Opening Act

I opened for a band once. It wasn't planned. A friend, a guitarist, asked me if I'd do it. No notice for me, but I said okay. I asked him what I should say. He said it didn't matter. I asked,

"What if I want to tell a story about the U.S. military using geese as weapons of mass destruction in Afghanistan?"

"Whatever, man. We just want someone to keep the crowd entertained or at least occupied in some way while we get set up. It should only be a few minutes."

"There's a lot of people here, but ... okay, what the hell."

So, after talking with the band for awhile they got the go-ahead to get started. They set me up with a microphone on a stand and I looked out over a crowd of a couple hundred people. I guess. It could have been more or less. I didn't do a head-count. It was a lot of people. I was just hoping to relax and listen to some music.

But, I was in a good mood so I said right away

"Hello, I'm Michael and I am not in the band. I wanted to be in the band, but they have taste ... and talent. Look, they're musicians. They're skilled. They're artists. I'm a hack. I've got nothing to offer at all.

Well, that's not entirely true. I had one idea. It was the one idea I pitched to them. Just a little while ago, in fact. They shot it down, but I'm going to tell you about it anyway just to show you how fucking smart these assholes are.

See, I wanted to come out here and front for them, open with some BLAMMO and rock this place. I wanted to ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!!!!!! I was going to come out screaming like the half-wit mutant offspring of Ronnie James Dio and Bruce Dickinson, blasting you with thump-de-da-thump-de-da-thump-de-da-thuuuuu-UMP-de-da-the-thump-thump-de-da-thump-de-da-thump-de-da--

Oh, when the fire started rising
To the platelets in the STARRRRRS
The mighty wind of Venus
Accompanied by chocolate BARRRRRS
Foretold the wisdom of the ages:
CHICKS DIG GUYS WHO PLAY GUITARRRRRS!!!!!!!
Oh, YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAA ... UH!

But, no, they rejected the idea. Not because I have a horrible voice. Not because the lyrics suck. Both good reasons, but instead they rejected my idea because it elevated one member of their trio above the others. Egalitarians, these fuckers.

I should have added this verse:

But those chicks I like the best
The ones better than ALLLLLLL the rest
Are the ones who blow the bassists
While the drummers cum on their TITS! YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! WHOOOO!

Yeah, so here are the guys who didn't want me to sing that song ... What? ... ... You're not ready? Keep going? ... Keep going?

Look, people, I've got nothing. That was it. I was at a theater earlier today crying while watching live feeds of seals being clubbed to death. I'm emotionally exhausted. I want to go home. I want you to cuddle with me later. No, not you. You're too hairy. And you're a man. I was talking about your girlfriend or wife or mistress or ... the woman sitting next to you. Yeah, her. Your wife? Yeah.

Hey, look, nothing against you, pal. If I was into men, sure, but I'm not. I will sleep with your wife, though. You're laughing right now, I know, but I'm actually telling you what I'm going to be doing soon. Not tonight. I've got other plans. I was thinking next Tuesday. Could you run a few extra errands between, say, six and ten p.m.? I haven't had sex with your wife before--first time I've ever seen her--so I'd like a little time to get to know her first, flirt a little, tease, fool around. You know, have fun for awhile before getting really nasty for a good hour or so.

Wait outside your front door around ten p.m. I'll exit there and then make out with your wife while you watch. She'll beg me to stay, but I will leave and never see either of you again. Your wife will turn to you and say "Looking at you makes me want to puke." Your relationship will be over. She will fall in love with many men and women throughout her life and remain sexually satisfied most of her days until she dies from the intensity of an orgasm while being fucked by a dildo with a head shaped into a likeness of Barack Obama.

You, on the other hand, will never again find love. You will live for decades in increasingly excruciating existential agony while physically deteriorating organ by organ until both your body and mind are sludge. You'll still feel yourself as yourself, but unable to move, unable to speak, a struggle to breath, no way to communicate, until madness overtakes you. Oh, the horror, man!

I am so sorry! See, this is why it sucks to be able to predict the future. I mean, I really doubt I'm going to enjoy fucking your wife as much as I would have had I not known that your life was going to end up like that. I hate this, but as far as I can tell there is no way to change things. I mean, my ability to see the future is flawless. I don't see stuff and then nothing happens. I see what happens before it happens, you know? I'm sorry, I'm just a messenger. A reporter, I guess, giving you the current news about future events.

You can't even kill yourself, dude. I mean, you literally have decades of growing existential terror ahead of you and a complete body/mind breakdown near the end of your life. I've seen thousands of future deaths and yours is, by far, the most excruciating. No one deserves what you are going to experience. It's just not right. I'm so sorry. There's just nothing that can be done.

Well, it looks like the band is ready to play. Enjoy the music, folks. The rest of your lives look great. It's just that one dude who is really screwed. Oh, there is some short-term good news for you tonight, man. You're going to have a really great time listening to the band, your wife is going to fuck you like an animal later, and you're going to wake up to breakfast in bed. Things don't start going bad until next Tuesday. You got a kick-ass four-day weekend ahead you, man! Celebrate!"

how to paint

I suppose with everyone there is a past. I was painting awhile ago, revisiting a technique that I was working on when I was living in Amsterdam. I had started painting not to develop the skill, not to create anything, not to someday show my paintings anywhere to anyone. I started painting only because I had found drawing a way to focus my attention whenever floating a little farther past beyond than I wanted to float at any particular time. A way of reorienting my perception in line with the physical world in some way.

The reason it was effective was because it required active, participative decision making. I figured if drawing required some concentration then a more complex creative form such as painting would be even more involving. It was. It is. There's the added complexity of color added to the mix and making decisions about what colors look good together in particular combinations and how to apply the paint in a way that creates particular effects. Early on, I didn't make value judgments in any conceptual manner. Truth is I couldn't. Even if I had wanted to I wouldn't have known how. Not right away.

What I was beginning to realize was that I was, in a way, creating an entirely new perceptual understanding of my sensory experience of space and time. A language, in a way. A visual language ... created by physical movement of the torso, the arms and hands using a foreign substance. I focused on more than just my torso, though. I felt my body cramping and creaking when it was in an awkward position, out of alignment. So I focused on my core, on the position of my legs, on my posture, on the way I moved my arms, on the way I turned my wrist, on the way I grasped my brush.

Each decision told a story of visual color, but for me I also saw what a particular color looked like when applied with a particular brush. Or putty knife. Or screwdriver. Or fork. Or whatever I grabbed to apply or manipulate paint and what a series of applications looked like with this movement or that from this position or that. It just kept going and going, endless explorations into this consideration then that then that then that then that and then back again to the second that and then the third and then the second second and then a new that ... jazz.

I saw in the activity freedom, creativity. Decision making. Self-direction. Self-creation. You are what you do, right? At a certain point, I shifted from nonconceptual painting to an exploration on the fringe of storytelling. Optical illusions, colorful deceptions. All the makings of movements that never quite became definitive. In between. Transitory moments, the genesis of conceptualizations. I was paying attention to how I conceptualized, what the process was for me. I tweaked it now and then. Experimented with the process. Constructivism. I was scaffolding, really.

But without a predetermined outcome. Patternless ... until a pattern began to emerge. And then I tried teasing out whatever might be within while trying to stop to preserve possibilities. Unfinished. Perpetual creation. No ending. Just the application of layer after layer of paint. Until passing out, face planted firmly on wet canvas.

I was out one night a week or so after that. I had touched up the painting and went with what was there. I did what I could. It was unfinished but in an odd state of development. Chaotic but somehow deeply appealing. I met a couple out that night, young tourists passing through Amsterdam. I was at a coffeeshop well off the beaten path so it was unusual to see overnighters. They were interesting, though. Americans, but with unusual points of view. Not easy to categorize.

Anyway, after talking for awhile they said they wanted to shroom, but didn't feel comfortable being out in the city on their own because they didn't know it at all. Smart. They asked me if I'd sort of act as a guide. I said sure, whatever. I figured I could show them a few quieter, more softly lit spots toward the south. Somewhere to roam without roaming too far from my digs ... just in case there was a need to settle during a freakout.

I took them to a smart shop and suggested a low-to-mid grade. We each ate a dose ... gradually. Over an hour, probably. Just wandering about here and there with no purpose, no destination. Just sensory explorers moving our bodies between canals and gabled mansions on cobblestone streets and over seventeenth century bridges. The air had a just-rained smell. It was crisp, but not cold. Almost cozy with our jackets.

