The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

Leopold.
Yes mom
Come down to supper.
Okay.
Whats for supper mom?
Stew.
You like stew dad?
Yeah.
Does Jimmy like stew?
Yeah
I hate stew! Mom, Leopold is trying to make me say that I like stew!
Oh, leave Leopold alone. He’s just trying to figure things out.
So, if you like stew and you hate stew and I like stew, sometimes, and mom likes stew, then why do they name people after stews, when stew is only so-so? Like the Stewarts? What about Ronnie Stewart? Jimmy knows Ronnie Stewart. Does his family like stew?
Mom, tell Leopold to shut up!
Shut up yourself you demon’s calf and go and hush up there. Your brother Leopold is reading them books. You ever see how fast he goes through em? Jimmy, stop, look over there at your brother. Do you think Leopold is “normal.”
Leopold’s crazy.
No he’s not. He’s special. He’s smarter than both you and I. I need you to understand that Jimmy, Leopold is smarter ‘en you.
That dummy is smarter than me?
Yes, he is. He’s way smarter en you. He’s got what they call you’uns, see? See? An IQ test and he’s off the friggin charts and he’s young yet, okay? You was young once.
Never as young as Leopold. Leopold’s the baby! Hahahahahahh!

There has been some discussion here at the campsite about the sometimes necessary need for good writing. While the management has taken that into consideration many times, there were also times when the words were left there on the page to fend for themselves. Editorially perusing backwards in time, the management here at the offices of the fklc agree with the reader that sometimes something could have been made clearer. However, we in no way indemnify fargo kantrowitz, author of the heresaid work, as purposefully re-directing his reading audience away from the properly written word for any purposes of intent, malice, lack of straight-forwardness or

This is the Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite

Money comes to those of you who wait. It might take you 89 years and you will have by then possibly died, but it comes. You just sometimes have to live to the age of Methuseluh. Perhaps we have children so that they can continue the pursuit of riches that we know we don’t have the time to acquire during our lifetimes. Maybe that’s it. Have a kid and they can do it. The dream can survive. Perhaps that is why we name our male children after their fathers. The dream continues. Perhaps once or twice we can forget about that and realize something greater, that the sum total of any new human being is greater than the sorry misdream of thinking somebody a simple function. We are not just a tool.j

The two fish stare at the dead body. Athelwaite has a strange look on his face and shakes oddly.

Athelwaite: Oh well. Nothing to see here. But codfish! Something smells good. I mean, probably nothing. Let’s go.

Mabry: Wait, wait, give me a minute. This might be something.

Mabry swims a little closer. Athelwaite sort of blocks him and keeps him back.

Athelwaite: No, no, you go on. I’ll take care of this. I’m not sure I like this. This is dangerous, Mabry, this is real da…

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek

Their heads turn in unison. They notice the worm for the first time.

Mabry: (to the worm) Mind? What do you mean, do I mind?

Athelwaite: You’ve gotta be kidding me. Is that worm talking?

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek

Mabry: Yes, Athelwaite, that worm is talking.

Athelwaite: I’ll be gosh darned.

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek

Mabry: (to the worm) Indeed, if this is the solution you seek, I could accommodate,
however, we’re fish…

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek

Mabry: I didn’t get that.

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek, squeekeekeek

Mabry: Oh, I guess I can see your point,

Worm: Squeek

Mabry: Well, let’s think about this. He seems…

Worm: Squeek, squeek

Mabry: Oh, I’m sorry, She seems to be concerned about her gooey part being stuck to that string. She’s afraid it will be the end of her.

Athelwaite: On top of that she does look delicious.

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek,

Mabry: He didn’t mean it. Athelwaite, relax…

Athelwaite: I’m sorry.

Mabry: You should be.

Athelwaite: Wait, wait, wait, what are you talking about? Did I not watch you eat a minnow yesterday. They’re kinda cute aren’t they? Whatever.

Mabry: You can’t say that a minnow has a soul.

Athelwaite: No, why not?

Mabry: Because it’s foood!

Worm: Squeek

Mabry: Look what you’ve made me do! (then to the worm) I’m sorry, I understand your position. Now, Athelwaite, let me do the talking…even if I do enjoy a nice minnow now and then.

Athelwaite: No, no, it’s okay. I gotta hear this.

Mabry: Tell me and Athelwaite what happened.

Athelwaite: I can’t see what we can do here anyway (Mabry inches a little closer)…you goin’ in?

