1 I guess I�m just one of those people who, at any given opportunity, is a little disappointed to learn that the world hasn�t yet come to an end ~ not because I�d like to see everything and everyone else destroyed: but more like, and along the lines of, that the seriously fucked up nature of everything and everybody: is continuing on its chosen path, regardless of the fact that its nature is seriously fucked up. Perhaps it is also, somewhat, that it is in fact "my nature" that�s seriously fucked up, but I tend to not get too worried about such things, as I�m usually the only one who would pay attention, notice, or even mind, had I the designs, which I usually do about every other millisecond, checking to make sure that whatever is wrong with the universe hasn�t seeped somehow into my designs yet. That is, I�m usually always checkin to make sure it�s not me, that I�m not the asshole, that I�m not crazy ~ n beyond the pale inferno lie the lies that kept me lyin down on the job, but believe what you will, that is yet another story altogether. "Read on"
The end of time isn�t necessarily a valid proposition in my book, but this being my book, we will discuss it more thoroughly than perhaps most others, cuz the mind is a terrible thing, with terrible taste ~ it�s also a better judge of anything we can dream of. But being judgmental is wrong (that�s sarcastic irony, there ~ I hafta point out the existence of my humor sometimes, to the shiny souls who were sold shitty seats); and now that you feel completely candid, or at least slightly silly, the end of the world, or time, or anything else for that matter, isn�t really going to happen to anything, to any degree even approaching what we perceive it to be at any given moment. That having been said, having a little perspective on yer life, as opposed to most others, is extremely beneficial to the art of getting past whatever�s blockin� you in yer path toward whatever yer headin� toward ~ in that direction, anon. Alas, most people are big babies and have valid temper tantrums on the scale of someone somewhat sleepy, with no skin goin skydiving into icy saltwater ~ that is, life trips us all out. "You hypocrites!"
So, one of these days I�m gonna get around to bein whatever it is I wanted to be, but have been too busy with anything n everything else to even really barely hardly get into right off. Despite these valid proclamations, and perspirations of good intentions, the perspective of my oblivion has become my life�s work unresolved, n that�s what pisses me off the most. "Welcome to the club," I say to myself, or actually I think it to myself, or sometimes I�ll say it to myself, n then flip myself off in the mirror ~ but nevertheless, the deed is done n life has continued to "have gone by" beyond any consternation I may have afforded myself in this life, cuz my life has yet to be the life I wanted to live. "Cool. Don't react. Create."
My main partiality towards this perspective is this: I don�t know what I�m doin�. I gotta admit that, and I do freely of my own volition (the violent violins begin playing softly, ever so softly). So swayin� back n forth in the inner recesses of my mind, beyond n besides the weeping willows in some summer breeze long forgotten (tho perhaps important somehow to my deeper n deepened psyche somewhere), is a small little child next to a babbling brook, babbling himself (to himself, probably, supposedly), sitting in the lotus position as tho he were about to levitate any minute now ~ and maybe that�s just exactly what the vision means, tho time is irrelevant to dream symbols like this, yet he�ll probably get more n more helpless as the situation in general seems to me to become more n more hopeless. Hopefully he�ll finally levitate all fuckin ready before I punch into my next life n hafta start all over again in another body, with yet another silly childhood to eventually hafta get over, all over again. Of course, I never really had this vision, until now ~ I made it all up, just for you, you lovely lucky reader. Maybe I'll have it someday, in another life ~ but for now (poor kid), I have no friggin idea. "Ignorance is bliss"
"Impatience is this," and he punched me. *POW* right in the kisser. Just kiddin. But he probably wants to, especially cuz the only thing keepin� him from gradual antigravity and/or eventual elevation is the fact that I�m still too much of a baby to get over it (whatever "it" is, if it really "is" anything at all), n get on with it already (ibid.). But it�s not really like I�m havin a fit, stampin my feet in inevitable perpetual frustration, n refusin to go along with some boring grown-up�s point of view on anything, but perhaps someone inside my mind is, in fact, doing just that, in a literal yet figurative emotional sense ~ perhaps it�s the lack of emotion, or feeling (in other places) that�s brought it out so strongly to where it is now, and offset my balance just enough to give me a giant pain in the neck ~ n generally be considered a giant pain in the ass to just about everybody I seem to think I know. This brings me to the subject of the war between the sexes. We�re all controversially insecure, n that would normally be the end of it ~ but this is life, not some silly video game. Sensationalism n sensuality cast aside for a moment, a brief moment, if we all got along just fine, what would we use our devious n paranoid little brains for, makin the world a better place? Sposedly, if that above scenario were in fact the case, the world would be groovy enough for most people (except the odd lawyer here n there), but maybe everything really is OK, n it�s just our perception that�s fucked up a bit, (or maybe, it�s not fucked up nearly enough). "Fresh!"