"It is almost cozy with our jackets!" Apparently I was talking out loud. For how long? The shrooms were working their magic. We hung out in a park for awhile, Gloria twirled and sang for a long time. K. D. felt the grass, then lied down on top of it while apologizing to it, and stared at the starlit sky without saying a word. I watched one and then the other, back and forth, all the while trying to avoid consideration of the purpose of fingernails.

K. D. sat up. He asked me if we could go to my place so that he could use a bathroom. I told him he should pee in some bushes. He said, no, I don't have to pee. Oh. ... Oh.

So, we went back to my place. It took some time. Gloria kept turning to cross every bridge we passed because she wanted to see what everything looked like while standing at it apex. I told her, repeatedly, that it probably looked pretty similar, that K. D. was in bad shape--and he was. He was moaning and groaning the whole way. I was certain he would shit his pants, but he somehow managed to make it. In spite of Gloria, who insisted every time I pleaded my case that the view was different and then cackled like a cartoon hyena stealing a meal from a lion.

When we got back to my place, K. D. ran into the bathroom and stayed in there for over an hour. Every once in awhile there was a yelp or a weird squawk, an occasional declaration of a new discovery like "Birds don't have fingers!" followed by several "wows." Gloria, for her part, stripped off her clothes and put on an apron she found in the kitchen. She examined the contents of drawers while I put on some music and made a batch of cocktails.

After a time, K. D. came out of the bathroom. Gloria and I were in the kitchen talking about how bright the color blue might really be under perfect conditions when we heard a shriek. "No, no, no, no, no, no! Take it away! I don't want that. Not right now. No! It's too much!"

Gloria and I ran out to the living room. K. D. was curled up on the floor in a corner looking up at the wall to our right. He pointed. "I'm so scared." I turned to look. It was my painting hanging on the wall. I got lost in it pretty quickly. There were so many colors! They were all running next to each other, into each other, over each other, layer after layer, a heap of bubbling breathing from the wall, heaving and collapsing. Each blurb or blotch or blend or blaze of color a living thing, an independent entity trying desperately to remain individuated, to not become lost in the larger composition, to be more than just a part making a whole. But each one of them was simply a distinctive color located in a particular place trying to break free and go elsewhere, become something other than what each one of them was, all to no end, each indefinitely stuck being only what it was: color frozen in the last moment of struggle to become meaningful in a painting lacking conceptual purpose.

I looked at Gloria. Her mouth was agape. Her eyes were filled with tears. "It's endless. It's so beautiful, but it never gets anywhere."

I replied, "It doesn't become anything."

K. D. whispered, "It hates me."

"I've never tried to paint," said Gloria.

That surprised me. "Never? Not even as a little girl?"

"No. Never."

"Do you want to try?"

Gloria turned slowly to look at me. She had a creepy look in her eyes. "No. I think I just like looking at paintings. I don't think I should try something I haven't tried before when I just want to look."

"Okay."

Gloria turned back to the painting and stared at it. She smiled.

I woke up the next day on the couch. I sat up, disoriented. I saw jeans, a shirt, and women's undies on the floor near the kitchen. I remembered Gloria and K. D. I looked over at the corner of the living room and saw K. D. sleeping there. I rubbed my eyes and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table. One left. I sat back and lit it. I thought about the night before for a second and decided to check the bedroom to see if Gloria was there. She was lying naked on top of the blankets. I grabbed a blanket from the closet and covered her.

I went to the kitchen to make some coffee. I wondered what else happened the night before. I still couldn't remember. It didn't matter. I felt surprisingly good. Refreshed even. I opened the windows in all the rooms. It was a beautiful spring day. Sunshine and warmth. A nice breeze to keep it cool.

The apartment I was renting was fully furnished and loaded with goodies. I began the process of making Italian espresso with high-end restaurant-grade technology. The process actually required a bit of finesse, some actual skill. Thinking my way through it with rapt attention became a sort of zen experience. A sense of order and balance, a process that produced a richly rewarding result. But I had begun to love the process itself and sometimes made an espresso that I poured into the sink after finishing just because I wanted the pleasure of thinking and moving my body in that way just as a means to focus my attention on the world in an ordered, sequential fashion. Constructing a structure, a purpose for living.

What is alarming about much contemporary culture is that these everyday processes we live over and over again comprise our identity. But it's not just the acts themselves, but our attitude toward them, the motivations pushing each one of us toward particular decisions to repeat the same sequences of actions over and over again. We don't think of our routines as rituals very often, not in the U.S., but they are. And yet, we hold our rituals in low esteem. We dream of futures with more glamorous rituals, of opportunities for real freedom, for power even, to make decisions we imagine might fulfill longings, whatever angst is knotting those muscles in your neck, your shoulders, your lower back, or your calves. Dreams of being carefree begin and end in the body. And, yes, in relation to the surrounding environment.

I finished making the first espresso. I took the small cup on a saucer to K. D. I nudged him lightly. He groaned and turned his head up toward me. "Where am I?" I smiled at him for a moment and held out the saucer. He sat up and took it from me. "Thank you." I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. I took it to K. D. and told him that Gloria was asleep in the bedroom. I went back to the kitchen to make more coffee.

Gloria walked into the kitchen as I prepared the French press. She was wearing one of my sweatshirts. It was long on her, about mid-thigh. She yawned while she walked up to me then put her arms around me and squeezed very tight. "I had so much fun last night. Thank you."

"How's K. D. feeling?"

"He's okay. Tired. He was wondering if he could use the shower."

"Of course. There are towels in the chest next to the bathroom door. The hot water takes about half a minute to kick in but when it does it's really hot so tell him to be careful."

"Okay. Thanks."

I made the coffee and took it out to the living room along with a plate of gingerbread cookies.

"You are amazing. Thank you."

"I'm enjoying myself. I'm glad you're happy."

"Oh, very happy. Unbelievably happy, really. Everything inside me is warm. Radiating heat, actually. Everything is expanding. With every breath."

"That's beautiful."

Gloria smiled and poured some of the cream I'd brought out. She took a sip. "Delicious. I feel so cozy."

"Gezellig."

"What?"

"It's the Dutch equivalent. It means more than just cozy, but it's close. A feeling of warmth, of sharing good company, an inviting environment."

"That's the best of life."

"I agree. The Dutch seem to agree as well."

"Yeah, but I don't think just anyone would have shepherded us around the city and allowed us to sleep in their house, let alone make coffee for us in the morning."

"I guarantee you that if any Dutch person or family hosted you overnight that they'd make you coffee in the morning. Or at least stroll with you to a nearby cafe for a cup. But, yeah, I doubt you'd meet a ton of people here or anywhere else who'd have enjoyed that type of night with you."

"Why did you, by the way?"

"I was having fun. You guys seemed cool, like you were up for a little adventure."

"Yeah. So, what are you doing today?"

"Really?"

"Well, we don't have to get back on the train today. We had an idea of where we wanted to go on this trip, but we have Eurail passes and no reservations elsewhere so we can actually stay as long as we want. Well, for two weeks, anyway. I mean, we will be moving on to other countries, but we can wait another day. Or two even."

She paused.

"Oh, shit! That sounds horrible! I didn't mean to suggest that you should guide us around or put us up for a couple more days!"

I laughed. "I didn't take it that way, at all. I understand what you meant."

"Thanks. I was just excited about staying a little longer. This is such a great city! It's so beautiful and romantic and breathtaking and inspiring! And really, really free."

"It's a city structured for living. For living well. Every day. Every day. It's damn close to heaven. Especially if you have money. But even if you don't."

"So, you're American but you live here? What do you do?"

"What I do and what I have done are not always the same thing. I have done many things, I do what I'm doing right now, and I will do many more things."

Gloria laughed. "Are you still tripping? Did you eat more shrooms this morning?"

I laughed, too. K. D. came out of the bedroom. He had already showered and changed. His clothes. And in other ways, possibly. He sat on the chair across from me and grabbed the coffee I'd made. Steam was still rising from it so it was still somewhat hot.

"Thanks for letting me use your shower. And for the coffee."

"No problem."

"What do you think about staying another day or two here, K.?"

"Really?" K. D. raised his eyebrows a little and smiled as he considered the possibility. "I mean, yeah. Hell yeah! I don't want to put you out, though, Michael."

"Yeah, we really don't."

