 25, 2013 at 11:37 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Really?

Really. Really. Really. They say it isn’t the thought, but, think about it. It Is the thought. It is the very thought of the very moment of the very real you of NOW! It’s all that matters and this isn’t a new age tract. Now is the moment that you hold as you read these words that I wrote then, another now, one for me, but now for you. That’s the way writing works. Face it. You are reading. I was writing. Who knows what I’m doing now, but I know what you are doing. I totally know what you are doing.

So where does that leave us? Is it unfair? Of course. Why? I don’t even know. It just seems unfair. Why or how can I leave you with these thoughts, this thought that is, and not even be present at the moment that you take them in? I guess you wouldn’t want me to be there. I guess you don’t really want to know me. Do I really want to know you? It’s hard to say. Maybe. I feel I know a lot of writers that I like. The problem here is that you don’t really consider me a writer that you like but just a writer who you are reading at the moment. Still. Where am I in all this?

I’m away. I’m gone. You ask me about what I wrote and that you read, this line here, and I will say, ah, well, that and this and this and that and that and that and this and you will smile or laugh or take it in and soon all will be forgotten. You live with your thoughts in your moments and that is all that matters.

Published in: on December 18, 2012 at 10:39 pm  Leave a Comment  
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