So, OK. Not that I�m paranoid or anything, but have you ever listened to the way you think about other people in your life? How do you think they�d react if they knew? You don�t think they�ve already sensed this on some level? Maybe they�d put up with it if you were rich (not just the lawyers, doctors too), or nicer, or had something else they wanted, it�s the nature of the DNA ~ we�re survivalists on the most basic primal instinct level. Sure, it�s a crock of shit, but that�s what our conscience is for. If we can intellectually implement it into our daily lives without too much hassle from the money man or any other sense of pride, we get to sleep most nights without worrying too much if we�ve finally become failed human beings, etc. (I�m a theoretically good/bad person, but I�ve talked myself into thinking that�s a bad/good thing). So. We're missing out. Something has either gotten some bad press, or something pressing has gotten impressed by something we've missed. There's some false advertisement goin on here somewhere, n someone's gotta n is gonna pay. The perpetuality of the potentiality of this perplexing penchant for politeness proves that is usually n must be us, n probably while we're proudly pinching pillows. "Sleep. Dream"
This is what I�m getting to, finally, that it�s all about pride. Probably everything we imagine for ourselves, or subconsciously choose to be blind to, or consciously elect to ignore (maybe hopin it�ll go away), all hasta do with some form of denial we afford ourselves thru a giant sized inflated ego from somewhere sorta sky-high (we can afford it, we rule). But perspective will allow us to see things the way they really are, and therefore, if we have the humility to finally handle it, accept what is and what needs to be done ~ so that we can fuckin get on with our lives already. Hopefully, happily ~ n with at least vague vitality. Some of us are in dead end jobs. I can accept that. You need money. You start out needin� money n it just escalates from there. Eventually we all become slaves to something we don�t even understand, or sometimes (usually) not even comprehend. But that�s not the focus. The point is that we all have things that we wanna do, n whether or not we can really do em is our own personal isolation, but the more we go on otherwise, the longer we put off our fantasy life, the more helpless we become somewhere inside. Hence, the irritability factor. Thus, we become less focused ~ cuz it�s imperially impossible to reach inside our mind�s eye n turn its gaze somewhere other than whatever brass ring we have implanted in our early primal psyche as the kitty�s nipples. Even lobotomized individuals (you know who you are) just want what they want, n they want it many fuckin years ago, n it�s not here yet, nowhere near here yet. This is like depriving oxygen from yerself, you�ll go nuts, do anything to breathe. Panic sets in, but still we troddle on, onwards into the hype (too busy to realize it's all probably bullshit), tryin to get thru the void of selfless despair n into something we can really afford to do, n do so, so we can finally get on with our life�s goal, our life�s dream ~ just one more year at the sewage plant, a couple more weeks wiping other people�s asses for em, fifteen more minutes swallowing raw poison for the good of science, n I can finally go just model swimsuits for a living, take a vacation to Bali or Thailand or Cydonia Planitia on Mars n in my spare time between naps n gourmet samplings of the local fanfare I can write the next great American novel, or devise a painless way to institute world peace before the bad guys notice that most other people have nice neat stuff too. "Imperialism is the woist thing I ever hoid."
OK, so maybe none of that stuff is ever gonna happen to probably any of us, but the main thing to keep in mind is that we are sane individuals somewhere down beneath the murky depths of our sickened psyches, our polymorphic status as lame-brains n static individualistic idealists, for whom tall bells doth toil, n the world would surely be a better place if we�d just finally get up off our collective or individual assets n get on with it all fuckin ready, or at least find some semblance of peace so we could sleep at night without rippin the sheets to shreds cuz we forgot to trim our nails again. "Are we there yet?"
OK, so now the psychologists out there are sayin�, "hmm, only child." Which is true. Anything else, they can keep to themselves (for now). But yes, I am a single offspring. I often wanted an older brother, or something, maybe cuz my dad wasn�t around all that much, but then one day I realized that if I hadn�t been an only child, I�d�ve been the oldest! What a chilling thought! Right about now, too, all the patients out there are bearing sheer witness to this utterly fascinating, utterly self-absorbed psychobabble, n as I yet babble on further into amiss, they tend to wonder (besides why I haven�t mentioned my mother yet) how reading any further could possibly save them thousands on therapy. I don�t know. "Arrogance amiss"
So there I am realizing I�d be the oldest, thinkin what it�d be like to have a little brother, a little bother, runnin around tearin up my comic books, wetting my bed, smearing my food all over his face, cryin "MA" whenever he gets pissed off, n me gettin in trouble for everything he does, until one day I just give in n cover for him voluntarily. Well, at least I�d have someone to jam with. Or maybe I could have a little sister, that�d mean I�d probably hafta learn how to kick someone�s ass cuz they made eyes at her, but eventually I�d understand women a little better, n probably would�ve had a date in the last several years. "Oho," cry the wanderers, "so that�s what his deal is." That is not what my deal is. Not that I particularly know what my deal is (so maybe it is my deal is) ~ but anyways, onward. So, as long as I was exploring my inner child, the subject then drifted to all the nonexistent fellow insider n inner children I may have had to contend with growing up. What if I came from a large or even medium sized family ~ a family of gypsies whose main cause in life is to have more gypsies, eventually takin over the planet with their silly gypsy ways. Every teacher would know me inside n out years, before I even went to their silly school. There would be no way out ~ I would hafta have my own personal individual (n ironically isolationist) identity handed to me on a paper plate with a plastic spoon in my mouth n jello stains on the carpet, ground in by tens of bare feet over dozens of years of social interplay. We coulda had an orchestra. Anyways, by now yer prolly beginning to realize (besides why my parents decided to stop at one) that yer readin a book about social interaction from someone who�s barely had any in his life, not to mention his atrocious spelling n usage of grammaticalistics therein. "A bold new stroke for mankind," the cover coulda said: if with a class action lawsuit being obviously the furthest thing from their minds. "A mind is a terrible thing to taste."