"I understand. Um, I mean..." I started to think a little. I didn't really have any plans over the next couple of days. I was only planning on spending some time in museums, writing at cafes, and doing some painting in the evenings over the next few days. The beauty of Amsterdam is that plans are ridiculous. It's best not to make plans because what happens in the city organically is usually more intriguing and exhilarating than any itinerary that removes the moment-to-moment engaging urgency of decision making for days or weeks on end. Sure, there are special events, but everyday life in and throughout Amsterdam is usually better than any particular planned event. No one thing is essential and yet it's the totality of the choices accessible and available that makes the city so invigorating, so full of possibility. The city begs for spontaneous participation. Everything is alluring and thus it compels people to shake out the cobwebs from their awareness. If you don't, you might miss something!

"We can pay you, you know?"

"No, no. You don't need to do that, K. D. I appreciate the gesture, but that's not what I'm about."

"I didn't mean to imply that at all."

"Relax. It's not a big deal. I didn't take it that way, at all. That slice of American thinking is hard to escape."

"American thinking?"

"Yeah. The idea that generosity and hospitality--decency--come with price tags attached. No, it's the way human beings choose to treat one another, as individuals enjoying one another's presence. And, as such, providing each with opportunities to create, collaborate, and share."

"That's beautiful," said Gloria.

"Yeah, it is," added K. D. "So, if we did stay, what would you suggest doing?"

"Well, I need to run a few errands this afternoon. If you're exhausted and need to sleep you can stay here. Otherwise, you could go for a walk and explore some neighborhoods, check out a museum, rent bikes, relax at a coffeeshop or a cafe and watch the people passing by, see what you see."

We all agreed to meet back at the cafe at the end of my block around 15:00. Gloria took a shower and got ready to go. K. D. and I relaxed and enjoyed our coffee. He mentioned how much fun he'd had the night before, but how the painting had freaked him out. I asked him what about it had scared him so much?

"It was just so busy with color. Crazy, energetic movements. I could feel the chaos of movement jumping out of it. It's hilarious now, but I thought it wanted to consume me in some way. Just wipe me out. Not physically, but emotionally. Or maybe intellectually. I don't know, but whatever it was I didn't want to let go of myself and I was afraid if I kept looking at it that I might forget ... everything. It scared the shit out of me."

"Wow. That's ... brutal."

"I know. But it was good. I hadn't realized how tightly I was holding on to a particular sense of myself as I had been."

"Wonderful."

"I know. I feel much more at ease today. I haven't been this relaxed in a long time. That was the whole point of this trip through Europe, you know? To put the past behind and reinvigorate our lives. Hell, yesterday was the first full day of our vacation and, boom, I'm in the zone. I don't think that would have been the case if we hadn't met you."

"Who knows. I'm sure you would have relaxed at some point. Whatever would have happened if you hadn't met me never will now so you'll never know. I never would have either way so what can i say. I was just living my life, too, and you certainly created the conditions for a day I wouldn't have otherwise enjoyed. Look, as much as this city has to offer aesthetically and in terms of intriguing events, this place is about the people. The setting enhances life but it's the lives themselves that create the play. And, as everyone knows, the play's the thing."

"Or, in my case, the painting's the thing."

"Yeah, painting does it for me, too. Doesn't seem to matter whether it's a noun or a verb, either."

Happy Birthday To Me

I was walking downtown yesterday and I saw an elderly homeless man missing most of a leg sitting on a sidewalk leaning against a brick building weeping while being showered with rose petals by a radiantly beautiful lily white young woman with long flowing auburn hair and a silky light blue dress dancing sensuously while singing about sunshine and love. I stopped about a block away, once I realized what I was seeing, and just watched. The man doubled over, sobbing, his shoulders heaving and his head shaking. Excruciating emotional suffering. The woman carefree, in love with life, sharing her joy in a completely self-absorbed manner, oblivious to the man's reception of her zeal.

But there was no reception. Two complete strangers living entirely different lives at the same moment who just happen to be expressing their inner selves within a foot or two of one another. It wouldn't seem quite so unusual to imagine the same two individuals occupying neighboring apartments just down the block doing the same thing (or capturing the spirit in a similar form) while alone in the privacy of their homes. But it was unusual to see such a public exhibition of self-absorbed oblivion while seemingly engaged with one another. Rose petal showers from beautiful strangers don't typically result in uncontrollable outbursts of despair, either.

But, maybe I'm wrong. So far in life, it's the only response to being showered with rose petals on a busy street that I've ever witnessed. Or heard about. Or read about. So, a first. Of sorts. To an extent, I'd like to see what happens with a larger sample. In other words, I'd like to ask beautiful young women around the world to travel to downtown Portland, dress in silky slinky dresses, and let rose petals snow on pedestrians of all stripes. Dance sensuously. Sing of sunshine and love. Your love of sunshine. The sunshine of your love. The love of your sunshine. Your sunshine of love.

Creating events, observing them, focusing on randomly selected details, and then measuring them in some capacity under as many variable circumstances with as many different subjects as possible. For the purpose of ... ?

That was generally what I was thinking as I watched this ... performance. I suppose it was a performance. But it also seemed very real, unplanned. Authentic. Even if absurd. Somehow it was also the most accurate representation of the totality of the potential of human relationships I'd ever encountered. In that one act, it told the story of human history. And the story of the future of humanity. An eternal return of myopia, self-absorption, disconnection, and misunderstanding. Could be sorrow or bliss, though. Or anything in between. Or anything beyond.

I was talking with a friend just a few hours ago, a guy I hadn't seen in a long time, but a good friend going back a decade. What was interesting was how each of us began talking with the present versions of our selves as if the other was a versions of a self past. I started to notice it at a certain point when a reference was made to something that took me back to a state of being and a type of thinking from several years ago. Like a flash of lightning. Explosions of images, of "scenes" of past experiences visible through my inner eye, out of context from their narratives of the time, rapidly interpreted through the narrative of now, and ... both the past and the present changed. My perception of the past and the present changed. I realized I was I.a at the moment but the possible self my friend began talking with (before her realized I was not the same person at all) might have been I.y or I.stgwk. How many versions of "me" have there been thus far in life? There was no predictable path evident because there was no particular path to take that was anything other than a different version of the same life. So, personal preference is really all there is. And it's unpredictable. The decision to commit to x, y, or z occurs each moment and, thus, each moment is a different "me."

What is becoming clearer to me as I type this, though, is that most of the transitions in my perception of self occur when the past meets the present and, through the consideration of each from the point of view of either, a new conception emerges that contains elements of both, some traits being dominant and some recessive, some likely to flower under certain conditions and most likely to remain dormant unless activated for some reason or another. A birth. A new life. A new self being born into the world.

In that sense, today is my birthday. Happy birthday to me! I may celebrate by showering a stranger with rose petals.

Response to comments, part deux

I tried to respond anonymously to the last round of comments. Didn't work. Well, it worked once when I just pressed down on a key and hit return. So, I finally made a comment and the comment was "fffffff." Whee! So, another entry as a response.

Nancy, I understand what you're saying about beating your head against the wall of the system. The issue is that the system will bang your head against the wall if you don't do so voluntarily.

Now, you may ask how that happens and I will answer, "through force." If you follow the rules of society as a means to avoid becoming a victim of state/corporate force then you are voluntarily banging your head against the wall (unless of course you are freely embracing being what the system wants you to be--a laborer and a consumer--in the way the system wants you to be a laborer and a consumer).

If you choose to veer from those boundaries, it will become apparent soon enough. If you start chopping down trees at the nearest woods you can find (because you want to build a house on a nice expanse of mowed grass you saw that was adjacent to another house) then you'll get attention very, very fast.

As angry people come to you to stop you--police as well as neighbors and homeowners--you'll realize that you are not free to use the resources you can see with your own eyes. Someone else "owns" the trees you see. Someone else "owns" the land and the grass growing from it on the spot you wanted to build your house.

So, whether you realize it or not, the system is banging your head against the wall. You've internalized what you are not "allowed" to do. You grew up being taught the rules by those in positions of authority and just like Pavlov's dogs you were either punished or rewarded based on whether or not your words and your actions matched the script written by the most powerful individuals driving institutions around the country and world.

So, what do you do with this information? Well, unlike the powerful, I'm not going to force you or anyone else to follow MY script. I'm detaching myself from the rules of the game so that I can THINK for myself. It's an ongoing struggle and there was just so much bullshit injected into my brain, creating all kinds of ridiculous wiring problems that affected my thinking in completely unhealthy ways (but also completely in tune with the system's structure--the system is designed to make each person unthinking and unhealthy) that it's a never-ending process.