Mabry: No!

Athelwaite: Oh, I thought you were goin’ in.

Mabry: Shush!

Athelwaite: Shushin.

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek squeek squeek squeek

Mabry: Uh,huh.

Worm: Squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek eek eek

Mabry: Your mother And father?

Worm: Squeek

Mabry: Go on.

Worm: Squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek

Mabry: How horrible. All together in one little container?

Worm: Squeek. squeek squeek

Mabry: Uh huh.

Worm: Squeek squeek squeek

Mabry: Oh, God. I’m going to be sick. That thing? (referring to the dead fisherman)

Athelwaite: But it doesn’t even move, Mabry.

Mabry: She says it does.

Athelwaite: And you’re buying it? It’s obvious what’s happening here. This worm wants you to believe that she has just gone through the most horrific experience of her life so you don’t EAT her. She’s food!

Mabry: Are you done?

Athelwaite: Yes, I’m done. She’s food, Mabry. Food! Do you understand it? Are you daft?

Mabry: Are you done now?

Athelwaite: I’m done now.

Worm: Squeek.

Mabry: I know. I’m sorry. Athelwaite, will you go over there, please.

Athelwaite: But why?

Mabry: Because I don’t like you very much right now. Go.

Worm: Squeek

Mabry: I know. I know… Athelwaite, Go!

Athelwaite: Oh, alright

(Athelwaite inches over and continues to listen in)

Mabry: Listen, I know you’ve been through a lot and I really do want to help you, but you must understand that your story is difficult to believe. Whatever that thing is, the fact is very clear that it does not move and couldn’t possibly have done what you say it has done.

Athelwaite: She’s lying, Mabry. She’s lying! You going in? You going in?

Mabry: Back…

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek squeek squeek

Athelwaite: See!!! A confession!

Mabry: (concerned) What do you mean? (to the worm)

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek,

Mabry: Hm hmm

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek

Mabry: I see

Athelwaite: I told you, Mabry. I told you.

Mabry: That means nothing.

Athelwaite: But she said so! She wanted it. She wasn’t some sort of victim. She wanted to be down here with us so that I, so that we, well, we’ll work that out, so that she could…

Mabry: Be eaten? You’re ludicrous. She just wanted out of the container. And that thing! No, there was some sort of wicked dance going on here. Why else would she be down here at all?

Athelwaite: But it doesn’t move! I don’t trust her. I’m going in.

Mabry: Athelwaite!

(It’s too late. Athelwaite makes his move. Mabry disrupts him and then the two chase one another around the worm and dead fisherman until each ends up staring at the other, exhausted, in respective corners.)

Mabry: (breathing hard) Just where did you come from? I don’t even know you.

Athelwaite: Yeah, you know me. You know me just fine.

Mabry: Listen, our guest…

Athelwaite: Our food…

Mabry: Our guest that looks like food here is in trouble and she needs help.

Athelwaite: Our food that looks like food is in trouble because I’m hungry.

Mabry: Our Guest that looks like food is in trouble and she needs help.

Athelwaite: Fine.

Mabry: You mean it?

Athelwaite: Yeah, fine, fine. Our guest that looks like trouble, I mean, food, I mean…whatever. Fine. Fine.

Mabry: I’m trusting you, Athelwaite.

Athelwaite: No, no, I’m good. I’m good. You’ll see.

Mabry: Okay, okay. I’ll see. Fine. I can live with that. Now just relax.

Athelwaite: I’m good. Had some algae a little while ago. Sterling. Just fine… Motherfucker…

Worm: Squeek, squeek, squeek

Mabry: (to the worm) No, my mother never allowed that either. Go away Athelwaite, just shoo.

Athelwaite: No, I’m good, right here. This is getting interesting.

Mabry: Okay. (to the worm) Then what happened?

Worm: Squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek.

Mabry: Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it! (he looks at Athelwaite victoriously)

Athelwaite: Meh.

Worm: Squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek. (Mabry begins to tear up) squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek squeek.

Athelwaite: (sarcastically) Oh, God.

(Mabry turns on him)

Mabry: Have you no soul!

(Athelwaite looks aside as though pondering this as Mabry bawls like a baby)

Worm: squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek

Athelwaite: Ah, Halibut, why don’t you two go get a lily pad.