Are you sure yer findin this whole thing even slightly, remotely, entertaining? Anyways, onward still. So I guess what I�m tryin to do, what I�d like to do, these things I�d like to instill in you, this thought or feeling I�d like to imply ~ how should I put this? ~ is that we all should take ourselves a little less seriously. Sure, the mortgage needs to be paid, but if we can�t relax, if we don�t give our higher selves a little downward spiral time, we�ll be potentially n perpetually forever up in the air about everything we should be well grounded on since the beginning of time, from baby steps onward into the middle of the night. Hey, the finest geniuses mankind has yet to offer were layabouts ~ they knew how to watch a good tv. Now, some people are totally against tv, so for them n anyone else who likes to listen, I�ll say right now that I don�t mean wrestling or game shows or talk shows or even the news. Some people do appreciate those sorts of things, however ~ however, I find for myself (up cplose n personal, like), that watchin shows of those types finds me incredibly unrelaxed, even with the sporadic smattering of gratuitous sex thrown in for ratings. Have I covered every politically correct stanza on that subject? "So much for that."
Take my advice: take the day off. Fuck it. Don�t just up n quit yer job or anything, but do take a sick day n go to the beach tho ~ modern economists are just beginning to understand that the human machine needs more�n just a lube job every once in awhile. So while they figure this out for themselves more completely, don�t let their temporary inaccuracies bind you n blind you from what�s right for you. Take the kids outta school on a test day n have a picnic in the basement or somethin�. Go to the mall (if that could possibly relax you), get about 50 miles out of town if it�s not behind enemy lines, but take a break n fuckin try to fuckin relax! "Ugh."
Right. So. The end of time. Everything�s stopped. Sounds relaxing enough, until you realize that cuz it�s the end, this by definition means that time�ll probably never start up again. Besides n despite the lack of plausibility in this particular espionagesque analogy, imagine how you�d feel if you were brought to this point. About half of you have decided not to do this at all, which is fine, cuz most of them have stopped reading the book entirely. But it is a pretty good opportunity to get away from it all. Anyways, no more time to do stuff, to do anything, no more books to write, or read for that matter, no more vacations ~ so from this perspective, who cares if ya don�t have any money to pollute the atmosphere in a straight line from wherever you are to Bermuda or Valhalla or wherever yer goin, the point is to get a life n get away from it all, before it�s all gone, before it�s too late. Ask a grandparent how they�d do it all over again, n then watch em play n try to deal with the grandkids. I like to think that my grandparents, while they probably still don�t understand the whole point behind video games, if placed in another generation, would probably go out n hit the arcade or kick back with a good joystick (ah, but then, it runs in the family ~ whatta pleasant thought), if they could possibly find the time to; henceforth, anon. The reality, of course, is: that I come from a stock n trade of people who were simply not cut out to have offspring of their own (or at least properly maintain them). Don't get me wrong, I love my family n I'm fine with kids (n I do plan to be related meself to some short people someday) ~ but their hearts just weren't into it half as much as their chosen life's goals. And neither my parents nor most of grandparents were half as into recreation as I have hence focussed my cunning necessity forward here, yo ~ the one exception being my father's mother, who really knew how to watch tv. This is what genetics gets ya. I guess what it is that I�m tryin to say is this: life isn�t gonna work out the way we want it to ~ take that as read. Yes, it is the rare specimen indeed that finds sheer utter unadulterated (at least R-rated) happiness in these, the lower realms of the universe in which we perceive ourselves to be. Cuz it�s not perfect. It wasn�t designed for us. Or if it was, we have evolved somehow outside those parameters n have found ourselves somehow wanting more, n only the lucky ones know, or have half a clue, what that might be. "Where are we?"
2 This book being titled "Philosophy," my next book will be called "Insanity" n the one after that "Poetry." A progressive trilogy, perhaps of trilogies themselves ~ n after that I�ll probably vacation in Boise. "Good judgment comes from experience.
"Witty. Insightful. An espionage triumph of the soul. The psyche has been looked into n found wanting. Terrific. Fantastic. Absolutely amazing! A vibrator for the mind!" I don�t know where that last one came from, probably someone slipped me a mickey. This is what I�d like the critics to say about my book, n by reconnaissance, about me ~ but alas, this is me still wanting generous helpings of approval, or at least enough a lick a luck to nipple off until I wean myself from timeless despair. That�s not my real plan (too much work, that), but it gives enough justification for the moment, a groovy enough excuse to keep on limping on whatever toe I allow to work, cuz if I admitted for a moment that I�m able enough to get on or get by, then I�d hafta feel guilty, seriously feel consciously guilty, about all the things I might�ve done, but have previously copped out on already. Pretty fucked up, eh? Again, I welcome myself to the club. "Very interesting... Don't believe a word of it."