So, for you, you create what you want organically as you see fit. That's what I offer that the system doesn't. I offer freedom. I don't inhibit you or anyone else. I simply express myself and I do so as much as a means to wrap my head around the lies I've been told so that I can better understand them, untangle them, and all of the sudden I have malleable neural synapses again. The difference now, though, is that I'm in control of creating new synaptic pathways. Decision making determines how they'll form and the identity that accompanies those decisions is ... still unknown to me. Which is, from my perspective, the beauty of open-ended self-creation. I'm not predetermining an outcome for my own identity or for my understanding of the world.

In other words, wonder-fueled discovery followed by wonder-fueled discovery. If you want a "way" to be in the world, that's it. And there certainly isn't a need for a system of ANY sort for anyone who is actively engaged in their moments. Not that I or anyone else doesn't LONG for the system at times. Even much of the time. It's familiar, it's easy, it does all the heavy lifting and thinking for you.

But it also means remaining perpetually a child, a follower embracing the opportunity to give up all responsibility for thought and action. A pet even more than a child, really. Which is what I wrote in an earlier post. As soon as life is reduced to merely comfort and survival, well, those conditions can be met by the system. If that's a satisfying life for you or anyone else then it will be embraced.

I embraced that life for quite awhile. I figured there was nothing that could be done, the system was entrenched so what was there to do but follow or be destroyed? So I got in line and numbed myself to reality, following the drudgery of days just like the rest of the unhappy. And if you don't think Americans are unhappy, I can show you places in the world where people are. It's NOTICEABLE! Very easily perceived.

Which brings me to PQ's point about the world being better. I think the percentages of those suffering to those not is about the same as it always has been, frankly. There are still places in the world with high infant mortality rates and all that. And for every case like that I'll go ahead and show that for the child born that would have died at birth, the child's is now being born into a Dickensian slum in China, India, Mexico, Ecuadaor, Brazil, Columbia, Bolivia, Peru, Honduras, Mozambique, Vietnam, and on an on. Most of Asia, Africa, Russia, Eastern Europe, and South and Central America are poor. Extremely poor. Technology has just improved the means of exploitation and control.

But, yes, I agree, it's always been this way. I'm definitely not arguing against that. That, in fact, is my point. There has been NO progression in history. There couldn't be, anyway. Each individual life may find a progression over time, but, guess what? Also a deterioration over time. That's the reason why civilization's are problematic. They have lifespans that exceed their generations. They shouldn't. I really believe that. Each individual in each generation, in order to even come close to reaching their potential, NEEDS the opportunity for self-direction. Anything short of that is ... we may as well not have sentience. In fact, we'd be better off without awareness if following the lead of others is all we're choosing to do, all we're ALLOWED to do.

I have more to add in relation to what can change. If you're assuming that an individual entry is telling a story independent of all of the other entries then you'd be mistaken. They should be taken as a whole and, if taken that way, it's quite obvious I'm still in the process telling the story. Start multiplying the first four posts I made in January by the number for March. Take that number, insert it into the third paragraph of the first entry for February. Use that context to create the basis for a collateralized debt obligation, sell it as a hedge fund betting on societal collapse, and then wait for Armageddon. Your returns will be lucrative, but your riches will be useless absent the civilization that valued them. That's the story for each one of us even now, though, stories of individuals wealthy with riches civilization does not value.

Next time I'll tell a story about the stories Wall Street tells itself and how those stories create the reality we all experience. Wealth, in a sense, is just the power to make your story the one everyone else has to follow ... OR ELSE!

Response to comments

Thanks for the comments, Nancy, Summer, and Professor Q.

I still haven't figured out to respond through the comments section ... on my own blog. Yes, that is how technologically inept I am. Or lazy. Or indifferent. Or ... something.

Anyway, you've made a lot of good comments, all, but I want to respond to the comments from my most recent journal entry. I'll start with your comments, Professor.

Yes, I did mean in a humanitarian sense. But I also mean technology in terms of the physical as well. You are imagining a particular person and extrapolating as if that's the norm for a person to fly on commercial airlines and have access to surgeries with anesthesia and other modern medical technology. But there is also the majority of the world's population that does not share in that prosperity and, in fact, suffers more because of technological advancements. The greater the technology, the greater the means of controlling their lives--their behavior.

Performing repetitive tasks for 12 hours a day six or seven days a week as a teenager and on into adulthood cripples the body, destroys any chance at developing a sense of autonomy or self-direction in life, psychologically grinds a person into an automaton (even the self-conception of "victim" would be a step up), and reduces the individual's purpose in being to subsistence through labor to make the shoes for your man on the jet flying off to India to receive a kidney "donated" from a desperately impoverished undesirable. As I've said, it's all a matter of one's position. For the world's wealthier classes advancements in technology and science are incredibly beneficial and truly can raise the quality of life exponentially. On the flip side, technological and scientific advancements have just made the world's poor and those enduring the worst of war more susceptible to the world's wealthy-- those owning and controlling the resources that have been developed through those scientific discoveries and technological breakthroughs--who continue to manipulate, exploit, imprison, injure, kill, and destroy.

That's why I say ethics is dead. What I mean by that is that public consciousness, in the U.S., is awaking (again--and they'll fall asleep again) to the fact that there is no real-world evidence indicating that power is ever acting an ethical manner. Power may act legally, but never ethically. To hold any type of ethics at all would require a person to sacrifice self-interest at times for the good of the whole. Not to be compelled to sacrifice self-interest, but to willingly choose to act in a way that is for the benefit of others. Individuals do that, but institutions never do. Never. Ever.

Humans are somewhat limited by the structuralism of language, but there are means for some degree of liberation from linguistic thinking. Not so for institutions which are entirely rule-based in their activities. They cannot veer from the script in the way that humans can. The individuals in positions that "steer" institutions? Oh, yeah. But when have you ever witnessed an individual directing an institution toward the public interest while going against its own because of the rogue actions of a CEO or department head? No, the anti-institutional actions (sometimes illegal) are pursued for self-interested reasons. Theoretically, a company decision maker could act in the public's interest to satisfy his own self-interest in helping the public. I can't really think of a case of that happening off-hand, but I'm sure there are some isolated incidents. I'd be interested if anyone knows of any cases like that.

And I think that segues into what you said, Nancy, about the people you feel you can affect through personal caring to make your own life feel worthwhile. I'm not begrudging you that, but it's neither here nor there for the world. To effect global change institutional models have to change. In fact, institutional relations also need to change. I'm becoming more convinced that it cannot be done piecemeal but instead as a series of well-planned steps over generations. In some ways, that is happening organically at the regional/local/individual level, but the majority of the world's political and economic landscape is being transformed by the global corporate vision for civilization. It ain't pretty.

The sources of good news are events such as the awarding of the Nobel Prize for economics to Elinor Ostrom and Oliver Williamson for their work on resource management by community institutions. Those are the types of models that need to be explored. If we were a sensible people and we actually lived in a democracy we would consider alternatives to the status quo as much as anything to follow a path of continuous improvement (continuous learning providing the basis for that change). Of course, priorities would have to change. We would have to collectively hold humanitarianism in higher esteem than we do property rights. That isn't the case in the United States and it is codified in law that property rights trump human rights--think of how quickly you shift to "he's trespassing" instead of "I can't believe that guy is waving a gun around and yelling at that kid to get off his land, that he should be paying him for the air he's breathing while standing there." Well, you might think the latter, but the U.S. Constitution and state laws support the crazy guy on the verge of shooting the teenager walking around in some lemon groves.

That alone seems like something to be re-examined, but the "right" and "left" in the United States--as they act in positions of government power--are split by about a millimeter. So, you know, sigh, shrug your shoulders, wail, just say fuck it, try it, embrace it, make love to it, walk down the aisle with it, and then one day you wake up in the middle of the night to find yourself tied to the bed while U.S. corruption is raping you. You shout, "Hey, I thought you loved me! I hated you, you wore me down, I gave in to you, I submitted and became not just a servant but also a cheerleader. I've done your bidding even as you've committed atrocity after atrocity. And even after all of that you are still tying me down to rape me? Why?"

