there's something about living on the corner of a highway intersection.
during the night, and when it's really early and relatively calm, there's a whole living background of birds and trees living the best lives they can, enjoying every peaceful moment's pause from the polluting intensity in a world that's not built for them.
when it's busy, the constant intersecting streams of humanity, people transitioning into or out of their work forms, people checking into and out of the present, each in their own way, no one as present or mindful as those with sirens blaring, horns honking, or taking that dramatic step back from a near-road-death experience.
here i sit, the background to the background but also the star of my own drama, perpetually transitioning into and out of my own modes and states of being as countless other worlds pass me by.
we submit ourselves to wage slavery in order to commit our children to the unsavory
in the vain hopes of them training through the competitive pre-primary-secondary-tertiary production line that tunnels straight into the factories of the forgotten far below the morbid mountains of misdirected minds
competing for golden tickets to burn out churning and burning oils and animals, oceans and jungles to line other peoples' pockets
and that’s if they’re not broken down by the social education engine first
we measure our successes in days and nights overflowing with busywork and bureaucracies
we measure our failures in welfare cheques with strings attached to draw and quarter us down into charities
instead of the very communities that they were supposed to be uplifting
we passionately play job roulette in the hope of winning roles that won't *only* pay us to be miserable
we optimize our fad diets, ingest caffeine and pop pills
but still it takes every ounce of will we can muster just to zombie-lurch through each day
too anxious to perform properly while pretending that everything's okay
we offer ourselves up on the altars of our addictions
to pharmaceuticals or exercise or sports or games
to television and social media channels that distract and rot our brains
with sordid simulations of society, nonsense narratives obscuring futility
we'll give ourselves over to literally any kind of fantasy that might help us temporarily forget our existential pain reality
we chase down our nightmares with spirits
to drown our spirits and bring on dreamless sleep and cotton-mouth mornings
after whole lives chasing smoke through halls of mirrors we're too tired and stressed to rest
to make memories that fuel us
to write our own stories that build us
once upon a time we didn't have all of these modern inconveniences
and our society in its denial has maintained the useful lie that luddites were against technology
but in actual fact their fight was for their right to continue living their lives on their own terms
setting their own hours
spending their borrowed time on their families
constructing their communities
the original luddite rage was against the same perpetual energy consuming industrial complex machine that's held its iron grip around our necks for so long that we only remember our freedoms in advertising materials, political propaganda
and other children's tales designed to hold back the looming revolution
we've all been generationally traumatized by lifetimes of trying to keep up with the runaway gunpowder-germ-and-steel train
on foot
we’ve no time to grab our stumbling neighbors by the hand without falling behind ourselves
our breaths are short, our lungs are burning and our muscles are on fire, but we keep on running
we’ve no time to consider that this train's tracks are not a viable, reliable route to surviving our relentless race to the future
to consider that there might be alternate modes of transport that we can use to get to dust B from dust A
modes that let us ride with our soulmates and even sing along the way
we can walk, we can ride, we can slip, we can slide
just as long as we make sure to always remember the golden rule of "never go it alone"
because you don't have to do this alone.
you. don't. have. to do. this. alone.
you. don't. have. to do. this. alone.
you. don't. have. to do. this. alone.
