Stop Being With Stupid

15 11 04 – Moleskine

Choice isn’t about choosing but instead about which wrong(s) to pick. A little help from our worst-friend Zoroaster:

A supreme being created twins of reality and unreality. These are not about good and evil. Reality is objectivity. Unreality is subjectivity. Subjectivity becomes negative when we become subject to it.

So. There is no such thing as a stupid question. But one should fear getting answers from a stupid person.

Rant on.


Her Opposites

13 11 04 – Moleskine (including handwritten note).

Arrival. Home? Home away from home. In a trance. Listening to ghost-like words from my son’s wisdoms:

Wenn eine Lügt dem glaubt man nicht auch wenn er dann die Wahrheit spricht.

I think of nature. What is her opposites? Religion? Politics? Humanity? Belief, love, hope? (Just thought I’d throw them in there.) And then back to nature. What about the belief, love and hope in animals. I wonder if they trust us. If they even can trust since it must be obvious to anything living other than the human mind how manipulated we are and therefore incapable of more than we are capable. Oh, the pleasure. The comfort. The category of possibility. Wait. I think of nature. And I have found her antithesis.


Rant on.


Between Meridians

12 11 04

Yes. Between meridians I will mark it with this date. I have seen a vision. So many. Always trapped in the three walls of a black box. This time two people meet for a debate. One side of the stage is a table dressed in white prepared for a fancy dinner. Next to that, other side of stage, a rundown bar. The debaters try and prove arguments which are then enacted in various positions on stage. Yes. And what are the arguments? Who is debating? What scenes are playing out?’s love at the white table. A redneck brawl at the bar. The table then becomes the desk of a salesman trying to squeak the last penny out of a working poor schmuck. The bar becomes a counter at a doctor’s office or a department store, etc. The table becomes a place where a contract is signed. All the time the actors are playing out what eventually overlaps into the debaters lives. The things that baiters discuss: 1) international affairs, 2) the economy, 3) domestic issues. Put a twist on it. Give it some pizzazz. Just like the stuff the guy must have been on when he/she designed the cursive Z.

A woman on such and such flight was so confused that she mixed up the signs indicating if the bath stalls are occupied or not. Human intelligence can be measured by the change in airline service the last 30 years. Zero. Zilch. None. How disappointed she will be when she finally realizes the hell she’s landed in is just like the one she left. All those bodies still fucking and she’s waiting in line but doesn’t know it yet. Waiting for what? The dancing men around all corners of her mind. Jiggling something unfamiliar and sing some poem just off key. Oh the battles we must all wage. To get by. And yet we never ask why what where did it all start.


A Spec

11 11 04 – Moleskine

I would fall 1000 times to test whether my heart cannot possibly break. But to what and will my silly gesture lead? I have received it. Yet again. And as I will. Soon. You for it. The jolt of my broken America or perpetual decay the white to my yoke. There is so little since to be made of this peace anymore. It topples upon itself always and forever an eternal yet stagnant puddle reversed for the light it reflects and loathed for the mosquitos it makes. If I could only get inside her like that girl the other day–but oh, she, this life, won’t be the sorry pussies I’ve fucked all these years. There really is no hope since JC left us like this. It’s not the church I’ve come to despise but more the idear of JC and how the church has manipulated me in his name. But I still want to believe. The bible school love preached to me, illustrated by RGB colored books for four year olds. Yes, that love I want but to hang the church teacher liars.

It is this place I love so much. If only I could code into its soul a message (blah blah blah blah blah). Of course it’s a long shot. The want of such a thing. Yet it is a spec of something worth living for. This place, I love so much. Like a runaway father it eludes me. Sitting atop a Great Wall only seen from space twiddling its thumbs. Oh, I am my own stiff-arm. Out of control. Impenetrable. So there is a spec. Of something worth living for. Something so many stride for everyday as they live, drawn in mendacity. I have heard them yearn and live for so much but when in a brief second, during a quick discussion about life and mendacity, they indicate a hidden desire. An agenda. Is it the great and meaningful love-fuck produced between Disney and Porn-wood? No. I given in and hopefully admit to it being something else. A spec of something. Spec. Of want and desire. For meaning and knowledge. The moment comes and goes too fast. (S)wishing by in a hurricane with roof shingles.