"Well ... because I can. And it feels good. Plus, I'm trading ass rapes as derivatives now. It's something I had inserted into a bankruptcy reform plan being proposed in Congress. I figured I'd get in some practice because it looks like we've got the votes. I'd apologize, but I'm enjoying myself to much."

Foucault

Foucault is, as we would expect, a very unconventional historian. He is a historian of discourse, and more precisely of the discursive practices of the human sciences. He is concerned with both the internal rules and norms, the rules of exclusion and hierarchy that dictate what can be said within these discourses, and with the institutions, the material sites of the social power that envelop, legitimize, normalize, and sustain scientific discourse. In his early books, Madness and Civilization (1961; English translation, 1965) and Birth of the Clinic (1963; English translation, 1973), Foucault investigates the discourses of psychiatry and medicine and the ways in which these discourses produce, perceive, and regulate their objects, "sanity" and "health."

Foucault seeks, provocatively, to demonstrate that distinctions basic to these discourses, distinctions between madness and sanity, sickness and health, are arbitrary distinctions related not to the progress of knowledge but to new or changing social relations of exclusion and integration embedded in institutional frameworks such as asylums and clinics, whose functions were social control—normalization and administration—and were neither scientific nor humanitarian. While Foucault refuses to posit any general statement regarding the relationship between discourse and society, he appears to be reducing discourse to those social institutions and non-discursive forces that provide its material conditions of existence.

The history of madness reveals no progress in the theoretical understanding of an illness. Rather, it indicates a consistent tendency to project general social preconceptions and anxieties into theoretical frameworks that justify the confinement of whatever social groups or personality types that appear to threaten society during a particular period. The poor, the dissident, the criminal, and the insane are separated or herded together, treated as humans or as animals, confined or liberated, according to considerations that are primarily political rather than scientific.

Medical practice, Foucault argues, is similarly grounded in social concerns, the clinic and the hospital being microcosms of those attitudes toward human nature prevailing among the dominant classes of society at a given time. Small wonder that Althusser approved of these works and saw them as recognizable offspring of his own ideas. However, in his next two works, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (1966; English translation, 1973a) and The Archaeology of Knowledge (1969; English translation, 1972), Foucault shifts his perspective to the internal structural constraints of discourse alone and to a new anti-materialist methodological strategy that he calls "archaeology." Institutional and social determinations of discourse disappear, replaced by what Foucault calls an "episteme," by which he understands "the total set of relations that unite, at a given period, the discursive practices that give rise to epistemological figures, sciences, and possibly formalized systems . . . the totality of relations that can be discovered, for a given period, between the sciences when one analyzes them at the level of discursive regularities" (Foucault 1972, 191).

In The Order of Things , Foucault contrasts the four epistemic epochs of the so-called human sciences—discourses whose objects are life (biology), labor (society), and language (culture)—from the late Middle Ages to the twentieth century. The first of these, the Renaissance, was characterized by similitude, the desire to find the same within the different, the extent to which objects resemble each other and the extent to which words truly signify things. The tortuous attempt to demonstrate the similarity of things, that everything to a significant extent resembles everything else, exhausted itself by the seventeenth century.

An "archaeological shift" occurred, bringing a new episteme that dominated the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which Foucault calls the Classical Age. The classical episteme focused on differences revealed by the Renaissance and attempted to account for them by a discursive protocol involving comparison, ordering, and representation. According to this protocol, representation is certain and logical; the principle of comparison and ordering of differences moves from the simple to the complex in a carefully calibrated system based on contiguity and continuity. The role of consciousness is one of exteriority. Mind simply observes and classifies representations that are themselves independent and immediate. Representing the essential order of things, identity and difference, means the discovery of a system of control over them.

The belief of the Classical Age was that if the correct table of relationships could be discovered, one could manipulate "life," "wealth," and "language" by manipulating the signs that signify them. However, the classical principle of order and comparison is undermined by the perception of temporality, of the differential origin of things, a perception that destroys the timeless ground of continuity and contiguity, which made things measurable and comparable. At the end of the eighteenth century another "archaeological shift" occurred, inaugurating the Modern Age, dominated by an awareness of temporality and finitude. Knowledge was problematized as thought was increasingly absorbed with the historicity of species, modes of production, and language usages.

"Man," hitherto invisible, became a knowing subject among objects and, more significantly, the object of his own historical understanding. Epistemology came into being as an attempt to discover the grounds on which representations are possible or legitimate given the finitude and limitations of the human subject. "Man" is thus no more than an epistemic creation of the Modern Age, which began with the realization of human finitude and was characterized by its attempt to overcome or transcend these limitations within the epistemic framework of the human subject—to find a ground for meaning and knowledge within what Foucault calls the "analytic of finitude."

The modern episteme has exhausted itself attempting to overcome oppositions between the transcendental form of knowing and the historical content of knowledge, between the thinking cogito and the "unthought" background that is its condition of existence, and, finally, between the historical situation of man, how man is already in history and cut off from all origins, and the historical primacy of man, that man is the agent or maker of history. As a result, Foucault concludes, the Age of Man is currently being displaced by a new, fourth age that has abandoned the analytic of finitude and accepted the disappearance of the human subject, the opacity of language, and the absence of historical meaning. Significantly, Foucault credits Nietzsche with the initial insight into the coming "post-Modern" age:

• In our day, and once again Nietzsche indicated the turning-point from a long way off, it is not so much the absence or the death of God that is affirmed as the end of man. . . . Rather than the death of God—or, rather, in the wake of that death and in a profound correlation with it—what Nietzsche's thought heralds is the end of his murderer; it is the explosion of man's face in laughter, and the return of masks; it is the scattering of the profound stream of time by which he felt himself carried along and whose pressure he suspected in the very being of things; it is the identity of the Return of the Same with the absolute dispersion of man. (Foucault 1973, 385)

escholarship.org

Here's a key point for me: "The history of madness reveals no progress in the theoretical understanding of an illness. Rather, it indicates a consistent tendency to project general social preconceptions and anxieties into theoretical frameworks that justify the confinement of whatever social groups or personality types that appear to threaten society during a particular period. The poor, the dissident, the criminal, and the insane are separated or herded together, treated as humans or as animals, confined or liberated, according to considerations that are primarily political rather than scientific. 

Medical practice, Foucault argues, is similarly grounded in social concerns, the clinic and the hospital being microcosms of those attitudes toward human nature prevailing among the dominant classes of society at a given time." I read Foucault for the first time well over a decade ago and I thought to myself, "This explains everything that has seemed completely absurd to me." The reason being is that I was raised as many Americans are raised: to believe in things as they are, that there is an inherentness to the way things are, a rightness or order in life and that things that are "bad" will be brought back into line in time to make the world balanced and good--for us (the "good" humans)--again.

The issue that I was having in "real life" was that these stories I absorbed through tellings and "showings" by parents, teachers, administrators, coaches, managers, owners, and other individuals in positions of greater social, economic, and legal power than I possessed were all being exposed as bullshit by reality. Now, it's a particular kind of hell to be a powerless child observing a world of comparatively powerful adults committing both formal and informal acts of madness and cruelty against one another and, especially, against "classes" of others (the poor, the drug addicts, the socially awkward, etc.). Life viewed through a lens in which the foundations justifying beliefs and behaviors are not only arbitrary but unexamined by "practitioners" leads to one conclusion: everyone and everything is completely absurd. 

 These memes about scientific breakthroughs and technological advancements making life better stand on no more solid ground than the idea that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow being watched over by a possessive leprechaun. It's the same with health care reform. As is true with all legislation and policy, the "science" of health care provision and delivery was never a factor in the process except as fuel for political momentum. The one interesting aspect of that is that it seems, for the first time in my lifetime, that the whole of American society is waking up to what I've understood since childhood: the world is absurd and the U.S. government, in its economics and politics, is abusive, cruel, and tyrannical when it isn't merely indifferent. Now, in a different age that may not have been the case. I have no idea. I've lived only in my own moments rather than as a historical entity. And I realize that even the stories I tell myself are arbitrary and temporary. If knowledge is power then the knowledge that my ideas of myself and the world are undoubtedly just means to an end that I don't even fully understand then I can never act responsibly because I know that I can never know enough to make a responsible decision. 