So, this timeless bit of self analysis is also allowing justification for me to have been a pretty good slacker almost all of my life so far ~ after all, it brought me to all of this. So, that�s it. Case closed, I�ve cured myself n can now go outside n straight to the clubs n the mall n the world n be approved of right off on sight. Well, that�s not gonna happen ~ not today, anyways. The agoraphobia is a real phenomenon. However it started or evolved within me, now I'm sensitive to insensitive things (among other things). Yippie yi yo caiee. So: I must first feel OK with disapproval. I mean OK enough to swim in it, cuz the environment is real, whilst myself not becoming even temporarily mutated into something not likely to groove with the environment I really wanna live in. That would be fake ~ hence, unreal. If you haven�t guessed or surmised already, I�m agoraphobic ~ which basically means I have a deep seated irrational almost instinctive fear of agoras. Agoras, being the Latin for marketplace or mall or something (I don�t know either, I just know I fear it). Actually, I do kinda know what I wish to avoid and have only found "staying inside my cave" as a slight remedy to the phenomenon ~ but more to the point, I wish the world were a more user friendly place. This is probably not gonna happen in my lifetime either, but I do kinda hafta go on somehow. I mean, let�s be reasonable, it�s not Mars ~ there�s air, n a reasonable temperature most of the time, but I dunno ~ n so yer probably not gonna be able to stop therapy from just reading my book, or put it off indefinitely if ya have yet to start such a thing. Keep taking your medication, as long as teams of people educated in such things have concurrent opinions about such things (and they�re payin attention to your particular preferences as to how yer bodily functions go about themselves) ~ oh, n keep on reading this book, for whatever it�s worth, in yer spare time if ya like. I�ll take it as a sign of approval. People do all kindsa things to get approval, you�d be surprised. We�re all trained. Like in high school, we want the gender of our preference to find us just as preferable. Well, I the author want you the reader to approve of me. Sorry. Not to get to personal or anything, that�s just how I am. Maybe I�ll get over it someday. On the other hand, it could be "just plain boring" ~ which is a kind of disapproval, innit? Then, none of the accolades I would�ve received for justly writing such a profound mesmerization of writ n wisdom shall be at all considered richly deserved whenever I go out into the world ~ quite the opposite, in fact. Really, I half expect half-empty milk servings to be thrown at me ~ quite violently, in fact (as opposed to the half-full variety, which would at least be cheerier). Now my demon of self-doubt has triumphed over any relaxed n innocent desires to get on with something all groovy like innocent relaxation, or at least the chronicles thereof. What it�s telling me, essentially, is this: that I might or may as well just go back to my drone routine cuz I�m simply not cut out for this latest project ~ just don�t work, won�t do at all. Nope. But I�m currently unqualified for that just now, cuz of all the other things I bought into along those lines already, which has aggravated me in circles, as I patiently prod on anyways, marching in place, until I dug for myself a nice well rounded pit of despair, from which perspective, the sky is a weak light somewhere overhead at a distance which is not reasonably theoretically attainable. Y�see, I could analyze this until I�m blue in the face, (n I�m told some people actually enjoy that sorta thing), but it�s alla buncha shit. It�s an infinite loop of second guessing that�ll only rack up massive therapy bills until yer a bad credit risk, n probably more fucked up than ya were to begin with. At least then you can finally relax, but ya probably won�t have the time or sense to begin such a frivolous project. "Happy Birthday, Mr. President"
Anyways, like I said, the time to relax is always now. Fear is good, it warns us of dangers, gets the adrenaline pumping supposedly where it�s sposed to go to, n hopefully on time. But that particular chemical state also relaxes the things it�s sposed to, so that we can be cool n quiet as we need to, like if there�s a bomb in the room, or some fool has a gun to our head. This not being the case, we�re free to read on. But yer only likely to do such a silly thing if ya think this literature has something to offer you, and also have somehow finagled the time. Passageways n passersby notwithstanding, if you exist, chances are that yer probably not fully elated or inflated as to yer humble state (of being), such as it is. This can cause all kindsa ungroovy things to happen. Perhaps you�ve noticed this ~ anyways, this is probably why yer here. Sorry to depress you. But if something�s bothering you, maybe you should back off from it, if ya can. It works for me. I mean, OK, maybe not everybody�s into relaxation (I know some people who can talk on for hours on end without even thinking to inhale once in awhile to thus allow the brain to turn the page, or maybe find a point in all the decided drivel currently spewing out at subatomic speeds beyond even comprehensive comprehension, but obviously not escaping the appreciation of whatever sick twisted parasite that�s inhabiting said cranial organ, particularly perturbed n orgasmically high n also so totally blasted yet anon upon massive endorphins generated whenever another word or thought symbol or path of reason chance appears upon the scenic scenery as an excuse to keep on keepin on, hopefully someday somehow eventually even reaching a point, which would only suffer us to serve as further justification, n just for its perpetual existence). Right. OK. Time to stop n smell the roses. I mean, roses aren�t always the greatest thing in the world to go sniffing around, (ask anybody with a recent thorn wound in their nostril and they�ll tellya right off n wholeheartedly what they think of roses n their ilk), but a departure from the necessary is sometimes a necessary end. If you don�t, here�s what�ll probably happen: you will fall down dead drunk on obligation n probably not even notice (if you�ve ever had that happen to ya, cheers). You�ll be mostly unaware: that what you were shooting for is now long gone, n any chance for the chance handy wayward optimistic denial possibilities (all of which are now happily being in incomprehensibly yet irretrievably short supply, besides). Your mind will then devote its remaining energy, what it can find, to continuing on this silly cycle, no matter how detrimental that may actually be, cuz you will have depleted the senses that sense such things; as their earmarked energy is currently being deviated to the only path you have allowed such things to go to: i.e., that which fulfills yer decidedly miserable existence that originally got ya down in the first place. The main thing, before ya realize anything else (or any of the above), is that all psychobabble is just that: psychobabble. Nothing else beyond any intellectual stimulation will work for now at this point. There is even probably a point in the universe where the very existence of the universe doesn�t even matter ~ probably the center, but we�re not there right now. If I were the center of my own universe, (in which I probably am), I would probably get bored with the stunning status of it all ~ in fact, any opportunity to get out n beyond n reach out for something of some other substance would seem a great release for me, n therefore well worth the effort. Some people forget all of this tho, n also that chilling out is often as important, or even moreso, than anything that allowed you to reach that point of opportunity. But then again, living for the weekend can be overrated too. Relax. Let go. Om.
