Meek Defined

The first thing you smell is the kool-aid. That erroneous product of American ingenuity plastered like bad graffitti on the walls of our prophet (or psyche). So much so that the smell didn’t even come from the mix in water but the skin of a beautiful woman–from behind her left earlobe, from real flesh. Only America can manufacture such (a) transition. The only one-up example comparable is that of the universal church and the(ir) idea(r) (chemically speaking) of the holy trinity and the transubstantiation.

What meek shall inherit the earth? In the context of biblical America the meek are (or seem to be) the supposed servants of a church or preacher. Again, I must ask, are these people (as servants) meek? The western evangelica, as limited in income as he or she may appear, is in no way poor. But is he or she meek? Perhaps this is the reason the word meek is used. Inherent in the word “poor” is financial or economic means (or lack thereof). “Meek” on the other hand is more flexible; particularly in its essence there is no indication that it references those with limited means. Meek could mean of limited spirituality or lack of character. But who (what American) would want to deal in those sorts? In contrast to “poor” the meek are probably perfectly represented by the American bible fanatacism.

The opportunities of living are diminshed in proportion as what are called the means are increased. (-Thoreau from an essay by Henry Miller on Thoreau.)

Rant on.


Unsoiled Ground

Begin this…

Last (or lost) in home around subtle thunder with no storm. There is little to be said in these silly days where one war is being questioned and another baptized with a hope of finding POWs. The controversy and duality is enorm, like a gap in the knitting of a large quilt. But no one cares. In this home place full of “buts” and more caring in the name of JC. Where can we get the wisdom? It’s there like the sea Peter was working when the biggest fish found him. As though there is no place to swim.


Kenneth Patchen: Journal of Albion Moon, Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer, Collected Poems.

A very nice young lady at a Connecticut Ave. bookstore demanded that she record the info regarding Patchen. And now I fel as though her writing at least will haunt us through this book. Oh terror of another sort.

To rid myself teh burden I will drown these sorrows in tabloid-like excess.

From H. Miller. “So much for the dominant note. As for the subdominant the thought is–don’t wait for things to change, the hour of man is nw and whether you are working at the bottom of the pile or on top, if you are a creative individual you will go on producing, come hell or high water. And this is the most you can hope to do. One has to go on believing in himself, whether recognized or not, whether heeded or not,. The world may seenl ike hell on wheels–and we are doing our best, are we not, to make it so?–but there is always room, if only in one’s own soul, to create a spot of paradise, crazy though it may sound.” -Preface to Hummingbird Essays

And I agree, Mr. Miller, that every creative should recognize God’s voice and give it its due. (Or maybe not.)

How is it possible that a society can achieve so much and when that achievement is at its pinnacle and that achievement was achieved with at least a certain level of ingenuity, all that is left atop the pinnacle is a horde of bumbling idiots?

Where are the wingnut poets? Where is the literary voice that will lead the way to the first (first???) nation-state self annihilation?

What to do in a perpetual state of hopelessness? Humankind continues because its source is unattainable–as though locked away in some quantum mechanic dimensional refuge(e). It’s not an issue of science, i.e. question + knowledge acquisition = answer. Perpetual hopelessness is both of the physical and the mystical. It is between the two we drift and fondle each other in grand colored paddle boats.

Is the artist destined to play second fiddle? To the pauper? Or is it the piper? “Portrait of an artist as a killer,” I say! Take him out there, into the jungle and machete his way to the top of a pyramid, where the honorary man, the controller of all else, rests his fingers and has his feet manicured, only to face his life, seeping away in a puddle of…

The idear, the premise, is to produce. The artist must produce, no matter what. If (s)he does not, then he is not an artist. Basta!

Oh, come on! Allow me a blast from the past. Please. Something frivolous, with just as much mendacity as when it was first mentioned…

The problem is that America has been beat-up for two long. She can’t take it anymore, but that is beside the point. Now we must face her. And so the (he) healthy witness her because she is witness-able and the sight they see motivates them more because she is so disgust(ed)(ing). The…

Something is produced that is “sick”. And then they find out that the artist who produced it is actually (medically) sick.

Why is USD copied more than MS products?

If one considers the state of society then my desire to go thru life childless was valid. But now that I am with child-born (the reason for which I shall not address here in order to save you from the utmost in matrimonial boredom…) I must face certain realities. For example, I believed with all my life when I was fucking the American Bimbos that childlessness was the answer. The derogatory remark, although un-called for as a in generalizations, I hold relevant in the details (yet to be revealed). Yes, both the women/girls/chicks and the society/national mess, gave me such conclusion. And yet I travelled aborad and was enthralled by the European Bimbos. And so there was a trick (played on me). For nature, you old bitch, is tricky. You witch. I think not! There were powers beyond. Something beyond. (Like the people who jus sat next to me. Obxoxious as they’d like…) That droe out the seed. That planted the seed. Which held and became… The God’s wanted that I bring them something but not on soiled ground.