That being the case, ideas such as "criminal prostitution" or "illegal drugs" make no sense at all. Like Foucault, I understand the illegality of all things--even murder--as motivated by political pragmatics rather than ethics or morality. I recognize that my recoil against murder is based on my own personal pragmatics rather than a law of the universe. Gravity is a reality beyond human control; murder is either committed or isn't because of human choices. Actually, murder is committed because of political/legal creations. Killing is a non-legal, non-political act whereas murder is a legal/political act. Killing is only murder if certain legal conditions are met ... according to judges and juries.

In a sense, a trial is simply a theatrical dramatization of past events that are under dispute in some significant way to various actors with power and influence. The practice of the trial in the United States is familiar and, as such, seems like a given, as reliable and "real" as gravity. But it's a concoction, a discursive creation not made once and for all and set in stone hundreds of years ago but an ongoing dynamic, each event not only a replication of past events but a confirmation of the rightness of those past events. It is trusted on faith by those who have attached it to the American identity whereas it is accepted with resignation by those who recognize they have no more power to change the judicial system than they do to change the laws of gravity.

Now, the outlook on all forms of reality changes radically depending on the type of attitude or belief one develops in relation to any particular thing. In this case, the trial is the particular thing, but it could be anything. Having an attitude that is favorable toward the rules and procedures of U.S. trials is going to factor into other perspectives (or has been factored in because of other perspectives) on U.S. law and politics. Believing U.S. trials to be unjust will likely be related to other beliefs about U.S. law and politics. Take the dominant Middle Eastern view of the United States, that America is the Great Satan because of its lack of respect for the sovereignty of other nations. That colors perceptions about all things American. Conversely, an economic globalization ideologue looks at U.S. foreign policy and views the U.S. as an extremely good country because of its lack of respect for the sovereignty of countries that are hostile to foreign investment and control of resources. 

Neither perspective is "right" based on any independent criteria. That's just it: there are no independent criteria. There are only individual beliefs, attitudes, preferences, etc., that may or may not become law and policy depending on choices made (and much else) in particular circumstances. So where does that leave us? Right back to where we actually are and where we've always been. There has been no progression throughout "history." No, just new humans being born, living for awhile, and then dying. The stories they make up about themselves and the world? No more or less than anything else that a person thinks or doesn't think. Kind of Buddhist, yes, but it's not my fault. I don't really care. I haven't for a long time. Look, you just stop giving a shit about much of anything abstract when you realize that there's nothing more than personal preference involved with any belief structure (story structure). Would I like it to be different? Yes, but because it won't and can't be different, the desire for change is just a form of suffering. If I was a Buddhist I would just accept that everything changes in ways that are meaningless. Perhaps. But I can choose to suffer if I'd like and desire what cannot be. It's best to recognize the futility of caring even if I feel compelled to care.

Don't blame me. I didn't create this reality. I'm just doing time in the prison of my body within the prison of civilization within the prison of ... within the prison. Just like anyone else. I'm just refusing to pretend that I'm free when reality informs me that I am anything but. Why mention any of this? Why cut and paste so much of that writeup about Foucault and then rattle on in this way? I don't know for sure. It's really nothing more than releasing the scream echoing through my being ever since I realized that very, very few human beings are loving and caring. I hear lots of talk about love but I see very, very little evidence in public. Caring is something people do behind closed doors, apparently. Most people seem to care for others in much the way they watch porn: while in their rooms alone at night when no one else is around. In other words, the nature of care in the United States is masturbatory. The character of Americans (and the country as a whole) is taking. Giving that actually helps alleviate suffering and provides real opportunities for empowerment is about as common as meeting someone who won a Powerball jackpot.

If we wanted to see compassion in the world we'd change our politics and restructure our laws and economics. But that would really require trust and love of others. There's nothing there, though. Religion plays a role, for one: "I don't have to be good because if I just give my life over to Jesus some day I'll be saved and all the really horrible things I do to myself and others will be forgiven by the magic man in the sky after I die and all the suffering I'm enduring now is bearable because I know that I'll be receiving an eternal paycheck for all of the injustice I've endured when I walk up the Pearly Gates." That's why religion is the opiate of the masses. You take away the eternal paycheck from people and they go, "I'm enduring what?! For no reason at all?!!! Motherfucker!!! I am going to kill those motherfuckers for screwing me over!"

Yeah, that's why religion plays such a big role in politics. I mean, the only way to endure suffering is to create a story that justifies it or at least gives hope that the suffering will end and something better will come. But, taking that approach ultimately allows others who are NOT believing that some external other loves and cares about them and will make all the booboos go away to actively engage in life and perhaps even influence or control individual circumstances and perhaps human relations on a wider scale. The way the world looks to me is a relatively few people really REALLY engaged with life in internationl politics and business, controlling the flow of resources and humanity around the world, determining how the majority of humanity spends their lives (think mines in Latin America--come on, none of the indigenous people chose to work in mines except out of necessity, a necessity created by those who were actively engaged in taking and using and controlling in the ways they wanted).

That's why Thucydides is right about power and Socrates is a fucking idiot. And yet, Socrates would be right if 20th century academics had not divided and subdivided subjects into separate disciplines and then walled them off from all other modes of thought in order to preserve their "integrity" (as if doing so could possibly create a discourse that would be predictably useable and functional in the real-world). Well, that's bullshit. You can't separate ethical inquiry from social sciences and expect politics to be measured in any way other than in terms of materialistic measures. So, ethics is dead. Has been. It probably never existed except in the way Zeus exists (in the minds or hearts of humans). Ethics is in the realm of "ought" and the social sciences focus on the "is" without making value judgments (well, that's bullshit, but that's the meme). Eh, I'm done. Fuck it.

Off the top of my head

Just had an odd thought. An odd series of thoughts.

I was thinking about the economic crisis, about how so many more foreign companies are buying up American companies. For instance, a company in India bought out a company I have been contracting with for over a decade. My payment on certain projects has dropped by a significant percentage at the same time my overall workload has decreased. I'm in no position to bargain.

So I was thinking from there how all of these corporations are changing hands from American ownership to foreign ownership. And I was also thinking about the Citizens United case, the relatively recent Supreme Court ruling granting corporations greater citizenship rights. One of the most disturbing elements of the ruling is that it recognizes corporate campaign contributions as political free speech protected by the First Amendment. Money is speech.

Uh, no. Money buys the delivery mechanism for speech, meaning money is more privileged than speech. In other words, given a choice between having the right to vote or the right to contribute money to political parties and candidates, the smart money is on money. Now, given that corporations have the most money and do spend it for political influence, allowing unrestricted campaign spending by corporations is all but a formal giveaway of the U.S. government from the people to business institutions.

Including foreign corporations. Even foreign corporations owned and operated by foreign governments. Like China. So, China already owns massive amounts of U.S. debt and may soon find itself able to buy U.S. elections.

I was just reading an article called "The Organ Dealer" in the April 2010 edition of Discovery magazine. The article starts off detailing the happenings of the bust of a Delhi black-market organ trading ring and, in the process of providing the global context of the trade, mentions that in China "kidney harvesting from executed prisoners has supported a lucrative transplant industry." Wonderful.

Yup. Imagine China crafting future health care legislation in the U.S., the same China that may someday own much more substantial stakes in corporations doing business in the United States. China is a national robber baron, more than okay with indentured servitude and even slavery. Human rights are a foreign concept. With a billion-plus people and growing, China would probably prefer to simply create Nazi-like concentration camps, both to control population and to harvest organs. "Growing" humans for organ harvests for the purpose of profit. Heck, sex trade then organ trade.

I'd like to see that filmed, personally. I'm thinking Terry Gilliam. An aerial of an industrial organ harvesting factory "town," slowly zooming onto a particular plant, and through the roof of a hangar-sized warehouse to see lines of humans chained to cots, row after row after row, IVs hooked up to them, "surgeons" and "nurses" operating on numerous patients, delivery men and women rushing the organs off in coolers to another huge warehouse nearby where there is exactly the same layout, but in this one the cots are occupied by paying customers receiving kidney, heart, liver, and other transplants and medical procedures. Factory harvesting, factory surgery. Maybe machines performing both harvests and transplants.

If there were no restraints I have absolutely no doubt that the world would be that way as a whole, a seemingly unimaginable dystopia, but only unimaginable for late 20th-century Americans. Anyone from anywhere in the world now should know better and most of the rest of the world knew just how bad "civilization" was and is. Americans are getting a much richer taste of the results of the democracy-destroying legislation and policies that began in earnest during the deregulation years of the "Reagan Revolution."