our internalized social functioning inversions have generated mass hallucination diversions and left us wired up to implode
we inadvertently drive ourselves and our kids to either shoot up or shoot out, and then reload
everything seems to be broken, but it’s not just the compasses in our pointing fingers
you see, we blame the rich, we blame the glitch, we blame the cheat, we blame the snitch,
we blame the poor, we blame the pure, we blame the sick, we blame the cure,
we blame the company, the individual, we blame the economy, and the aboriginal,
we blame the foreigners, we blame their gods, we blame our own with their golden rods
but it doesn't matter who's at fault
because we're all full of faults
and the fixing's down to each and every one of us if we want to bring this grim storyline to a halt
the truth is there isn’t anybody who will save us but ourselves
there’s no hero in a cape, or band of plucky dwarves and elves
we need to bridge the gaping chasms of our fractured collective consciousness
pull together if we're going to reach towards redemption, rebuild our self-confidence
we need to dig ourselves out of our self-imposed prisons where we serve without a crime
even if we can only afford to do so one single disposable plastic teaspoon at a time
one foot in front of the other
day after grueling day
my time marches behind me with a gun to my back
looming larger and larger
as we all walk towards the abyss
billions and billions of us marching together
each desperately clutching at whatever nourishment presents itself
some shove others out of the way, or ride on their backs
some hold out helping hands and lend their shoulders for support
and some just shrug their shoulders, and lie down
while falling is inevitable
how we march in the face of its inevitability expresses our truest selves
when we have time to look up, the views can be incredible
when we connect, our love makes everything worthwhile
but my dreams feel like someone small standing before a massive wall
i wake up each morning to the sound of the beating drums of the times
the thudding of my heart in my ears as i try to watch my footing and escape my worries about the future
live my gratitude, because acknowledging it is not enough
never enough
just like everything else
being in control of our destiny isn't necessary for a good life
but having a sense of control is crucial
as i find myself compulsively putting one foot in front of the other
watching myself drag my feet
my take on the tragedy of the titan cronos eating his children is that it's less of a lesson on how time devours whatever time produces, and is more about how one's intentions can be so misconstrued that the only version of that story that has survived is the one in which he does so out of fear
and not love
for my little boy has taught me just how difficult it can be to hold back from dislocating my own jaw in order to swallow his cuteness whole
when he's unhappy, his squeals and shrieks shatter my heart and scatter the shards but his smiles
and the sound of his little voice box engine starting
uhh-uhh-huhhhhhhhh
and the feeling of his little hands gripping me tight as our breaths squeeze his chest into mine
these melt and draw those scattered heart shards right back together again
each time reforming a little larger than before
we dance along together to his sheer delight, his joyous little jazz hands clench into vices holding on for dear life
every first moment that his curious eyes lock on to mine i am mise en abyme
absorbed by my reflection's reflection
in the mirror of his face i see my two greatest loves and our future stares back with a sublime wisdom that i cannot comprehend
stares straight through me with an intensity against which i cannot - and will not - defend
we have planted a tree of life with its fractal branches spiraling into infinities
heavily laden with the fruits of what-ifs and could-bes
and each tastes of dizzying, endless possibilities
but all of our fantasies of how we wish for him to be fall subject to the fact that we have as much control over the direction of his soul as of the earth's revolutions around our sun
that our influence over him will be primarily due to what we do and have done
and that each reflex, each utterance chooses paths and closes doors
even since long before his eyes were first able to perceive us
every moment of his life is an origami fold over hot coals
we're trying to construct a phoenix without ever actually having seen one
(based on Metallica's The Thing That Should Not Be)
parents' fear is gripping tight
terror as they kill the light
hyper child begins to see
an opportunity to roam free
fearless wretch
insanity
he watches
lurking and trolling me
he sneaks to a
forbidden site
he searches
hunter in the shadows is rising
remorseless
in madness you dwell
crawling chaos, on the ground
yelp a tiny, twisted sound
out from blankets, now possessed
feels no pity, out of breath
fearless wretch
insanity
he watches
lurking and trolling me
priceless sleep
has been upset
he awakens
hunter in the shadows is rising
remorseless
in madness you dwell
in madness you dwell
overtired but will not lie
endless nights may make you cry
drain you of your sanity
face the kid that would not sleep
fearless wretch
insanity
he watches
lurking and trolling me
he sneaks to a
forbidden site
he searches
hunter in the shadows is rising
remorseless
in madness you dwell
if i didn't love you
if i wasn't committed to you
committed to our private asylum
i would have walked a long time ago
and so would you
so i take our love for granted
on our good days
when we're two giddy teenagers fighting over who loves who more
fighting over who gets to hold our son, basking in delight on the days he picks me over you