3 Sometimes people�ll apologize n I don�t know what they�re talking about (maybe it�s in advance, like a bad omen), other times I just very simply don�t believe them. Anyways, if I have offended anybody so far, or should I further on, I�m sorry. OK, so I�m over 30 now, n not content with the state of my eventual and seemingly, up til recently, perpetual existence. Those who can�t do, teach. Those who can�t read, write. Right. So, back to my inner child sittin there by the river under a weeping willow tree enjoying some early evening late summer breeze, about to approximate a wish to levitate, but something�s holdin him back. He don�t know how. He�s justa symbol of something possibly lame, probably boring, certainly psychobabble, n most assuredly the pseudo-subject of this book (or at least a sub-plot thereof). Maybe I�m not havin enough patience with myself. The world is a tweaked out place ~ n there�s so many people, that no matter how good you are at anything, your chances of being the best at whatever it is: are approaching the exponentially, astronomically, infinitesimally, extraordinarily annoyingly slim. To add another pain in the ass to this equation, people usually don�t give a second look unless yer the greatest whatever they�ve ever seen, n most people have seen a lot, especially compared to the days when Joe the town barber was the baddest thing for miles, nay leagues, around! That wasn�t so long ago, either. I may be having an early mid life crisis, but my parents had no cable tv, no video games, and there was on average one type of music that they liked, and approximately one other they were forced to listen to, screaming against their will ~ this was the highlight of the stress they had to endure. But even then, people usually didn�t venture off n just go be any annoying ol� thing they wanted to be. It was impractical ~ there were mouths to feed, bills to pay. So forget about bein the best, how about good enough to be good enough one day, how bout worthy of happiness even, how about allowed to be whoever n whatever I happen to be n just be happening in whatever happenstance happens to happen by? I may have implied before that I highly enjoy my tv. It�s like an addiction of sorts, it helps me waste the day away while I�m doing, or sposed to be doing, anything else ~ and also provides me with an inside surrogate of the outside world (in an aside). Unbeknownst to my devising tho, an incredible thing happened ~ or rather an amazing thing happened (as I will soon hopefully shortly make the story seem somewhat kinda credible), anyways, something happened, and it is this: I learned from association "how to be." That is, my mind filtered out all the bullshit, naturally (as minds often want n are often wont to do), and I soon became aware of how yer sposed to act in public, in private, or even in semi-private ~ how people are sposed to treat one another, n how to go about recovering from or dealing with certain circumstances which may appear in daily life, where all those groovy ideals are wont often to not happen anywhere near the ideal we want at all. "Welcome to the club"
Y�see, cuz the whole point is: that people, who are completely fucked up, if they appear onscreen (and they often tend to do so, to one degree or another), are usually not there as protagonists, and usually not taken seriously, or some such design as that they usually don�t end up getting their way (not for long, anyway), or at the very least it is made quite clear that they shouldn�t, whether they really do or not. This may seem like an alien planet to many readers bestowed upon by the blessings of reality, and many readers (whether they are watchers or not) may have experienced that the phenomena of life is nothing like this. This may be, but let it not blind us to the fact that we are capable of speculating as to how it should be instead. Music got a lot better once aspiring musicians got a listen to what others of their ilk were up to. It took awhile, but now music is almost everywhere (often even in elevators) n most would agree also of a somewhat higher level than in ancient times when the hammering of sticks was considered high art ~ now we have percussion. The point is, that movies n television are fast becoming the modern answer to what was known to the ancients as literature, and something else is sure to come along even sooner ~ probably moody, bluesy, interactive holographic video games, where we get to decide which is right, and which is the illusion. Anyways, storytelling has never been better, tho perhaps it was appreciated a whole lot more back when all there was, was this hairy old guy by a campfire, shaking a stick to make freaky shadows n scare the kiddies, even then, to be good little brats already n shut up already n go to sleep all fuckin ready. So. Adventure and morality are what most of us live for (whatever bleak interpretations that may mean so special to us all), n beyond the daily drudgery that life, for most of us, hast it musta must become. Also, we wonder how to be, n just about anybody who has time to put imagination past procrastination probably has a little bit of philosophy of their own to offer anyone who might listen. The more successful of these stories got told again, n by Darwin�s theory of natural selection (itself a wonderful story to behold, n be told), survived to regenerate more stories until a population of theoretical nonsense has filtered thru to us via a stream of consciousness that we are quite possibly ill equipped to perceive, much less understand. But in the meantime, there�s some pretty pictures to look at. Comedy is also evolving (tho you mightn�t get it, or get that from any or alla this groovy self-celebratory rubbish). If you don�t watch alotta tv, ya prolly don�t get a whole lotta supposedly funny commercials. Same thing with music: if ya been away from a radio for a few years, it�s likely most of what�s new n hip n cool n rad, or whatever the fuck is considered acceptable to the modern masses these daze, is a bit hard to get a handle on, wrap yer head around, kinda groove to ~ ah, whatever. It�s not perfect ~ tv, that is. I mean, the actors are allowed to finish their lines, the story ticks on by, n by the end of the episode, most stunning yet predictable conclusions are drawn. This has been done in good and bad ways, also mediocre ways, also unfathomably unfathomable ways. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is to discover in yerself thru the mind n imagination of another, perhaps of a similar species as your own. Input a little outside data into yer weary mind n heart. Allow a little fragile futility to enter into yer dreams, for poetry�s sake ~ as frivolous as that may seem to some, it�s vital to our creative natures, even collective consciousness. "Rock on!"
