Reversable rhetoric

One million jobs project aimed at the unemployed OR Fornication of simulation and populist pander

            Promises for help are merely facades for legislation geared towards corporate assistance. Socialism for large corporations is perpetrated as a belief of continual subsidies that runs parallel to incremental restoration of tribal eminence. This reality of gradual reactionary change ramifies a societal consciousness that willfully accepts citizenry rights rescinded at the hands of a silent minority. The foundation of the “coup d’état in slow motion” is a national paradigm beholden to corporate capitalism, perpetuating a wrench of power from lower order economies to be firmly placed within the hands of an elite social standing. Residence of the tier above any nominal “upper-middle class” not only compete for those positions that grant access to control platforms of business, but those who participate in such a climb do so ultimately to serve as sovereign over a niche of the national power structure.

            Our perception of a “dog-eat-dog world” may be abstracted to a person endowed with the ability of generating and engaging in the creation and flow of power. A strange yet familiar alchemy will quickly elevate such a person, as a celebrity suddenly appears in the mass media, to a figurehead representing some camp of invested interests, people looking to make money as quickly and inexpensively as possible. The fusion of consumer society with the national fortitude of political and military power finds a flat-topped pyramid; a broad base of exploited citizenry, who mostly squabble over orchestrated forms of reality, exemplifies the structure of an exclusively material Superpower. A question begging to be asked, perhaps out of stubborn habit, would ponder the potential influence powerful family dynasties would have in managing the ebb and flow of powers that guide a globalized money exchange, as well as administering and securing a preferred global finance paradigm.

            Sociopaths wind through the routine of a 9–5 wager; as a reward for persistence and dedication, the loyalist will grow to be rich. This moral wager stands to victimize the loyalist, establishing an exploitative ethic: an honest day’s work will force you to become targeted as a sap devoid of the capacity for the carnival swindle. For example: the warm bond of neighbors when the trumpets blare, “WE ARE GOING TO WAR!” None of us are prone from the poison of violence. Unfettered capitalism is a revolutionary force, a revolution of meaning, to regulate the overturn of value. Repetition of reality.  Cannibalism.  Mountain top removal, emplaced moonscape. Destroy this planet, move onto the next.  Virus, consumption, mimicry, exponential growth, treason of intellectuals. We cannot take power, we must renounce power.  

Anemic Attitude

How much is this?

Um, I think that one is $30.

Oh my God . . . I've bought something like this, SOOOOO many times in the past.

Oh, huh huh huh.

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Lately, I've been mindful of my habits. I've greeted ritual with the same rigorous adroitness the demure Agent Moulder employs in the Pacific Northwest when facing unexplained phenomena: frantic research; sleepy-eyed rumination; lack of dossier; advocate of brevity; unorthodox trust and compassion with the locals; arriving just at the last moment to catch a glimpse of the paranormal/supernatural. In the end, I lose sight, and find myself returned to the beginning.

I try to be creative as I approach my ritualized day, searching for alternatives instead of relying on convention. I find myself, just as concerns of aliens or werewolves — ghastly anomalies — often elude our progress-driven culture, without total appreciation for commitment to an alternative. I catch a glimpse, the feeling dissipates, and I am done. I recognize the ritual, and then cannibalize it for spare parts to fashion a new reality. The ritual of my daily habits is incorporated into the virtual language of an altered environment. The ritual is broken, and I unload the stress of completing that ritual through the play of new permutations sourced from an exceedingly ambiguous provenance. Hapless repetition of behavior, schemes of procrastination, falling head first into a pile of dirty laundry — I am consumed from inside only to be regurgitated out onto the world. Less an implosion of the soul than vacuumed spirit. Too much salt, sugar, fat, grease, alcohol, smoke, negligence, body odor, matted hair, anemic attitude.

Into oblivion, obliterated and obtuse, witness the apotheosis of consumption. I refuse to believe in such worship of devalued signs, though ironically, perhaps this is a sign of the times; emotional refusal in tandem with willful participation. Compulsory without force, for the tether extends from deep inside the machine of society into us all. I do not fight systematic participation, only dread the day when I no longer have the comforts of forced recreation. My muscle become inflamed with tension; I am pained by the dead things consumed hours earlier. Yet I am convinced things are normal, and I have plenty of time to wait for an epiphany. Burgess Meredith haunts an opium den, as I haunt a neglected present.