Give Up

I linger, yearn, lust to be the greatest failed playwright ever. When the people ask how I can be so ignorant and arrogant making such a claim I will respond: because even now in the depth of my failure, unlike you’all, I have something to believe in that is real and worthwhile.

And even though I may quit, you know, as in quitting some stupid, mindless, automaton ob, I won’t give up on what the norm, the conventional can understand (or on this).


What You Know

May you’all develop a talent for living happily ever after. Maybe not is more important.

Meredith, James – first to cross race line in Mississippi.

Met Henry Gallagher who knew James Meredith.

The bartender at Timberlake “Babak” is the nephew of the Persian doctor from D’dorf who fixed LB’s elbow.

Greatness is not in what you see. It is only in the … Find this and you find all the answers. Not.

The “thing” the civil war never defeated was the conscience with which people lived in and with slavery.

How do American’s reared on the premise of freedom (as misconstrued as that is) become so disenfranchised from the very system that provides them all they have, especially what they know?


Horatio Or Frank

What is the opposite of happiness? Of suffering? When I think of JC I wonder of his choices. Of course they were choices of ideology but perhaps they were choices of or between happiness and suffering. (The two things humans inherently now, like instinct.) The choice, for example, to go into the desert for 40 days, 40 nights. Who is to say that this choice of suffering was of any worth. And could this choice have had an opposite? A counter? 40 days and 40 nights of bliss, perhaps? What would be the consequence of that? A religion NOT of death?

The mockingbird cried over Heratio and the investigator don’t want to know why. Instead. Where do they go from here in their investigation? Places they will never know, for Horatio was not loved. Hated also not. But where does that leave the mockingbird? He cared so deeply for Horatio. The two used to spend their evenings in bars in George’s town. A quaint place but somewhat unruly to outsiders. There are many, even among the investigators who laugh at the mockingbird. Others say the mockingbird needs to readdress his (her?) attitude. The investigators are good at reminding M of that. It was the thrill that would solve this mystery, was the unspoken word. And what a mystery it was.

The only time she knew to let herself go was when he was drunk. She thought it realized it was the most real time to try and get what she wanted. His staying power more than enough and perfectly numb. Woman knows the real, true purpose of the alcohol.

The bet. Now reality TV. Wager. Of a different sort. For example. Someone bets that within first season he will place in the top 20 of nascar championship with only six months of preparation. (Stop. Lord do I hate reality TV.)

America(ns) has to many choices.

Frank Stone. The new American leader. But who is Frank Stone. Where did he come from? it is said that he visited every house west of the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains. And now he is not only popular but at the tip of power. And as the cameras/eyes close in on him, the questions really start to emerge. Scars in his face. A slight limp. Imperfection rules, old wounds that barely healed, dire history of getting to where he is now. From Stone. Where is he from?

>Who made Frank Stone?

“Wars legitimate object is more perfect peace.” -William Tecumseh Sherman

Another war memorial out of (Frank) stone. Engraved in the American psyche is war. How do you counter?



Three Strikes.

Three scenes or could be more scenes. Family depicted in three basic configurations which conveys the contemporary ideal of family life in USA. But this ideal is very inconsistent and diverse. What is clear i portraying the family is very confusing yet none of them are really happy. The same characters in three different scenes portray three different scenarios. 1) Bad, 2) Worse, 3) Gone. Nothing here about good and bad. Western society is lost without family. All of scenes are different, not cohesive, there is/are elements(s) that thread it all together, though.

One observation. This evolves loosely around the idear of culture. I have noticed, during this brief experiment, or should I say, have observed that America is utterly beyond the discussion of culture. It’s been that way for years. Only during this life excursion to I realize it (something). While the Eurowastelanders have, as part of their blood, culture as an intricate part of their lives, we Amiis never even bothered with it. Why? Could Eurowasteland have come to their “culture” because of their recent or extended history of doing nothing for the planet and humanity but giving it greed, hurt and hate? Or because it is the worker state? The worker state needs only entertainment, quite the opposite of culture.


Art In Between

What do we have to chose from? A world of staunch agenda(s) filled with religion or science? Is there nothing in between?

Like art.


The Perfect Machine

Images of this and that. Like the new fangled death machine. How to kill and bury yourself. It’s an all-in-one machine. Get’s it all done. Get rid of all the evidence, too. Rid of the deed. Talk about disappearing act. And, yes, it does involve a mechanics, which is the most freighting part of it all. But it is THE PERFECT MACHINE. A machine killing and doing away with a human–because it was made to do so. Wait. Can’t you call that machine… humanity? Nomatter. A machine that, after the act, the (my) body is buried in a hole that it dug but once the machine buries (my) the body it catapults itself into oblivia (I know: oblivion). Perfect.