basking in small corners of old buildings in the rays of the sun reflecting off snow lined window frames reflecting off of slick skin bonded with ancient magic and taut with the ecstasy of two halves becoming whole and beginning to heal
your gifts to me and mine to you
and on our dark days
when bruises and scratches cover our hearts and the floor is slick with spent lives
lives spent in cold forests on dark moons where aliens convinced us that we were alone in the universe
that our lives didn't matter
and couldn't matter
while they brutally tore into our cores
seeking to destroy the engines that would take us home but failing to find them:
our technologies so different that they could not identify their true targets
so our power remained even as our skins were ripped away
and whether raw or covered in spikes and steel i see you
i see you see me
i see us see our history and i take our love for granted
and i am hyper aware of just how much i am blessed
deep down in my core i am truly grateful
but here on the sun-kissed surface of my soul i am dispirited, distressed
by every traumatic event
by next month's unpaid rent, by every abuse, by every betrayal, by every injustice, by every bend in the trail that was almost a break
we're told that depression is a chemical imbalance
a physiological malfunction
but the truth is that depression is a psychological symptom, not a physical cause
perhaps it's "pessimism writ large", or else just "optimism overwritten"
i've recently learned how my years of ptsd and burnout are doing the same sort of long-term damage to my prefrontal cortex as psychiatric medication
only without the benefits
that my personality has been gradually decomposing into a downward spiral stairway through the gates of hell
and as i circle around and around i see every interaction's intention as its dark timeline reflection,
i see threats in every attempt to bridge the gaps that have grown steadily between the orbits of our island soul galaxies
i wrap my anxieties around my sense of self's instabilities like a warm, electrifying blanket that makes my blood boil and keeps the cool, fresh air at bay,
that makes me stare longingly at sunsets but then quickly turn away before i have a chance to let the beauty stray to touch my heart and linger
that makes every smile fade too fast because it feels too good to be true so i overthink it away
but i do remember how to laugh sometimes, and not just nervously
and i do remember how to scan event horizons for the capsules of goodness that have been frozen in time
i remember how to identify constellations in the tiny pinpricks of light that take eons to get through my dark nights and know that this lonely rock i'm standing on is just one drop in an infinite sea of misery
that we've all hit rot bottom collectively
and that our only hope is to remember that we didn't choose to be born in a world of outsiders and aliens while our ancestors' stories echo in our ears telling lovely lies about the old worlds, smaller, manageable worlds where life was easier and people had character and words like "better" and "happiness" actually meant something
before we ate of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil and woke up to see that we're a shame of cowardly lions scavenging the ruins of a paradise overrun by flying monkeys and small men hiding behind loud voices
that we're heroes-in-training
without swords
without shields
without training
because nobody ever taught us how to defend ourselves
or even that we *could* defend ourselves
instead we've been raised to shackle ourselves to the miseries of our forefathers,
raised to repeat their mistakes by raising the stakes that our very lives are riding on,
raised to space out repeatedly tugging on the sleeves of one-armed bandits
begging for the money to pay overdue fees for our borrowed sins
but this house of god is just another casino where the house always wins
on my black days, with their grey underbelly of bloated clouds threatening a shitstorm and heavy with acid indigestion rain
with the leaden thump of my charcoal heart pumping polluted fumes into the rivers of toxic sludge coursing through my veins
my body is merely a reflection of the outside, a world overpopulated with slaves to the cold and the cruel while we fuel the machines of our self-destruction with our desperate self-absorption
panicking our way from paycheque to paycheque
in our spare change time we build ourselves shrines and we tend to our tiny fenced-off gardens
we seek to find like-minded others to invite into our homes
but every time someone new trails their crap onto our carpet we become just a little bit more disheartened
we learn not to trust or take chances
we become shut-ins finding fortitude in solitude because isolation is the only possible way to maintain control of a social situation
keeping our own company because internal battles don't give black eyes
only black hearts
but this is the end
beautiful friend
i hear the alarm and i pull myself out of bed
i drink my drug to wake up and face the mourning
i spend dawn to dusk panning for the missed gold and precious stones that didn't wash up on the wall street banks of debt river
i spend long hours contemplating the simpler times
when we didn't matter
when our feelings didn't matter
when we denied and drank away our pain just to get through each day
when suicide was a crime against god because it robbed the lord of his pay
and how we've really still got one foot standing firmly in that grave
but i have to say that in spite of all this i am grateful
i may be tied to the tracks and only questionably sane
but the first step for anyone trying to save themselves is realizing that there is an oncoming train
long before our father died, the four us had already received our inheritance
we wouldn't need to find a lawyer because one had been provided for
almost by coincidence
to me he left one share of his single-mindedness
one share of the passion that goes with it