Paradox of the post-modern worker/consumer

"Here in lies the present paradox: work has totally triumphed over all other ways of existing, at the same time as workers have become superfluous. Gains in productivity, outsourcing, mechanization, automated and digital production have so progressed that they have almost reduced to zero the quantity of living labor necessary in the manufacture of any product. We are living the paradox of a society of workers without work, where entertainment, consumption and leisure only underscore their lack from which they are supposed to distract us."

Answer to Max Schreck

Spoken at some point in the outmoded future.

"He also said—pointedly—that space travel nowadays was an escape from the problems of Earth. That is, one took off for the stars in the hope that the worst would happen and be done with in once"s absence. And indeed I couldn't deny that more than once I had peered anxiously out the porthole—especially when returning from a long voyage—to see whether or not our planet resembled a burnt potato."

this is the way

'This is the way you work a case. No matter what kind of a case it is, no matter what the state of its recall, no matter if the case is normal, psychotic or neurotic, or what, this is the way.

'The number of aberrations possible is the number of combinations of words possible in a language as contained by engrams. In other words, if a psychotic thinks he is God, he has an engrams which says he is God. If he is worried about poison in his hash, he has an engram which tells him he may get poison in his hash. If he is certain he may be "fired" from his job any moment even though he is competent and well-liked, he has an engram which tells him he is about to be "fired." If he thinks he is ugly, he has an engram about being ugly. If he fears snakes and cats, he has engrams which tell him to fear snakes and cats. If he is sure he has to buy everything he sees, despite his income, he has an engram which tells him to buy everything he sees.'

Hey people who read this! I might add more stuff to this page! I might not! I'm in perpetual indecision! But I'm so happy!

spicy-brown mustard as babyfood

I was caught in rain last night and bugged out of a slumber party.

I woke up today with an exploding mind and too much latent suds.

Light-headed treks up and down two flights of stairs rendered thoughts of Tuesday runoffs impossible.

Broad strokes of paint on my walls also proved to be difficult.

All in all, today was not a productive day. There's still an old mattress leaning up against the wall to my right. Clean folded laundry remains in my hamper. As papers fly everywhere, I feel that clutter is starting to fly towards me at every angle due to some magnetic attraction unbeknown to me, and at a time when I'm trying to limit all my material possessions. I fall prey to self-induced anxiety and pace around the apartment only to find that I haven't done a thing all day. Soon, I realize that the rain has cleared and pigeons have once again started defecating on my windowsills, invoking the urge to hunt.

The latest travel/food show on TV explains how pigeon tastes sweet and isn't at all gamy. I always imagined a greasy texture much like that of guinea pig. I'll settle for randomly donated pieces of pheasant from the Italian diamond polisher my father sometimes sees at the local bar.

telling you i can't be without you

i had the opportunity to go see my friend's new house last weekend, and also live without internet for an ENTIRE WEEKEND. it's amazing how the internet's become the primary medium for my age's demographic, the absence of which may drive some to go crazy. junkie's drying up, going through withdrawal...



as you can see from above, the "elite" amongst us operate fine with mobile devices that utilize rouge wi-fi signals in the ether, while the airport on this poor schmuck's macbook couldn't hold a signal for more than ten seconds. still, helping hands and good conversation always suffice for the metaphorical methadone, and i'd go crazy without either from the people i call friends. and with promises of BBQs and camp fires, jam sessions in the attic and hikes through the "honey trail," the 2009 summer nights are looking to be moments of bliss mixed with rapture and seasoned with mental clarity. Read: things i need more of.

Good morning, CURTIS (25 March 2009)

when you pretend to be an insomniac, you wind up seeing the sun rise on an empty stomach. this is a signal for you to either go to sleep or take some more uppers. or, in this case, get out the camera and head up to the roof; the cold air is really refreshing, but only for a short period of time. I look at the "high rises" pic and think of the end of Fight Club, though there isn't much sense in actually going through with parking vans of explosives in the basement parking garages. I'm hoping a lot more of the high rise condos will wind up as affordable housing units, banking on my prediction that sales of "luxury units" will be next to nil. And if you really want to own a Hummer and park it in the basement of your high rise in Brooklyn, please just move to LA.