Lemme take a minute to describe my outlook on life. If people like my music, I am satisfied. If I�m satisfied with my music, tho, will people really like it? I�ve always been musical, n I always wanted to be a rock star when I grew up. I also wanted to be a pinball star when I grew up. I eventually found out tho, that pinball isn�t actually a sport, more of a way to deprive the slave masses of their loose change n yet whilst increasing their perpetual frustration threshold. This, imposed on us by our alien overlords, is seen as a good thing, n highly successful at that, especially since most of the more successful video games spawned thereof are based on alien overlords of some type n design. I remember taking a groovy shelf or board (about a foot or two wide, n twice as long) n placing it on the floor, elevated in the back on a tilt, grabbing some rocks for bumpers n using giant magic markers for flippers, n super balls or marbles for pinballs. This wasn�t fun for very long, as there was nothing to keep score for me. But soon I received the grooviest gift of an actual real life pinball machine (really, we weren�t rich), n I played it everyday. Much to my surprise n chagrin however, there were still kids in the neighborhood who had mastered the concept more than I. Years later, I decided to be a rock star for real. Well, this didn�t amount to billions of screaming fans either, but I still play about every day n have a sizable library of tunes I�ve written myself, sheerly out of obsession, n that�s all that fires creativity. So I�m never gonna be a rock star ~ n I�ve maturely decided, later in life, that I don�t wanna be even the slightest bit famous, for insanity�s sake. OK, it may sound like sour grapes ~ don�t get me wrong, I�d love it if my stuff were widely appreciated, tickled if it were sought after, titillated if it tweaked yer nipples, n tip over if it were totally timeless, etc. ~ but I�ve decided that what would really make me happy is if I could just finish some of this stuff; all of it would rule, n yet even more of it would give a mile wide smile of style n pride inside. "See me, feel me."
Excuse me, I drifted off for a minute there. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah. So at this point, it�s either gonna finally wildly interest you or severely bore you waltzing in timely three quarters to death to learn that most of my childhood was a frustrating string of curiosities which no one I knew happened to know anything about (I know, welcome to the club); so most of what I wanted or probably needed to learn was only gonna eventually become that way if I spent many hours of dedicated deliberation n raucous research vesting all my valuable play time interrogating the infinite n investigating matters myself. This may be fine for those of you who like to read for endless hours on end, sifting thru all the nonsense to find that one piece of subtlely hidden archival info that can help ya get on with the rest of yer day, n hence yer life. I, on the other hand, was not interested in work ~ n therefore, anything I didn�t already know, you�ll be shocked to find, I was equally disinterested in slaving too hard to be called fun justa find out; n off I went instead to find roofs to climb, or trees under which to practice my levitation. Even my inner child is getting a bit impatient with me at this point. Ah, whatever. Now, many psychobabbleologists out there will either already know or otherwise probably be not entirely interested in finding out just what�s wrong with this whole scene and/or scenario, psychobabble, n therefore (by reconnaissance) this whole picture ~ n prolly wish they, themselves, could levitate right about now. So I wanted to be a rock star, but that having never happened, I wanted to still be a musical genius, but since I�d much rather just sit around n generally jam out instead of learning all the scientific jargon behind scales n chords n theory n modes n floydian mumbo jumbo, I simply never learned ~ but more importantly, as I eventually learned more (ya pick shit up as ya go along), the more I realized how staggeringly little I actually knew about the subject (or even wanted to get into, really), n this has deeply affected my creativity. By far n wide, largess n smaller still, microcosm n macrocosm, my earlier stuff is far wiggier than my newer shit, mostly cuz I been teachin myself as I go along, n now I�m scared to do many things wrong ~ so creativity has suffered. "Everything�s already been done."
Ah, the innocence of a child, that inner little person trying to levitate again. I suppose he got a little bit off the ground way back when I first laid down those mighty monster mega epic interludes, (n I wasn�t even into it, or on ludes at the time). Maybe he thought for a minute that he was gettin elevated by what was seeming to be promising to be some sort of statement on the state of being. Maybe this�ll do: "The more I know, the more I know that I know nothing."