one share of his violence
one share of his fighting spirit
and the faintest glimmer of his gift of gab
to our eldest he left one share of his drive
one share of his salesmanship
the full share of his insecurities
and one share of his instinct to survive
to our younger sister
he left one share of his violence,
the full share of his madness,
and more of his rage than all four of us combined could ever have contained
and to you, my brother,
our advocate and the self-appointed manager of his estate
he left one share of his salesmanship
the full share of his craftiness
the full share of his miserliness,
the meanness of spirit by which to appropriate all four shares of his means
the full share of the cognitive dissonance required to maintain a self-righteous disposition
and its complementary share of judgemental hypocrisy
one share of his isolation
and the full share of his capacity to transform family into strangers
dear brother
you are a vulture who literally left his own mother to rot
but though you wear our peacock feathers that you plucked
you know
just as we see
that they will never fit
last night you left us
and as with everything
you did so kindly
and gently
and with good grace
soon your ashes will be scattered on the shores that we called home
to be lifted on a sea breeze
to settle softly on the mountaintop
forming another layer of our history that we will look to for inspiration
this mourning i remember
with a heart filled with love
with joyful laughter and sad fondness
this mourning i know that everything i ever knew about you will never change
everything i ever felt and loved about you will never change
everything i ever learned from you will never change
this mourning i pick and choose my memories that will become my monument to you
your ashes will be scattered on the shores that we called home
while your essence crystallizes in the oceans of my soul
you will be rewarded
you will be happy
you will be at peace
you will receive your long over-dues
and you will watch over me
just like you always do
this is the dawning of the age of the amateurs, age of the amateurs...
if i can write
then i can be published
if i can speak or sing you'll let me stomp on all your stages
art forms are now platforms
so if i can draw, my designs might bring delight through all the ages
in my movies i can direct, act, edit and upload each scene
so no producer can keep me waiting on tables,
keep my career locked in to their geographic stables
locked up by labels fueling fickle "you'll make it!" fables
i'm untouchable to the brick and mortar gatekeepers
no more need i heed the signs that say:
"abandon all hope, ye who enter here"
because the concept of "here" is primitive
barbaric
outdated, outmoded
and the time for our independence is at hand
it arrived just as mining bitcoins overtook second-hand-life's linden dollars as the loco-profit-motive being panned
i can market myself
build my own brand
flying spaghetti monster forgive me, but for a low, low price
i can now farm all my friendships
i can leverage my network
invest in instigation and control my communications
the medium is the message and i am ingesting the future one instagram at a time
i can language in all your tongues
swim in all your cultures
trade in all your currencies
the only master i need to please is the interface to whatever free tool serves me today
fools used to say that schools were only for them
but these days it's plain that our education systems are systematically tooling geniuses into dunces who can only function when provided with clear sets of instructions
and removing warning labels has been deemed a capital offense
as are capital letters and grammar which the old school can wield like a hammer but only their nails scraping down chalkboards leave any sort of impression
khan is our new teacher, just like in the jungle book
which is not at all like facebook
unlimited e-book access has retired my expiring library cards and i always make sure to keep a full set of wikipedia on me
games are the new examination center
now, anyone can wix a website and even my media feeds can reach a wider audience than those smooth-talking idiots on your tv
you see, i don't know of any "real" celebrities any more, but we've all seen that cat doing that thing
walmart buttcracks get more exposure than the models on fashion tv
the most significant wars being fought today are between google and bing
and what i choose to wear today for once might actually mean something
the industrial old-guard wants to keep our economies behind bars
but whispering cracks in our cage say that escape is simply a matter of knowing which way to face
while federal agents knock down doors, anonymous agents even the score
the right to bear arms has been transformed into troll armies and hacktivists protecting the weak
not knowing people who know people is no longer a barrier to entry when one needs to spring a wikileak
the degrees of separation that defined our disconnection are now rapidly degrading and converging down to none
slowly, but surely, we are becoming one
speaking up, speaking out, petitioning
these are a few of my favourite things
but what really rings my bell is the bling i can bring
it's an e-lance economy and resale values are skyrocketing
easy money's to be made by means ranging from high-fiverring to crowdfunding to dumpster-diving
cyberspace is the new frontier for thrills and spills
wins and fails
now we're all aboard the train from rags to riches and not even software glitches can send us off the rails
it's time to conquer our fears of the unknown, let go of legacy and leave the safety of our industrial misery behind
for the adventures of the future are now being forged in the factories of our minds and you would be blind not to find opportunities online
this is the dawning of the age of the amateurs, age of the amateurs...