St. Ann's (east-view)


high rises (west-view)


corner (north-view)


CURTIS

3-XI-08 (Birthday month)

It's been a slow existence since the beginning of August. My travels down south to Maryland having ceased, I've fallen into the repetitious motions of two kinds of work; financially supporting myself and the road towards a masters degree. As I trudge into the fourth month of this regimented schedule the manifestation of depression around me seems to have become accentuated. I've been focused on the growing worries and concerns of others, as a climate of anxiety continues to build around me.
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The dreams that define who I am have grown into old beakers, vessels for suppressed memories. Gone are the cinematic dreams of subterranean space wars, the banishment to the realm of garbage or devil dolls incinerating churches. I am in prison with a former lover, and she tells me that an inmate will rape me before the day's end. I am an observer of a deathmatch involving old friends I never talk to. Finally, I am on a trail in a vaguely familiar forest, and I am being led by an old elementary school teacher to a place where I'll be made a eunuch.
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As I grind rock down to the width of a hair, I am beginning to perceive that most advice is flawed. I say this after spending over a month's time, intermittently, in a lab that should be neutron bombed in order to disintegrate all the inhabiting Cold War ghosts haunting the lab's residing pack-rat. He surrounds himself with half-finished projects and obsolete machinery. Yes, I choose to ignore that corner of the building.

Break from work binge

I've been slaving away at completing this thesis, now a task that seems to be driving me insane. It is probably just the environment in Binghamton, both the city itself and the department of geosciences that has fucked me over, but I've grown very disenchanted with academia, a field that until very recently I had no doubt of making some sort of career in. I keep telling myself that after I finish this piece of esoteric literature, I can continue onwards to a more meaningful study with a more diligent, attentive advisor whom I already have developed an excellent rapport with. Then I find myself predicting the future way too much. I envision myself in 5 or 6 years in a light I don't necessarily want to live in. This is a detriment to my present work. I sometimes hate myself for it.

I've been drinking too much (coffee) and smoking too much (tobacco) and I haven't been taking pictures, writing prose or sketching any emotions onto paper, nor have I been reading the many books that I begin only to lay on the shelf and ignore. If I cannot accept this lifestyle, then why continue?

I feel like I've been lying to myself. I vacillate endlessly.

petere

let's re-build our life. we got a strong foundation, but overpayed contractors. let's start with the former, nix the later.

invocation series

creed


commune


dementia


delusion


heightened loaf


lost gaze

Reprise on Idelness

lost_gaze

I need mouth-water.

Fell back on sleep after a party on Friday. I follow no calendar but I still meet the deadlines labeled on such a thing. Correspondence from afar, it's a difficult give-take relationship. But I am hopeful still, clambering on about the wayward theories on a topic meant to instill fear in the public today; what a difference 800 Myrs makes with public perception.

Speaking of years coming to ahead, the lectures of Ian Lungold seem to predict the changes of our societal consciousness based on the esoteric Mayan calendar. To me, it seems more like trying to return to a sacred symbol to find hope, to worship and abide by. Is the very notion of commodity something that we take for granted? How much do luxuries separate us from those who don't have what we have? Are the impoverished victim of our leisure? Or have they merely been run-over by the "power-train?" Who have we, on the "ethics-train" run-over? The underlying privileges of people are not really brought to light. Or maybe this is JUST a trivial nuance to the galactic scale of things.

Right now, our consciousness is entering puberty. Duck low.

Heightened Loaf

I’ve been eating less. I can only stomach so much before I begin to feel nausea. Sometimes I do not eat until 5 PM, at which point a tin of kippers or an avocado will do the trick. I’ve made the mistake of drinking much coffee on an empty stomach after a night of heavy drinking; a reflexive purge is ordinarily imminent. If I should smoke a cigarette I would complete the reflex and vomit profusely. Why should I bestow such a purge on myself?