Right. So I may have gotten a little depressed about my lot in life, that I had somehow lost the magic, traded it for a bag of beans somewhere along the line ~ sure, maybe now I know the difference between E minor and G major, but is that really important in the grander scheme of things? The important thing is I still got my long ass hair. Not many people can say that, n most prolly wouldn�t want to, least not in careful company ~ but I think I was by far happier before I knew that people didn�t necessarily appreciate the concept of a male humanoid with long ass hair in their perpetual presence. I face it, I look like a freaky hippie from Freaksville, Freakland, Freakworld, USA. These people have every right in their tiny little minds to sneer at me n throw half-empty leers in my general vicinity. It�s a little better now than it was when I really was a zoid monster ~ but back then, pony tails were still mostly a feminine concept. Until recently, it was very uncool to appear to be feigning yerself to be so cool. Also, now I�m technically an adult, n people tend to respect that to a certain degree ~ n also, I currently live n reside in a part of the galaxy where people were raised n feel right to call you "Sir" every other millisecond, which I�m not used to n would probably be enough to keep me in my cave anyways, regardless of any aforementioned agoraphobic affluence. Anyways, I�m scared to seem like I don�t belong, cuz I�ve become accustomed to being allergic to such stunning disapproval as to make most people in my similar situation just up n go off n cut their hair down to a nub, sell all their gear, n get a real job in the real world. I knew that sort of thing wasn�t for me, at an impressionable age, watchin Nixon resign on national tv. Fuckin� politicians. Now, I�m very sorry ~ I didn�t mean to get political. I didn�t mean to talk about former figureheads n stoics of state ~ this is sposed to be about a stated state of being. Started out that way, anyways. But I think the point is, that no one should, in a perfect world, be forced to be anything that they�re not (this book, included), especially when in so doing so would harm them or their livelihoods, or pursuits of happiness thereof, or anyone they happen to be happily sitting around the coffee break table with, trying to innocently discuss a cheese danish, when something deep inside finally blows up in everybody else�s face but their own, n now they�re doomed. Why? I�ll tell you. No, I�m not about to just break into a song, but maybe you should ~ n if music�s not yer bag, try something else. Go get that lost dusty trusty teddy bear or dolly outta yer mother�s closet n give it a big squeeze hug like yer two all over again n pretend that this moment is all that matters, cuz it is ~ n it does, or at least it does to you, or it should, n that�s all that matters. "Take kindly the council of years,
So. Basically. Just because something inside each of us will never ever grow up, doesn�t mean the rest of the somethings whatever inside us all don�t hafta either. Many people you will meet, however, have yet to understand this. Most people, sometimes it seems, haven�t matured beyond grade school. But just cuz the principal�s office (n any perilous paddle therein) is no longer a threat, doesn�t mean you don�t sill hafta respect other people you happen to currently be sharing the same universe with. No. Impatience is learned ~ thru systematic suffocation of will. Brattiness is implied at an early age cuz most grown ups don�t understand what babies are saying to them. But the babies know perfectly well what they want. Grown up babies, however, often don�t ~ sometimes they�re not even aware that there is something that they want, or even possibly could have that would alleviate the tension they don�t even wanna consider they�re currently experiencing. Not getting it still happens, tho ~ but that is another story. So off I go into the world, armed with my infinite understanding of humanistic human nature, cuz I�ve watched so much tv lately, and confident that I know how to respect other people, if subconsciously ~ however, I have entered into an unholier than thine realm of distrust n denial, where bad vibes pervade n feast on the fears of those that they obviously consider to be thus inferior life forms, or at least well worth it n within their rights to cautiously consume at will. Innocent in all of this are the people (and most of the situations, for that matter) that I will encounter along the way, n when I get there, n most probably on the way back, if I happen to manage to survive the whole entire empirical ordeal. But what I don�t realize right off is this: that most people who are out in the world, are out in the world about everyday, n they�ve become subconsciously quite good at it. They�re all pros, n I�m a con ~ contrary to their existence, that is ~ I'm a hermit inside me own humble household ~ n naturally distant from each other, there's a permeating magnetic effect in effect. Right. So right about this time, they realize that something�s wrong with me, if not that I haven�t (haven�t exactly been sharing the same universe with them recently). So I�m weird. I think I'd feel a little better about it tho (I mean, weird is good, or can be), if people didn't laugh at me so much whenever I happened to hence me hippie head (or hang me hat) outside me humble home (all that's pirate talk for, "Ar"). I know it's one of the many services I provide, but the general point is that the genuflection reflection refraction reaction situation ("argh") should be intended. "Tick tock."
