I am in the fiery hole. I am in the raging river. I am in the frigid nil. Whale hunters seek me out. Politicians lobby for my vote. Ancient buildings draw great crowds, who catch a glimpse of how crowds were controlled by walls long ago. Help comes with many different types of sirens, and coffee comes with many different types of bitterness. I am in the smoldering hole, sick of the masses. I am in the trickling stream, immune to all your passing beauty. Ancient thinkers impress me, still, with their great writing. Starving immigrants plead with me to buy a souvenir object. I'm looking for a coffee shop to offer me the right kind of coffee product and connect me with the world outside my ancient hole.
The falling branch, the startled child. The tumble-step down the mountain side. with a whip and a whirl the storm turns the girl. Tossed and undone, in the air, on the ground. and hurled into the tree-trunk cove, where she recovers in the moist safety of the ancient growth. Thunder rumbles are muted by the thickness of the aged tree. There is peace. There is calm. There are little creatures crawling along. The storm, to them, is in another dimension. It is out past the monster of bark. Out in the wind. Inflating the dark. The girl grabs a nodule and pulls her self to her knees. She touches a finger where she hurts and confirms where she bleeds. The storm is still pompous and intrusive. But she steps out to face it, none the less.
It's voting day again, and that means hand-wringing candidates will be monitoring their numbers, while misanthropic housewives will be seducing younger plumbers. Carnival employees will be polishing their dazzle-sticks, while carnivores will be licking off their meat forks. It's voting day again, so I will be pressing my Tuesday shirt and polishing my Tuesday shoes. The dog is staring at his food dish. The neighbor is taking a walk around the block. Neighbors with angry signs shout at me across the street. They have an argument they want me to hear. My vote counts, I guess. And they want me to vote for something to help ease their anger. What is it? What is your anger button? Who? Which hand-wringing candidate will bring you the relief you are looking for? Do you really think it will help?
I reap the neon fire brigade. Tick-tock scraping on the pavement streets. Street-sweeper whispers sweet nothings to the garbage truck and the parking meter. Meter maids tap their calculators and generate great profits for political parties and empire budget committees. You won't make enough to pay for your mountain of fines and river of woe. The toxicity of freedom. The sideways glances of the woe-brigade. Here come the marching band mechanics. Here come the stand-still propagandists. Whispering street-sweepers remove the debris. Neon fire brigades scream through the swept streets just in time to save the day. Crouching realtors consider all of our foundations. Together we burn Together we leave debris on our streets. We leave our doors open and hang our coats in the most convenient places we can find.
There is a discomfort inside us that has always been there. We see the broken world and the destructive messes people make, like disturbed artists. We point the finger inside. Deep inside, to that discomfort. It is anxiety. But where does it come from? Is it our death? Can't we abnegate ourselves to the inevitability of death? Can't we ever diminish the angst? Somehow we feel this inner static. Static emitted from our materiality and our spirit rubbing against each other. The inevitability of death merely amplifies the charge. Like a dehumidifier in our souls. Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is to ignore. But the static is always there whether we acknowledge it or not. Always there slowly tearing us apart.
The whole platform is tottering and the patrons cringe and contract into a forced embrace. They know they are not dreaming now. The whole tottering platform is shifting on its pillar, and the tour guide is pissing his pants. One man is mumbling prayers to a god whom he seems to have special favor with. But me? I'm just standing there with my cigarette dangling from my lip, eyes half open, mouth agape. I've endured such extremes before, and even worse. If the platform falls, some of us will be hurt. Some of us may be killed. Some of us will regret how much time we spent caring for our lawn. Some of us will wish we would have fought for solutions to problems, instead of arguing with our friends and families about why our candidate is right. The platform is tottering. I light my cigarette.
These people with their pulpits and concordances. They thump a fist at climactic moments of their messages and rev their engines to blow the sin from your essences. The steer their pulpit presentations with great skill and manipulate the strings to draw out just the right emotive responses from the clueless pewstresses leaning forwards evermore. These pulpit surfers brandish their grand authority and wield their silly powers. These same people come from a lineage of judgment and violence, torturing and burning victims who fail to agree on inane points and unprovable tenets. These pulpit props hold their theology together in a tight bundle and exert their emotions in loose tangents, with spittle and sweat - on their brow and in their rubbing crevices.
This ain't the Wizard of Oz, and I don't ever want to go back to Kansas again. The only thing they have there that intrigues me is whiskey barbeque sauce and other unhealthy condiments. This aint the Wizard of Oz, and I ain't ever going to take the advice of hollow people again. And I ain't ever going to ask the advice of anyone whose only job is to scare away lesser creatures. And I ain't ever going to let myself get inspired by the roar of perplexed beings. This ain't the Wizard of Oz, and I ain't seen no Yellow Brick Road. There's just chaos and congestion, and every munchkin drives an SUV. Every wicked witch dominates her lane and is unwilling to yield to fellow drivers. This ain't the Wizard of Oz and I can't wait to get out of Kansas.