There has been a lot of vomiting about me lately, in one form or another. Is society trying to administer ipecac to its members? It might just be the beginning of flu season, winter right on our heels. (Or should I say, noses) The winter, the cold and wind, do such things usher in the beginning of the season to be sick? It might have much to do with the food we eat during the winter. The quality of much of our produce diminishes during this season. While meat can usually be obtained clean and fresh (if you know your mongers, and do not trust the meat council) produce becomes empty, loses substantiality and tastes more like cardboard. This emptiness in your stomach leads to nausea? Not if you eat more heavy grains or meat, at least I’ve found.

Winter could very well be the best time for meat consumption; meat and potatoes put fat on the bones. Considering the adoption of a lighter diet when it’s warmer, Mediterranean diets are lighter than, say, Northern and Eastern European diets. These varying cultures and their respective diets reflect the climate. In a temperate zone with extremes, people should adapt the types of foodstuffs consumed based on the seasonal changes. However, with many “ethnic” foods around us, it’s difficult not to fall back on our own personal favorites, which might not be the best for us in terms of preventing illness. Should we call upon dietary practices from varying cultures based on the changing seasons? We should invoke the Food God to cure us of our maladies.

Harvest Haddock

Decidedly delusional

Queasy dinner aches and full-body spasm shakes, suffering from attention withdrawal kills incentive. To ease the pain of grains in the intestine, it was decided by all that a call to others was in order: message, message, hang-up, hang-up, mild disappointment. Tremolo was heard from above. Harmony was written on the fissured ceiling.

Grains, canola oil instead of eggs, bland stuffing and whipped squash. The coffee was pretty good. Lethargy and lingering laconism. 8:55, a departure to the realm of house rules and how no smoking in the house will appease all. “But if it is weed, it’s alright. Hey, we are not smoking cigarettes. This is a Camel stuffed with cannabis, honest. […] Oh, we are smoking more cigarettes stuffed with weed. Three cigarettes…..four…four cigarettes. They all have weed in them. It’s called a stocking-stuffer on the street. Hit up your local library to get educated, son.”

We saw a sleeping dead person on a broken armchair. He had a small tape recorder on in his right arm. It was a signal for all to depart. The artful frolic of a crack-head behind a funeral home brought the point home. A premonition should never frolic.

I've been sick

The sickness wells up inside me. I get shakes and feel queasy, a carnival is riding around in my stomach. I get urges of purges, a great increase in desire to watch soap operas. That kind of viewing will purge the sickness.


sunken meadow, obliterate my creed



The sickness migrates to my mind: my mind is sick. I get dementia and become delusional. I think nothing thoughts and grind away at remedial tasks, confounded from a perspective of a sea cucumber or any number of bi-valves. I get anxious and throw away all food. I do not need anything. The grating air around me stifles my synapses. I soon collapse and remain prostrate on the floor for hours.


falsely commune, uniqueness naught



I awaken to sickness in my stomach. I decide to purge. 15 minutes. Weakened by the deluge from the torso-median, it is a wonder I could ever get back to work. I do. I don’t. I have some bristling sardines in hot mustard sauce left. Oil will make things feel better.


meadow light, soft rest, lingering indefinitely

GET YER FOOT OUTTA THE MUD

maybe now, through the effect photos have and memorances from just 2 weeks ago, i can finally get my feet out of the mud and onto the concrete, stretch and start sprinting.



it feels somewhat lighter after being sunk in the viscous stuff.

the burning emblem (meaningless)

I was out in the valley that Charles Manson and his cult were dwelling in, Surprise Canyon, reckless hippies occupying old gold prospectors space (an old desert basin that the Panamint people would only venture into for spiritual journeys that would bring them to the bring of death) The power and greed for gold replaced by the misconstrued ideas of LSD-inflicted madmen. make the most of it. the emblem is lost, the meaning buried beneath the carbonates and detritus that are the hills.

burning emblems at the Manson family ranch.