When I was a little kid, me ma usedta say, "Oh honey, they're just jealous," as that's what mums are wont to say, things like that. I didn't know what she meant by that then (luckily), n still don't ~ as jealously is an alien concept, at least to me ~ but I am jealous of people who do seem to know what that means. Maybe it's a kinda fear of not gettin what ye want outta life cuz someone else has what you perceive as what ye need to get it. That's it! I need to fake it. But that would be dishonest, and I'd feel guilty. Man, I wish I knew how to be dishonest without feelin guilty about it. So now that I think I got a handle on things, maybe I'm jealous of meself. Man, I am fucked up, eh? Must be all the fearsome bee barf I hadda injest n subliminally identify with. Most people have a strong surging urge to fear the weird. So much so that any little red light blinking on n off in their heads to this effect, can affect any ineffectual affection I may in fact have been naturally assuming as a matter of fact. Naturally. That is (simply), if yer a zoid, people won�t like you ~ n most people feel perfectly justified to sneer n laugh n jeer n gaff at any n all suspicious characters they happen to be pervious witness to. They mean (as they're mean), hey, they don�t hafta like you, or be kind, or be nice, or be polite even ~ sometimes even if it is their job to be so courteous (n by partisan effect, their upbringing to so not appear to be so judgmental). But you can mentally judge, quite instinctively by the way, that these instinctive regurgitative reactions that yer witnessing, in your effect (n honor), are probably not voluntary reactions decided upon by any high tribunal of anyone�s idea of rational thought. However, these aforementioned incongruous circumstances may well prove to be used very well n (somwhere between whole n half) heartily against you by any proletariat or prosecutorial mindfuck that any of the partitioned parties involved may have going on inside their minds, with or without their knowledge. Hey, you know yer a safe person, n ya don�t mind, or ever mean anybody any harm, but that�s often not good enough, even if they consciously agree with you on that. I�m a utopia based optimist. I like to think that as long as everybody gets along, everybody will get along. Like some random law of physics that just popped into my mind, but has existed in this universe all along. I didn�t hafta think about it for it to be there, but there it is. Now what do I do? So I go out into the world like I have a very good right to, or so I�ve been told by all the propaganda I�ve been reinterpreting for myself, n some nipplefuck decides he wants to, in front of all his friends (for peer credits, no doubt), hassle me cuz I�m a longhair. He was just hassling a chick, who for all intents n purposes may be considered here as being groovy, tho red faced as she was, walking away from the cavemen, pretending to not notice that she�s being quite publicly called attention to in such a way that she�s not too terribly fond of. This is evil. Pure unadulterated R-rated evil. No one�s gonna put him in jail because of it, n if this person is currently not attending the same elementary school as I, he�ll probably get away with it ~ and if his peer group is from the same elementary school as he, he�ll probably be elected alpha male real soon, n thus get any extra beers that happen to be left in the cooler at the end of the next session of practiced mandatory anti-solitude. It�s his right: he hassled the hippies n yelled "Ooh baby," at the babe. So that�s reality. Such as it is. Sad as it may be. That�s what we hafta contend with. Very rare is the viewable interlude or somatic storyline that shows these events without immediate relevance to plot. I am at a loss myself at this point, but perhaps if I were not an only child I�d be more kinda used to it by now. Now alluva sudden, I don�t feel much like we be jammin mon anymore. Just wanna go over there n tell em off cuz I�m an elder now ~ but still, there�s about a half dozen of em. Is my hair so offensive, somatic, so matted? "Shut up n go to sleep!"
So what�s a charming self absorbed pseudo intellectual to do about any or all of this, eh? I know what my ma would do, she�d prolly pretend to be very calm n cool n pretend to pretend it didn�t bother her n prolly pretend to not cry later that night when no one�s looking, n maybe presumably about something else completely different, but it would take its toll nevertheless (affection is, in effect, affected). My dad, on the other hand, would prolly go over there n start somethin if he thought he could take em, n if he couldn�t he�d prolly show em his gun. Either way, he couldn�t let it sit well either. This is where my genes come from, so this is why I�m still talking. But for me, I thought of some delightfully witty n mindstopping things to say, over the course of the next several weeks, (I don�t remember any of em now, of course, tho). D'oh! This may help me now with the confidence that if anything like that ever happened again I�d know how to deal with it, or at least I think I know, regardless, n so at least not be crippled with frustration n injustice n polymorphic subservience ~ but the reality is that they�d probably kick my ass if they thought they could get away with it. That�s how they are. They�re dicks. Get over it. If you need a piece of wisdom or wit to make the uncomfortable feelings go away, think of this: they�ll be very sorry about all of this when they grow up. They�ll feel bad one day ~ n if not, they don�t deserve to. "Sure!"
Yes, emotions should be our most cherished of psychic possessions. Even if they�re a giant pain in the ass sometimes. Plug them into yer eventual intellectuality n subdermal subconscious rationality n ya have every sign of one day evolving into a fellow human being. Whether other fellow human beings ever treat you like a fellow human being, however, is up to them. Hey, they're only humans, right? So, I�m still not OK with intolerance or aggression or any insufferables in general, but I do need to go out into the world one day. I�m not OK with disapproval, mainly because (intellectually anyways) I do pride meself on me conscious conscientiousness, n that feeling of needing to be good, if only for the approval (or absence of disapproval) of others. One day humans may discover just exactly what it is that babies are talking about, n then (via reconnaissance) maybe most of us will stop growing up to be such babies. In the meantime, however, I still hafta find some way of surviving the ever imposing fear of inescapable n yet all too obvious onslaught whenever I peak me head outta me hole. Not to say I have me head up me ass, (it�s probably been said a few times now already without me help). Suffice it to say I�m tired of all this worrying n miserably whining away me miserable day, n I wanna just fuckin relax n get on with me life all fuckin ready. This is prolly not gonna happen, but kinda what this book is sposed to be about. "Three is a magic number."
So here it is, the end of my tiny little book devoted to selfless self-interest ~ tightly wound into trilogy format for you to mat yer hair with. Remember that all quotations presented here, my tongue was almost entirely surrounded by both of my upper cheeks at the time. Off you go . . . . . . . |