Gripes. So many of them. The place I live, the place I’m from. The anger and frustration leaving my real home some 15 years ago is now the same for the place I live. Both have annihilated the other. Yet there is still meaning. Where will I find refuge? In the silly place where ironically Marx and the automobile were founded? No place to go between those things. And what things they are. In this night I will pass more than a Meridian.


After Math

06 11 04 – Moleskine

What are the things that modify? No, I mean motivate. Words and thoughts from others. Just finished Walden. Very inspiring but of all the nature I’ve been subject to it is the most non-sexual composition I have yet encountered. The author is asexual, right? There are practically no words, and certainly no thoughts, on women. What was Thoreau thinking? There was nothing about family either. Or Children. Very confusing.


“S11.2” A Play.

A play about the aftermath of a second 9/11. This time the country has fallen apart. Banks out of cash. Cities in ruins because infrastructure neglected due to govt. spending even more on protection. Huge regional packets of American’t are in apocalyptic chaos where corporations like Nike, McDonald’s, etc. were dropped from a “favorites list” of govt and hence left open to the hyenas.



Old Getting

05 11 04 – Moleskine

So few entries. Not just in this notebook. I spent the evening thinking about old people. Odd how so little of my thoughts having anything to do with my oldness. But O, let’s review these silly words in another thirty years.

Idear: a retire community, a grocer (Publix) and the old men packing the groceries. Retirement, what a privilege. Voting conservative. How can people not vote for Bush/Dubya? Even if the retired men packing groceries iterates his disgust for Dubya conservatism, secretly, deep down inside, he wants Dubya there because he will preserve his privilege.

Greek wannabe gulf town just north of St. Petersburg. Thinking about lawyers, don’t remember why, probably something to do with lobbyists or Dubya confusion. And so a play about American’t confusion driven by lawyering and tainted by media. Has this (sarcasm on) been done before? The protagonist wants to change the world but is finally beaten down by the system that he’s underestimated. The play/story is about his beating, defeat as an idealist. In the end he loses his cool and takes on the lame-brain lawsuit against him. He then runs amok. SNL producer for killing so many really fat comedians, i.e. Belushi, Farley, etc., and they died so young.


The End

03 11 04 – A weeping Moleskine.

The intellectual (or lack thereof) coup detat is complete. It is now AMERICAN’T. America’s dungeon doors are now locked, sealed. Her fate for the next century is enclosed with the emblem of Dubya (George W. Bush). Coins and cents will be tarnished with his resemblance and the mediocre (meek) will (shall) continue (inherit) to rise (the earth) by the seats of their SUVs. The struggle of the intellectual to win over madness is just that. How can a mind communicate w/ a non-mind? Yes, ignorance reins in this world and I see it clearly this day between the green of the gulf and ascending blue where a sky forever leads to the edge of a place we should be able to fall off. This is, therefore, the end. I’m not optimistic enough nor frivolous enough, to hope for what is right in my life-time. What is “right” has lost all meaning now. The response (with ignorance) to/of nine-eleven contains no thought, nothing cognitive in the least. And yet 3.5 million Americans believe that the path set since then is the “right” one–at least that’s what 03.11.04 tells us. And so there can be no correction other than a separation of states. Let the children of the red states serve and the die for their 9/11 response and the blue states suffer and loose weight for lack of (war driven) economics. When the final separation comes the red will prosper w/ large motorized vehicles serving as antics and the blue will be tired of starving when the first horde of invaders arrive.

Oh, in this consciousness I am driven to imagine. I wonder if irony and fate toy with me. Of course my intellect tells me it can’t. So I am stuck dreaming of the wonder. They, that is, who have left me behind. It will always be a simple journey, the path to my women. But once there I feel as if the struggle just begins or has already ended or… No matter who or what they are the clitoris stimulation connects them all. The byway to failure is nothing more than bypass surgery on a man who has never exercised in his life. To tell a mother to catch up w/ his mechanized health is like spitting in the wind. Oh, a God given (and not nature) planetary error.