and at long last
the time for separating business and pleasure
is PAST.
a couple of days ago i came across the following poem from evelyn amber beltser, and was so moved i simply *had* to translate it:
.ככה זה טוב
ככה זה טוב -
לא פחות
ולא יותר
יותר, יותר, יותר" - ההד של הקיבעון" -
.משוטת במזדרונות של המוח
,אם הייתי בית מלון
המזדרונות האלו היו הקומה הסגורה שלי
.שהמעליות לא מגיעות עליה
.בכל סרט אימה מכובד יש כזאת
,לפעמים אני חושבת שלמרות כל הקירבה
אנחנו כל כך מרוחקים
שאם התודעות שלנו היו כוכבים
עדיין הייתי יושבת פה ומחכה לאור של אחרים
להגיע
that's good.
that's good -
no less
and no more
- "more, more, more" - an echo of fixation sails through the corridors of my brain.
if i was a hotel,
these corridors would be my sealed floor
that the elevators wouldn't reach.
every respectable horror movie has one.
sometimes i think that despite all the proximity,
we are so far away from each other
that if our minds were the stars
i would still be sitting here waiting for the light of others to arrive.
this just in: newsreel bullet-ins
showing mugshots and commemorations
while the world passes by on a ticker
focus on guns and films of blood
hyper-real news to reel you in
...
YOU tell ME who just shot up the room
and who's shooting up with needles prepared with a "threat level" of "doom"
who cares about children with holes punched in their chests
when dead-eyed delinquents get their faces in the press
the holy grail of fifteen minutes of fame
is the press pressuring our youth to show us more of the same
if you want to BE, you have to be on tv
for which you'd better have blood on your hands
so that we can see
the apocalypse is on, the four horsemen run the show
it's prime time now and they've primed everything to blow
we call them illuminati, but it's darkness they spread
we believe in our democracies but instead they dictate straight to our heads of state who relate to us through fox and cnn and bbc
the true terrorist organizations teaching you and me that we should NOT be free
you see, merchants of war are the ones laying down the law
conning chumps into believing terrorists are knocking down their doors
'cause you can't sell guns to people who don't want to fight
who aren't afraid of the sight of their own shadows,
who're not scared into becoming knights so brave that they'll save their loved ones
by holding them hostage,
protecting them from
the psychos next door
from
bombs and ideologies
from
conflicting philosophies
from genitalia,
and what genitalia make weak people do
after hearing their whole lives how they have to hide behind beauty products if they want to be loved
how they won't find romance without a hollywood soundtrack
how love can be earned through perseverance
how human beings are like vending machines,
if your coins aren't accepted then you beat them until you get what you want
and how if we don't let an industrial-consumer education lobotomize us, then we can't be heroes
so i choose to become a villain instead,
because i have to be the protagonist in my own head
and when death comes for me i don't want to walk out with best supporting actor
or just another lonely bum with thumbs down from the judges of x-factor
here's god - speaking to me! telling me to smash down american idols
from the mouth of a burning bush,
"we're gonna smoke 'em out," he said
lighting the way to a silenced majority with oil fires and gunpowder
we're a silent majority
sitting slack-jawed and sponge-like on our sofas
stupefied by the songs of slaughter sung in sensationally heartless newscaster tones
...