Mabry: Shutup! I don’t care what you say. I’m going to save her. She just needs a little pull. Don’t you dare stop me, Athelwaite, I have been your friend through thick and thin, I’ve herded minnows, snails and who knows what else your way and this one is mine. She’s got to go home. If you dare, I swear…

Athelwaite: Fine. Fine. Fine! She’s all yours. Save her, Mabry, do your good deed. I won’t stop you.

(Mabry gets a strange look on his face, starts to shake in an odd way and suddenly moves towards the worm, but instead of extracting it from the hook, he suddenly turns and looks at Athelwaite.)

Mabry: (with a sly smile) Idiot.

He quickly gobbles the worm down with one bite. He is suddenly stuck. His eyes open wide in fear before he starts thrashing around in a panic. Athelwaite moves in closer, then turns and makes eye contact with the audience.

Athelwaite: Sucker.

He then begins to shake wildly before darting over to dine on the dead fisherman. Mabry continues to thrash around in a panic. (Lights)

Now.

I was elated when Nirvana killed hair bands. If Nirvana hadn’t have done that I would probably be wearing make up right now. Nirvana and Pearl Jam bid us to rock from the heart. I had been unconscious, figuring that if there was a meaning to the term “unskinny bop” then they would surely tell us.
Somewhere down deep I knew that my generation had it in them to produce something soulful. I secretly believed that there were causes that should be stood up for, societal things that needed our attention that our leaders Tommy Lee and that guy from Twisted Sister weren’t telling us about.
After Nirvana, boys soon forgot about feminizing themselves to fool women into giving them sex. The grunge movement began. Guys wore old, plaid lumberjack shirts and blue jeans so that women would know they were all man, yet sensitive and caring. I’m not sure how that worked, but it did. I was very glad it did because that was all I could afford to wear anyway. The bullshit sexual dynamics of the day were then totally re-arranged so that men and women had to re-learn how to screw each other over according to completely different rules.
Generation X itself was eventually tossed to the wayside, however, as all generations must eventually be, to make room for the next batch of hep, raw potential. We figured out our alienation problems and now all we do is go to our jobs and wonder why we’re not billionaires. We’d even accept being millionaires.
Welcome Generation Y. I don’t know a single person who would proclaim themselves a member of generation Y. That is because I’ve never met a young person who knows what the Y stands for. It is obviously a false tag most likely created by an advertising firm somewhere. It’s not even original. It’s like a tire company having as their slogan “got tires?”
The first generation to get a tag was “The Lost Generation” of the 1920s. This was coined by a very famous lesbian writer named Gertrude Stein who told us truthfully that a rose is a rose is a rose. I personally think that statement was only worth about five minutes of fame, but it got her fifteen.
She was referring to writers like Ernest Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald and the poet Ezra Pound who were living in Paris at the time. I think it is because of her that it is expected that a generation needs to be lost, the more lost the better. It seems to give a sense of solace if you can think that you are not the only loser within your age group.
The Baby Boomers were an exception to this rule in that they were named by din of sheer numbers. They were falsely accused of being the Pepsi Generation for awhile, but looking up out of their purple haze realized that it had just been a joke. While they dreamed of eggmen and walruses the competitor of Coke was working overtime to capitalize on this generation’s newfound consciousness, installing subliminal commands of future haircuts into their brains: teach the world to sing/globalization…you get the idea.
The Lost Generation arose because of a group of eclectic artists. The Baby Boomers came from a lot of people having a lot of sex all at the same time. Generation X came from a group of kids rebelling against other kids whose only sense of purpose in life had been to get laid and compare hair spray.