But what I was thinking about when I began writing was that if this is the "new world order" (so to speak) then it would actually behoove the citizens of the United States to compel the U.S. government to purchase stakes in stocks, bonds, futures, etc., etc., etc. In other words, if we, the people, want a say in politics and the benefits of capitalism then ownership of the global corporate pie is only really accessible through the government purchase of corporations.

Now, I just laid out the most likely doomsday scenario. But how about this as just one of many possible alternatives. The U.S. government purchases huge stakes in business institutions through the financial markets. By doing so, the government can control the behavior of corporations through majority ownership. In that case, corporations would be vulnerable to corrections through the electoral system in much the same way elected candidates are now. In other words, piss off the public and expect to be punished by shareholders through the actions of the U.S. government due to public pressure on a possible government "investment agency" to correct the behavior (think Toyota and the acceleration fiasco).

Imagine a team of Warren Buffets or whatnot making investment decisions for the U.S. government and, as citizens, being shareholders. The entire structure of economics would change radically. Taxation would have to be completely reconsidered. If dividends and capital gains through trading generated enough income, taxes could feasibly be eliminated. At least reduced and possibly dramatically ... for individuals. Even while valuable government services are created and expanded. Bottom line is that quality of life goes up both materially and in terms of greater control of corporate behavior.

Then there are all the foreign policy issues and yada yada yada. Of course, power is power and if corporations are citizens then through their monied speech rights they would own the government that owns them. Chicken or egg. This isn't a dissertation, folks. This is just off the top of my head.

Living in the moment

You should live in the moment. Such as the moment in your prison cell when you're pinned down by several men who are taking turns raping you. Pay close attention to that rough hand squeezing the back of your neck and grinding your face into the concrete floor. Appreciate the excruciating pain in your rectum and the bodily fluids oozing down your inner thighs. Enjoy the kidney punches you receive whenever you complain or beg for mercy.

You are fucked. Not only are you being brutalized in prison (and you're only in prison because you got busted with a little over an ounce of pot on you--still a felony in many states) but self-help books are telling you that you're wasting your life thinking of the past, hoping for the future, or disappearing into fantasy. You should seize the day and make the most of your opportunities.

Yes, you've been trying to escape from the torture you are enduring. Yes, you've screamed for the guards. Yes, you tried to kick, punch, and head-butt the men who have destroyed your colon. Well, if at first you don't succeed, try and try again. Maybe whistle a little more while you're at it. You have to have a positive attitude if you want to create positive change. I mean, if you don't care about you, who will? Clearly, no one cares about you. At all. On any level. If anything, you are despised. Well, most are absolutely indifferent to your suffering, to your very existence.

So, really, it's up to you. You have to make the most of a bad situation. To do that you need to live in the moment. This is no time to make a complete break from reality. Life is too short to waste--although you may beg to differ. Are you really going to say goodbye to sanity forever now? You want to kill yourself, I know, but you can't because you're pinned down by rapists who are much stronger and more determined than you are. Hell, you're broken. You're a shell. You're all but gone.

I'm telling you, if you don't leap into the now right now then you'll be lost forever, never again able to be consciously present. Future rapes? It'll be as if it isn't happening. The screams from surrounding cells on nights when you're not being assaulted? You'll never hear them. Not the sounds as they are, not the contexts creating those wails. The sounds to you might seem like the cries of thousands of giant fruit bats with 30-foot wingspans, blood-red eyes the size of basketballs, and fangs like machetes descending from clouds of fire to rip your flesh from your body while magically keeping you alive for eternity and somehow increasing your capacity for feeling ever greater pain.

Do you want that? Do you want an eternal progression of incrementally increasing pain? Then you'd better live in the moment, motherfucker, because I want you to be aware of the fact that it isn't giant bats from the skies of hell making you feel the way you do. No. It's me, pal. I'm the one telling these fuckers to continue raping you. I'm the one who determines your fate because you are too weak to control your own destiny. I am your master. I am your GOD. You are my creation. You are my living property. I determine how you feel at every moment. This prison is my kingdom. You are not a prisoner of the United States of America. You are my prisoner. No one fucking cares what I do to you or how many times I do it to you. Live in the moment, motherfucker. I want you to be fully aware of everything that happens to you so I can savor your horror.

And now back to the show...

I hope you stayed tuned...

Veronica Mazzina looked at me as she turned the doorknob. "We're here." The door opened to a stairwell leading down into darkness. Vernonica flipped a light switch. We walked down the old wooden stairs. The walls were wooden, finished. Maybe mahogany. Beautiful, whatever it was.

At the end of the stairs there was another doorway. No door. Another hallway. This one more like a hallway you'd expect to find in a European castle. There was even a suit of armor holding a sword next to the door at the end. A huge iron door. Veronica knocked and said "It's me." The door opened. We walked inside.

It was a dungeon. There's no other way to describe it. There were men on racks, beds of nails, dangling by wrists or ankles--and in one case a wrist and an ankle--from chains hanging from the ceiling. Wails of pain. Screams. And the stench. Urine and feces. Sweat and blood. We walked through the suffering humanity being imprisoned and tortured to another doorway on the other side of the room. Veronica opened the door and I followed her inside. There was a man lying naked strapped to a table. Big leather straps, two inches across, about six of them across his ankles, knees, thighs, waist, chest, and forehead, pinning him down. His wrists and elbows were strapped separately. He couldn't move except to wiggle a bit. There was a gag in his mouth. He tried to turn his head to look at us, but he couldn't. He shifted his eyes down and to his left so he could see us. His eyes were wild, crazy, scared, and angry. Humiliated and hateful. Frantic, desperate. I could see him shift from emotion to emotion and sometimes it looked like he was overwhelmed by all of them at once. He sobbed. Tears were gushing from his eyes. Snot bubbled from his nostrils.

He blew his nose. Again. Then again. More and more feverishly. He was struggling to breath. Mucus sprayed from his nose across his chin, neck, and chest. I turned to Veronica. It was her husband, after all, so I wanted to watch her reaction. Her mouth slowly widened into a smile as she watched.

Veronica turned to me. "It's not yet time. I just wanted you to see him. Come." I followed her through yet another door and up a flight of stairs that seemed to rise several floors. We entered a bedroom through what seemed to be a closet. A little girl's bedroom, apparently. Walls pink, tiny bed with a lavender blanket and pink Barbie pillowcases, a dresser covered with stuffed animals on top. I looked out the second story window and saw a man on the sidewalk talking with a police officer, a woman. Veronica grabbed my arm and gave me a tug toward the doorway.



--more to come

War and Turds

Why are the messages of "conservatives" so ... sophomoric and ugly? Well, my suspicion is because so many seem to hold preposterous beliefs about human nature and human relations. For whatever reasons, I've met individuals who hold beliefs that seem clearly indifferent, inhumane, and even cruel who also seem to believe that they are the "good guys." I think there may be a more penetrating way to say just how out of touch with the human condition some seem to be, though. Whenever I hear an argument in favor of, say, government privatization, this is the message I hear:

"You know that turd I just deposited in your toilet? I believe it represents goodness. I believe it smells good. I believe that it tastes good. I believe that a turd-rich diet improves cardiovascular health and creates emotional wellness. I believe jamming shit under my fingernails is hygienic. I believe soaking my toothbrush in diarrhea every night and brushing with fresh feces immediately after every shit will prevent tooth decay. I believe God created the capacity and necessity to shit because He loves us and wanted to enable us to be entirely self-sufficient by using shit in creative and innovative ways to satisfy all of our needs and desires.

Conversely, I believe drinking clean water is the beginning of the slide down that slippery slope into the cesspool of heroin addiction, pedophilia, and government assistance for the poor. I believe that there is too little smog in most American cities. If the air quality in Chicago, Illinois, was as bad as most similar-sized industrial Chinese cities the average lifespan for both men and women would increase by 30 years. If we allowed lead-based paints again then there'd be more mining (good for the environment, sort of like a facial for the land) and more children with lead-poisoning in the United States. Little known fact: Lead poisoning cures attention deficit disorder.

The United States should start more wars in the Middle East and then invade countries all over the world in order to defend American soil. There is no good reason not to be actively bombing countries on every continent in the world. War saves lives. That's right. No one dies when there is a war. Everyone is happy. The end of war always results in political instability and thus the resumption of war. War heals the wounds of peace.