The Altar of Pergamon (ars morendi)

Ars Morendi

I recently came across a book entitled "Old world death sequences in the everyday lives of Late Roman Empire hinterland tribes: vol. IV" that details ancient methods of dying without succumbing to temptation, juxtaposed with the consequences of dying in a poor state. It was interesting to read about the practices of the European tribes at the time, though undoubtedly influenced by Roman officers and lasagna collectors. (lasagna = retribution) Though full of in inaccuracies about the state of the empire, the book did feature, oddly enough, a section written by Ben Stein. It reads as follows:

The art of dying was practiced to simplify horrors in the world, as well as the tribulations that an average person of the time had to endure in everyday life. Yet, the actually commitment to a righteous ars morendi proved more difficult. Often times, people would just lie and have a witness advertise his somber, good death. This is akin to modern day obituaries of men and women in newspapers, giving them a sense of dignity even if they didn't rightfully deserve it."

What this fails to take into account is that most celebrities lie about their death so as to cash in on post mortem publicity. The common idea of the green-stuff (money) is synonymous to demons tempting a dying man with golden staffs or bejeweled crowns. Perhaps the man who once co-hosted Win Ben Stein's Money has already fallen into a Bardo of flesh, consumed by the greed of bills and notes.

A much more accurate text would be "The Craft of Dying: A Study of the Literary Traditions of the Ars Moriendi in England", among other texts.

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When I used to get t’wasted on mescal and IPA, there used to be a saying we all would chant, or sing, or just plain belch out like a Garfield filled with lasagna. It was "hey buddy, keep yer load!" this chant would signify all the girls to get naked, tie pillows over their vaginas and then dance about. then someone would shout, "HEY YOU!" and the chorus would chime in the rest: “KEEP YER LOAD!” It was usually pretty raucous, something reminiscent of the evil altar at Pergamon so callously written about in the Book of Revelations. We took it as something more along the lines of Zeus worship. KEEP YOUR LOAD! HAIL ZEUS!

These orgiastic parties were quite pointless, actually. We were kidding ourselves; through blind debauchery we were actually in a state of denial, living a false reality. One evening our friend G, who was feeling a bit ill at the time yet nevertheless still wanted to partake in our Pergamon party, collapsed in the middle of mounting a pillow-prostrate lady friend of ours. Everyone stopped, took him up to the bedroom and wanted for him to make any signs of life. His heart-rate was slow, but very steady. He woke when I alone was in the room with him and said he wanted to take some valium. I procured some from the host downstairs and let him take the pills. He died within about 20 minutes, insofar as the coroner could tell us. I knew the valium wasn’t what ended his life. I don’t honestly know for sure, but he died with some shred of dignity. Some month’s later during his roommate’s moving process out of their old apartment I was helping her take down her furniture. G’s old bed was to stay, yet I noticed a book tucked flush behind the bed posts. It was a copy of “The Craft of Dying.” He had written in it, all sorts of odd little cartoon characters as if these were his notes while reading it. Odd, but simultaneously, expected. The book now lies flush in back of my bed post, ticked away until I can realize the grandeur of such a practice.

detour (whole in the ground)

The feeling had changed from an amalgam of hope, passive joy and mild relief to a deep idleness, a dread of being left behind when all others were being washed towards the island of progress. Sabbatical? Sub-par performance? Poor writing? The supposed strength became an obvious weakness, as the lion sinks its teeth deep into the shoulder, rendering limbs lifeless and void of use. The mind is still in shock; there were no clues to be seen prior to the straightforward statement. You remember being told this, “Be ready for anything at anytime from anybody.” Have you forgotten it? Maybe you have had enough good fortune to forget it.

I undoubtedly have had good fortune, yet I don’t think this is the shock of receiving distraughtly sudden news. I feel I was in a perpetual state of passivity, as you have mentioned with my now dreadful feeling if idleness. In fact, I feel most of the time I am passively pensive, perturbed or downtrodden. Sometimes I feel as if I take the people I meet for granted. I do have an idea of poor states of the mind, of the heart, or of misfortune. I create my own misfortune that counters the positive actions done towards me. I feel it is my intrinsic reaction to embrace sadness through happiness. It creates a sense of being that I feel is who I am.

Well, all I am saying is misfortune is universal. And don’t get too emotional you damn vagina.

Takes one to know one, sunshine.