Rap music started getting the little pink knees of America bopping in the eighties, but we were still just a bunch of Bon Jovi’s li’l cowboys at heart. It wasn’t until the early nineties that popular music was able to convince white children that it was actually good to listen to rap. We started selling our breakfast cereals to it. You didn’t even have to be irate and carry a gun. It was that much fun to play at being angry. Heretofore the sound of extremely irate black males, irate white boys had joined in on the fun. Pretty soon we had the Beastie Boys using their screechy, Brooklyn voices rapping to us to party on, yet it sort of sounded like rock. It was anger-light.
But it wasn’t until the early to mid 90s, really, that gangsta-rap grabbed the white boys by the balls and squeezed hard. There was one great convulsive movement in America and it twisted every single baseball cap around. Our teen boys thumped their way through the streets garnering dirty looks by one and all, pink fellows aching for pigmentation or something which could make this music their own, for it was obvious that blonde hair and daddy-bought BMW does not a gangsta make.
Somehow “death metal” came to the rescue. I’m not sure how, but it did. This is the insane white boy contribution to today’s music scene, the driving, pulsing, frenzy, kill your neighbor, show your tits aspect of the bands that helped burn down Woodstock. Some of the bands, most notably, are Korn and Limp Bizkit.
Death metal has been around since I can remember. It had always just been the bastard child with an extra limb of rock and roll. It is the music that Satan uses to sing his spawn to sleep with down in Hell. This isn’t your grandfather’s heavy metal.
Now, in the year 2000, rap has totally infiltrated rock through this broken board in rock’s back yard fence. Many of these new artists turned out a few weeks ago at the Silver Bowl for X-107s Our Big Concert 3.5: Static-X, Cypress Hill, System of a Down, even the girlband Kittie.
It is the only music powerful enough to tickle the cool meter of the “wassup” kids with blonde hair. Through the energy flowing at the Silver Bowl, emitted by the testosterone-pulsing, danger-promising boys and No Fear, tit-proud grrrls, the human conundrum is exposed: Master Violence and Lord Sex feeding one off of the other in the realm of mankind’s shady other side or Let’s fight a lot with other males then find a mate, a bush, then fuck.
Here is a hungry animal tired of being told to behave, a prowling beast that wants to destroy, wants to devour, to conquer or be conquered. This concert exposed its nature; a new tribalism, modern rompings to life’s oldest libidinal impulses. If stored away too long this beast can stew and fester inside, bringing with it such things as quiet deviancy, unfulfillment, even the possibility of murder.
Without a controlled confrontation with mortality, sexuality, the killer instinct, our own fear of injury and its connection with our souls -all which this music provides- then we often fail to understand why we strive through the more mundane yet necessary daily tasks of living. We become too safe. We don’t dare to eat a peach. We go inside of ourselves, surround ourselves with houses of comfort that reek of silent pain. Sometimes we need to artificially induce fear to provoke the animal out of its hole.
It was somewhere during the middle of the show that I realized I wouldn’t use Generation Y anymore. I noticed how on the radio and television everybody is using the F-Word these days. Commercials are saying it, bleeping it, but acting like they never said it. It’s boring already and now that it is getting commercialized, just plain ugly. But one thing is for sure, it is the first time that the media has allowed it to go this far. It must be something within the age itself. So, I said, okay, if that is the case, then let’s give the kiddies what they want.
Welcome, my friends, to the Fucked Generation. F-Gen. It’s a little more original than Generation Y because at least it has some meaning. The word incites, it forces issues, disputes adult arguments that kids don’t understand. With it there is no need to feign intelligence. Any F-Gener knows that everything in the adult world is “so gay” anyway. It’s what’s in the gut that matters.
But in a more real sense, it does seem to demand a listening to from those too caught up in the madness of our society. It rages at our loveless system with the tenacity of a poodle, yet with just as much fear. It balks at and rebukes bus stops at 112 degrees, status wars practiced by everybody, and the panic in the slow discovery that our world can be a monster.
It claims existence as guiltlessly as a lion devours it’s prey.
Plus, you’ve got to admit, it’s even more loser-like than “lost or even “X.”
Gertrude Stein would be proud.