maybe - if you work really hard - you'll be able to buy yourself a bigger tv
and then you'll not see with much more clarity
why the gunmen
are you and me
i have spilled ink onto a pristine page
that curled around to form a cocoon to incubate my poem
my secret poem
i hold you up to the light though you are yet shrouded in dark delight
i mutter your name as if it's not a vain action to fantasize you complete
though your vocal chords aren't yet fully formed, the lines and folds of your letters direct my mind's eyes from the peaks of where yours will be to the troughs of answering whys
though you will question me more than i can ever imagine
the love i bear you is as much as i do myself
as you promise to deliver me from a shelved life to center stage
from a mixed metaphor to a saviour of an age
and i will watch over you
i will nurture you and hold you and guide you
and you
you will be better than me
you will be sharp and clean and clear and you will know no fear of facing the world
for i will weaponize you, a weapon of mass construction
whenever you play it will be to change the game and you won't ever leave people the same as the way you found them
least of all me
i eagerly await and anticipate your first howl, your first cheer, your first tear
the first time that i send you off to interact with your peers
you will represent me
you will be my consolation
you will be my immortality
in recent history
witches and wizards from
around the world have been
gathering
sharing their knowledge and
insights and spells
and inscribing them in giant,
dark tomes
the diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders, or DSM, is one such volume of incantations, and the initiated
have merely to mumble its
words to enchant or curse
but rites once performed
in dark corners now take place in
broad daylight
personal curses have become
community property
subject to community scrutiny
personal curses have become
a community responsibility
we must fix the broken
though we may have broken
them
...
human brains operate on stories
and we need those stories to make
sense
mental trauma is the result of
encountering real-life plot holes
and plot holes are like black holes,
we’re trapped by them, held fast by
them until their two sides, their two
opposing universes can be glued
together again
glued together with good stories
a good story is a safe wormhole
between dimensions
one does not live on the event
horizon of a black hole, one merely survives it
we live to affect outside
observers, and we suffer when we are
silenced
on the event horizon we can only be invisible and silent
...
depression is a healthy response to a sick society
in this post-industrial age we’re living in societies in which
normal is working hard under inhumane conditions sacrificing self and friends and family to pay off debts incurred competing for things we neither want nor need
normal is suppressing self expression
normal is poisoning our bodies and
environments with mass production of cheap goods and foods
normal is living vicariously through screens and minimizing risk
normal is thinking of “get-a-job training”
as education
and of the value of education in monetary terms
normal is relying on the narcissistic
power hungry to protect us
and hypocritical doctors to heal us
and normal
has become how we define wellness
biologically and psychologically
but you and i know that for each of us
individually
sickness is suffering
and if i suffer, i want to be well again
if i suffer, i want the cause of my
suffering to be treated and not the
symptoms
if i suffer, i want my treatment to be personalized, not categorized
the DSM is supposed to define types
of suffering and treatments
but in many cases it simply defines minorities:
after all, insanity does not imply anything other than abnormality
an inability to fit into societal structures
and institutions
we’ve been taught that we need to be
happy
that contradictions are hypocrisy
that money and religion are the answers
to all our prayers
that safety trumps triumphs
and that we are all to be welcomed
as individuals, so long as that individuality conforms to the norms
so that we can be analyzed statistically
but statistics are only as accurate as the data they're based on
and as true as the minds that wield them
in the wrongs hands, they spell disaster
the spells and potions that the DSM
offers are conjured out of statistics,
disease has become a numbers game
so you're not really sick if everyone
else is too
or if you don't seek help
i am not sick
unless i am suffering
and if i am suffering because of you
don't medicate me