War and turds. War is wonderful. Poop is purity. I am in love with both. We're having a menage a trois, if you will. It's a long story that started moments after a conical brown treasure emerged from my asshole years ago and I fell in love with her. I intended to use the stinker as toothpaste, as usual, but as I was reaching into the toilet to take the bowel movement into my hand, I ... I saw her. As she was. As she really was. No pretending she was just an everyday turd, just a run-of-the-mill toilet torpedo. Now, there was ... life. Her vitality was palpable.

My God, I remember how beautiful that log of love was when I first saw her. I have photos of Poopy floating free in urine, darker brown than anything else I'd ever seen and absolutely riddled with non-digested corn. Some shit-lovers believe corn is like acne on a turd. They prefer silky smooth, uncreased, perfectly rounded snakes of shit. I thought I wanted my crap to be like that as well. I was wrong, though. It just goes to show how crazy some of our thoughts can be, you know?

But I digress. I shouldn't even get into how the Iraq War showered me with affection. But I will. At first I thought the Iraq War might be a stalker. I mean, he was everywhere for awhile. I couldn't turn on a TV without seeing another of the bouquets of violence he'd made just for me. But, in time, I realized he sincerely cared about me. I began to see the tenderness of his love expressed in videos of 'smart bombs' striking buildings and in photos of the aftermaths of IED explosions.

After awhile, I even became jealous. Whenever I turned on the radio I heard the voices of other admirers singing his praises. It drove me insane! I called the Pentagon and left messages telling him how much more I loved him than everyone else, that I'd always be there for him no matter what, that I was proud of him, that he deserved more credit for making the world a better place than he was being given. Inside, I was so afraid he would fall in love with someone else, some other admirer who was just as head-over-heels for war in Iraq as I was. I mean, why choose me? Who was I to the Iraq War? He could have anyone he wanted any time he wanted.

Well, that's not really true. There were detractors, those who didn't trust him, thought he was vile. Evil even. I went into a rage whenever anyone suggested such things about the love of my life. I began to admire the others who loved him as much as I did. I was still wary of them, wondering if I should really trust them not to take Iraq away from me somehow, but ultimately we had our love for him in common. A great man, the Iraq War. A great man. I'm so proud he's a part of my life. Without his existence my life would have been so much less meaningful. What would I have done with myself if it hadn't been for the Iraq War?

You could say how about Afghanistan, but, what can I say? Afghanistan never made the effort Iraq did to attract my attention. Look, I'm not saying the Afghanistan War is bad or anything like that. I'm sure the war there is tremendous, but you don't get to choose who you fall for, you know? I'm just saying that without that love in my life, where would I be? Who would I be?

As I said earlier, there is also Poopy. How could I say my life would be empty without the Iraq War when I'm also in love with a piece of shit? It's complicated. Love usually is. But there are different types of love, you know? With Poopy, it's more intimate. I mean, we interact. Well, not through touch. Not for years. I had to emulsify her pretty quickly to preserve her in that state of freshness. It's maddening, though, being so close without being able to smell her pungency. She reeked. Her odor overwhelmed me.

There are sacrifices in all relationships, though. I still talk with her every day. There isn't quite the romance there was early on, but there was a lot of infatuation intermixed with that love, anyway. A bit of lust, too, I suppose. But how could I ever have sex with a piece of shit without destroying its form? I wouldn't have been able to live with myself. There may not be sex, she may be encased in glass on the coffee table, and I might be a little impatient with her at times, but our love is stronger now than it ever was. Love is ... it's a lot more than a punch in the stomach and a two-by-four to the head. You might think that's all there is to it, but there are also red-hot pokers being shoved up assholes, shotgun blasts in the face, dismemberment of bodies, and body parts being mailed to mistresses. Love is everything we always dreamed it would be, but it's so much more than that, too.

My love for the Iraq War, for example, has grown to such a degree that I believe all Arabs should be shot on sight. I'm capable of giving on that level now. More importantly, I'm willing to love like that. It takes courage to think of others when it's so much easier to think only of oneself. But I don't want the needs of Arabs to go unmet. And it's so obvious that they need to be annihilated. My Iraq War would agree. He clearly wants to grow beyond those borders, to spread the love to Iran, to North Korea, to any country needing to be cured of peace. Loving the Iraq War has made me a better human being. I've learned how to extend my love to not just Arabs, but all peoples of color and even others who don't believe what I believe. I know it sounds a bit like a boast, but I believe I will some day learn to love even those who agree with me and do what I want them to do when I want them to do it. You think I love them, but I haven't yet wished for them to be attacked by the U.S. military, have I? I mean, violence is medicine. There's nothing but misery in life for those who haven't had a limb blown off.

What I wonder about now, though, is if I'll ever be able to love myself that much. I'm like anyone else, I suppose. Most of the time I tell others that I wish I was the target of a smart bomb in Iraq. Sometimes I even sort of believe it. But I'm not really there yet. I'm ashamed. Secretly. For being a coward. Still, look where I started? I used to think war was bad. Back when I was a kid. Hey, it takes a lifetime to develop. We don't learn to love all at once, you know.

Nevertheless, it pains me not to be able to wish to be waterboarded in Guantanamo. I feel so ugly inside because of that. I know there's something wrong with me because I don't pray to fire a bullet into the brain of a Muslim or fantasize about shrapnel ripping through my gut. The first step in healing, though, is admitting you have a problem. I look to my loves for strength. The Iraq War provides the model for how to live. Poopy uses motionless stoicism as a means to encourage me to keep trying, to not give up. I'm so grateful for that support. I really am lucky. Two great loves in one lifetime. I'm humbled by it. I certainly don't deserve it. But God is forgiving, God is merciful, and God is generous. He expresses His Love for us through endless war and shit.

Amen."

A little juice

I got a little juice today. Orange juice. From a convenience store. That syrupy orange juice that tastes like it was squeezed from plastic fruit.

I was listening to the radio in my car while I was sipping this sugary shit and heard the whole litany of what's wrong with the country. Obama wants to fire teachers and principals at impoverished schools. He wants nuclear power plants built in Georgia. Republican Senators Jim Bunning and Jon Kyl want the unemployed to starve to death. The insurance industry is alive and well and, provided there is no public option in any health care bill, should manage to bankrupt every single American in the coming years.

What else? Mossad agents are suspected of assassinating a Muslim in Dubai. The war in Afghanistan is heating up ... again. Sectarian violence is ongoing in Iraq. Chechnya is Chechnya. Massive earthquake in Chile, hundreds dead, some infrastructure devastated. Nothing like Haiti, but pretty bad. Hawaiians were warned about a possible tsunami so that should give a clue about its power.

Just more of the same shit happening everywhere in the world.

But there are also things like the coffee parties (the racially and ethnically diverse poor and working class versions of the white middle class and wealthy tea parties) popping up here and there. Some have given money to help the victims of the earthquakes and others have volunteered.Good people--those with few financial resources, influence, or power--do care. Some individuals try to help even when doing so is futile.

Despite all of the advances in technology, all of the scientific discoveries, and the whole of the research that has developed, those who control the structural ways in which capital is used refuse to improve the lives of the world's poor. That's what makes the futility of individual help from those with compassion for the suffering all the more tragic. If only "regular folks" made decisions about how capital was used then perhaps their values would direct the use of resources.

I'm just trying to figure out the goal of the economic and political systems that have dominated the world during my lifetime. It seems fairly obvious that the goal is to funnel ownership, control, and use of capital to a very tiny privileged smattering of individuals and families scattered throughout the world, each managing or ruling organizations in the context of relationships to other organizations, all within a byzantine hierarchy that is both formal and informal (which is why measurements of formal institutional relations give nothing but a distorted picture of reality: if the transfer of money in the drug trade goes unaccounted for in economic models then those models are useless in the real-world. A trillion-dollar global industry that everyone knows about ... that is not a factor in economic policy decisions?).

Really, what story of the world should we be telling ourselves? When all of that shit is weighed out on just about any ethical scale it's impossible to deny that injustice is dominant. There are no lullabies for babies abandoned in dumpsters. Just rats ferociously devouring the flesh of living infants until the baby's dead and there's nothing but bone and blood-soaked trash left behind.

Then again, that's all the more reason to make love in the middle of a busy intersection or interstate entry/exit ramp during rush hour. I mean, really, sexually sharing love with another human being while holding up traffic to halt economic and social routines seems like one of the best possible responses to injustice that I can imagine right now. Well, I should get going. It's about 3:20 right now. Traffic's probably getting pretty thick by now.