TR: You are a part of it!
D: No I’m not!
TR: You are a part of it!
D: No I’m not. I’m just trying to get this thing…done…
TR: You are a clown, a lost one. You are a clown gargantuan.
D: It don’t matter what you think.
TR: You are a clown gargantuan.
D: It doesn’t matter what you think.
TR: You are a part of it. Wanting to place placards where wreaths should lie.
D: Indeed, no, not me.
TR: Indeed, you, not me
D: Indeed, not you and not me
TR: Indeed not me and not…
D: Where you going?
TR: You’re a clown gargantuan!
D: Great. Great! Great!!! Watch for your own shifting worlds as you walk away. You might get whisked away in the vortex.

Half- truths spoken. Half -truths denied.

On a democrat trying to solve a problem with a tea party republican.

Make less money, but be happier. Work work schedules hexagonally, man. You know, work a little here and a little there, you make less money, but so what? Make less money. But be happier. I don’t know how this works it just works. If you work less you will make less money but you will be happier. Even if you think you won’t be happier, you will be happier. Make less money, at least don’t let them know you sweat.

Sometimes you stink. So what? Make more money if you want to make less money. Get me? Make more money while you make less money. Get it? Numbers. Ask the number man the rules of the game and he’ll reduce them in a matter of seconds.

That’s why the government keeps kids from learning their numbers because it’s all fucked up. If we kids knew our numbers then we could call them on their numbers. Remember the first thing bush said he was afraid of was fuzzy math. Well he has a right to be, because he knows that no matter how smart he is in math, his numbers won’t necessarily be the last and final numbers. He figures that he could be proved wrong and laughed at. Well, bushy boy isn’t standing for it. He’s richi riching himself right to the top of the tower of, well, everything. Love! & the American way. Loving himself is alright. He’s going to make it to the top, but those numbers (10,000 dead in Iraq. 550 Americans. & this doesn’t even talk about the wounded.). Sooner or later someone is going to prove him illogical and he will get mean.

The computer is finally saying that illogic shouldn’t necessarily be an idea’s ending point. What is there is a Higher Purpose. Enter Jesus. Over there J man. You’ll do . You’ll confound their numbers at least in the eyes of my constituents who can barely read for the fine job we do at keeping them away from their letters…

“i said numbers. Fuzzy up their numbers.”
Well, mr president, their letters are pretty fuzzied up too now. It’s not just their numbers.
‘You mean to say there’s been no child left behind?”
Why, no sir, I don’t unders…
“perfect, draw that up and stuff it in the pipeline. No child left behind and we want their math and english skills to be top notch, notch enough to make america proud (insert smile here, attempt to not scurry for jokes concerning his truly (mythical) nose and sneaky (and sleepy) eyes.

(W. is not an inviting human being, especially after you truly find out about the kinds of damage that his “policies” do.)

I’m sure he’s guaranteed somebody’s loved one took on Jesus because he’s understanding the reel people’s plight and making sure that there ain’t no more death or nothin like that, aw, shucks, (are southern people really that stupid?) Bush makes it appear so. We are all southern people in George Bush’s utopian story line. We are the little people. Weee. Whoop dee dee! It’s a hummmm-dinger!

As far back as the 80s I can remember not liking country music. The idea that America belongs to the cowboys (still!) Is largely untrue. We are the world. We are yellow, blue, purple, white, black, brown, umber, beige and two shades of burnt orange and yet we still don’t and can’t figure out that we are brothers among the tribe Human, brothers and sisters here to make sure the other understands that if you understand then you don’t have to worry about this or that. That if you are caring for your fellow man then you can live outside of fear. Terror disappears. Whose got time when the world is providing the resources for sustainable living?

Release the new clean technologies that provide energy. Make it truly abundant. Ancient tribes took the time to do great art. We can get there again even while knowing our babies are fed and we have a roof over our heads. Care needs to be taken. Love freely given out. Lies abated. Time to ask the politicians to step down and the people stand up for what is right; no more killing in the name of God.