If you are striving for certainty, and trying to build your faith on some sort of intellectual confidence, you will end up with neither faith nor intellectual confidence. Even the smartest seeker is just a child in the context of eternal logic. We are twigs in the stream. We pound our drums and giggle when we make it loud noise. We sleep to rest our minds so we can laugh. We laugh to diffuse the pressure that builds up from the intersection of effort and absurdity. If we didn't laugh, we'd cry; then we'd burst into flames. Instead we find ways to diffuse, recycle, reuse. We let it out, then pull it back in. We want certainty like a drug. We are intoxicated by its ether. We are children in the wind. Our toys are our tools. Our tools diffuse. We sleep to laugh. We laugh when we make a funny noise.
Temporary announcements infiltrate my scenes. I'm as hot as a man on the beach can be. I'm mother nature's Midwest advocate, scraping up the leaves. I have an attention rake that I scrape. I lift and thrust and pull. The scrape collects the bounty from the earth. Mother nature is not hurt. The scrape alienates small living things that crawl on many legs. Mother nature is not perturbed. Where you at, mother nature advocate? I'm going up and down a street with flyers for everyone I meet. They say "Mother Nature is on her own and in need of advocasy." I am in the heat with a tie and beads. Mother Nature is not concerned. I am handing out the flyers to creatures with only a couple legs. Mother Nature is not dead. Mother Nature is not dead.
I'm just trying to redesign my homepage. On the line. Face the nation. what place is there for my design devastation. I have to make a vision. I have to have a theme. I have to silence all my hate and cover all my mean. I'm redesigning my homepage; with less clutter and less sparkle. It is modern and slippery. It's greasy-sweet between the buttons and around the edges. I'm redesigning what visitors see first. What strangers use to calculated their judgment formulas. I'm not a great designer, but I have some stuff to say and I want to say it in the most effective ways. I've got logjams damaging my brain-cramps. I'm trying to push this damn project through. I'm trying to push this pixel into the proper spaces, constructed patterns, reactive faces. I'm clicking on the exit button. I'm closing all my windows. I'm logging out my user profile and going for a walk.
He was afraid of speaking in front of crowds. Worse yet, he was afraid of singing. Hell, he would not even sing in the shower or in his car in the middle of the desert in the off chance that angels exist and that they might just happen to overhear his song. But there he stood in front of 30,000 people waiting for him to sing. He did not remember how he ended up in this situation, but, for some reason, he promised that he would sing them a song. The crowd grew silent and his chest tightened in fear. His lips jittered and sweat profusely. He could not feel his tongue! But the crowd was beginning to get angry at his silence. He knew he had to at least utter a noise. He inhaled as much as his packed, heavy chest would allow and let out a quick melody: Aauuita. He opened his eyes expecting a booing, angry crowd. But the people were quite taken. There was an escalating uproar of applause. He let out a longer noise: Aauuuuuiaaatatatataaaaaa.... People roared with applause, cameras flashed, lips were whistling. Then he REALLY let out a melody:
Your gospel interpretation is syncopathetic. It vibrates through the atmospheric chamber-barrier and compels the nuns to seek. Popes surround me with disapproving hand gestures. Erotic priests are peering from the bushes at all our current innocence vessels, who prance through the grass with tattered pants. Your proverbs are translucent and your sermons challenge the masses to ever higher levels of low self-worth. Hilarious anti-preachers are flogging the airwaves with strategic sarcasm and there is no way to stop it. Your scripture interpretation is idio-empathic. It bends your guilt-mechanisms and instills an urge to smoke cigarettes. Prudish smilers own the streets and determine the nature of television advertisements. Mutated anger floods all of your exchanges with the lower classes.
Sleepy, fatigued pencil boy, chubby in the lover’s guild. Selfish with the magic pants. Winter moods contort the music of mindless men wrapped tight with fluids. Intensify the hype and story. Discourage truth and feign your glory. But never speak to build the other. Because they are mice, not men or brother. Inflated man, Expanding torso. Strike the blow-torch sweet revival. You can never match the master’s powers. So tuck those plans for later hours. The master is a mortal man. The master is a mortal man. His plan is strong, but it won’t stand. The master is the portal fan. He stokes the pathways through the levels. He barks out orders, prepares the gavels.
Spark-popping creativity-thrower, reaching back for another brilliance-flash, reaching into the deepest caverns of his resource factory, throwing creativity-splashes into the forlorn faces of the GDP-carriers. Each skyscraper is an anthill and each cubicle-dweller is an ant carrying their crumb to the king. Each crumb-carrying cubicle-dweller is a GDP-facilitator. Lean back and watch the fractured castles crumble in unison. Wounded rebels descend the anthill. Hordes of civilians congregate around the book burning bonfire binge of the crumbling civilization. Religion fades. Meaning dissipates. The masses are kept dumb enough to be ignorant of their futility. The nation activates the "learning shields" and initiates the “stupify the masses” protocol. I reach back for a brilliance-flash. I scream out the top of the anthill cap: "Leave the ants alone!"