I was just walking down the street the other day when my school book learning got in my way. Actually, another day to a writer is always that day of years ago. A day equaling an entire period of angst and hell in the writer’s life, everything metabolized down into some symbolic form until you just can’t quite stand it anymore and you write about the relationship between a chicken and a squirrel and try to pass it off as art.
Now, it is art. This is the funny thing. It is art. But in order to be welcomed into the fold of humanity as the textbooks say that we need and want, we must do everything in our power to impress upon the hill people that it is art. This is an art in itself and is a higher art for it is what forms “artists” as we understand them: Bernard Shaw, Sarah McLaughlin, Rodney Dangerfield, Tupac. What binds all of these people together is that they had fame. Being famous is the most important thing in the trek of the artist onward to sublimity. If we don’t become famous then we are nothing. Why is this? Because if we don’t become famous then we’re going to be scraping shit off things for others as their slaves. None of us want to be slaves. We don’t even believe in slavery and yet we are? Isn’t that funny how that happens?
So the main question becomes how we are to not be slaves in this world of slaves where everybody is a slave to somebody else unless you decide to completely back out and become a hermit. Now, hermiting has gotten a bad rap as of late with Ted Kazinski and all. In a family of “hard workers” it is even harder to break away from this desire to be alone or, god forbid, simply intellectual as opposed to industrial.
In the Bible they say that every part is equal in stature. You need the feet as much as you need the head. Well, the symbolic structure of “the feet” in our society consists of scrubbing toilets and making the bed of drunken, rich, drug besotted 19 year olds who have driven into town in their daddy’s BMW convertibles. Whichever way you slice it there can no doubt that in this case being the head is undoubtedly better than being the feet, especially when you get a little of their cum on your finger as you change their sheets.
But strangers cannot affect you nearly as much as your own family can. God forbid that you have a father who makes his living scraping shit off of sewer walls because you will have learned that scraping shit off of sewer walls is the pinnacle of human existence, that there is no greater goal to strive for than to scrape shit off of sewer walls. This is just an example. Every human being believes that every other human beings should be doing what they are doing if only for the reason that if they don’t believe this then they will recognize that they have been wasting their lives, which we all, for the most part do every day.
And time passes. This is true. As you get older and your world does not materialize as you expected it would according to your dreams you see that all is in a state of slow deterioration. I imagine even the “successful” see this deterioration, if they don’t express it then maybe they feel it on the inside. They feel their weaknesses. I sometimes think that the only people who are happy are those who have forsaken the idea that you can improve your lot on earth by overcoming the material obstacles, by becoming the head instead of the feet. While it is better to be the head than the feet, it does not slow the process of deterioration. This is a truth. But also, this is not a truth. Every word is false if another word follows. A truth suggests that you can stop right there and bask in reality. Well, there is reality and then there is surreal reality and then there is blackest reality and then there is hopeful reality and then there is…
You get the picture. By the time you have the answer you’ve forgotten the question. We are all the mule trying to reach the carrot tied to our tails by the fool who laughs and laughs and laughs, who cannot stop laughing, who will never stop laughing, who has come upon a truth and, smarter than the non-fool, stops.
If you have love in your life then all of these ideas are ludicrous. They are all ludicrous anyway if you think of them in terms of how they will be understood. Isn’t to be understood to be loved if you are a good person? I rarely see instances of love between strangers. Loneliness isn’t the down side of being alone, it stems from seeing the world in love. Love is a singular connection. Once you stop being lovable then you are halfway released from any tether you may have had on earth. From here you enter the loveless realm of the workings of the mind. You can go to the moon or sit on a star from here, but you won’t be able to feel it. You will only be able to see it. When you look you glimpse the light from real human beings who have found the connection. Your book falls the nine miles it takes to get to hell. You wait, but you wait for nothing. For death. Same thing.
There is always the self help route. This too is faulty because we don’t want help. We want love. We can’t just change the pictures in our heads and somehow be alright. Even understanding is a failure because no matter how much we understand we are going to have to fight those closest to us to realize it in our lives and our society will always be about thirty years behind those of us who have taken the initiative and plotted out the possibilities of our human potential.
We are still alone. Individuals are pushed backward, flushed out of the system. We walk the outer rim of earth, lonely puppets without puppeteers, alive due to some bizarre system we developed as children and perfected as adults much to our detriment. When we are not being blasted in the ear as to what we should do and how we should do it by our loved ones we are following paths of thought that take us only further away until, finally, we are at the outer rim, walking lonely and aimlessly within the realm of our highest aspiration which in it’s final form is spiritual when we thought it would include the physical, the mental, the emotional, the familial. Skin hanging upon bones. Man does not live on word alone.
They say that the hopeful people do better as human beings than the non hopeful people. The numbers are pretty convincing although I don’t have them here. I’m not sure what they mean by “hopeful” but I imagine it consists of not having had many bad influences in your life. I think hopefulness comes from having had predominantly positive influences in your life. I personally get tired of trying to figure it all out. I guess this makes me less hopeful and therefore a failure according to the study which therefore makes the study useless to the hopeless and beneficial only to the hopeful since the hopeempty are easily beaten down and often gullible and believing, always attributing to themselves the worst and thereby becoming hopeempty.
At least us hope empty people have got some role models: Sartre, Camus, Beckett. The Hopeful look at these people and don’t understand them. The universities make sure that we worship. Then they come out with these studies which place the divides between the classes; between the educated and the ignorant. I believe that the ignorant are more hopeful. I am not hopeful because I know the futility in trying to make it in this world using my chosen method: the mind. There is nothing I can say to convince anybody of anything. When I do try I simply question my motives and find that I want others to read me and be changed and then if I go further I discover that if they are reading me then I am probably getting paid. I want my physical comforts so I can continue to dispense this “truth” which will set them free and keep me fed and housed. Truth is better left spontaneous. In actuality it cannot be given at all, but only expressed. Words are a cheap whore that I visit again and again, always believing that the next time I will get out of her what I dream.