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tearing the rag off the bush again
Time Travel On The Nervous System: It's A Yin-Yang Bang PDF E-mail
It’s my own personal touch, though not an original one, on the cycle of starting from the esthetic, growing into the ethical, and maturing into the religious


The woman sitting on my bed was unquestionably worth her weight in gold, memory chips, oil, plutonium or whatever material was valued against the men of one’s native land.  Sad fact; not that she out-valued what is peddled as value at this time in history, but sad fact, that the true value of weight was determined by warring men.  This woman sitting on my bed was absolutely worth her weight and her eyes showed it and her movements proved it. 

Abraham Heschel’s, Man Is Not Alone, was creating an indelible impression on me as I read a chapter each morning in belligerent devotion.  I couldn’t help but add a questioning addendum to the title, Man Is Not Alone, “But What If He’s A Burden?”  It seemed like a fair question especially when I felt like one.  And I’m overwhelmed with a passion to kill myself, only I can’t afford to buy a bottle of valium from the local Puerto Rican girl who works at the natural food store.  Every three months she breaks a bone, gets burned or lacerates herself, insuring a steady income for herself, her M.D., and Rite Aids’ pharmaceutical department.

In the meantime I postpone my morning suicidal proclivities and settle for being a deadbeat in the afternoon, until I extinguish all my energies throughout the day then delve into my unconsciousness by night and wake into a suicidal case the next morning.  It’s my own personal touch, though not an original one, on the cycle of starting from the esthetic, growing into the ethical, and maturing into the religious, that is, I fluctuate from what I am immediately, to what I am as a thinker, and then to what I am as a wandering wonderer.  But still there’s no money involved but every now and then I strike it rich and find a beautiful woman in my bed.  I’m tempted to get on with the humiliation and tell her that I was broke, and that I’m not worth my weight in gold unless she’s broke too and has the same pre-historic, homo-sapient concepts and values that I do.

Recollection is in order.  The kind of recollection that is proficient in illusions, as William Afham aptly discussed in his In Vino Veritas.  Recollection is the third party that makes the two concrete individuals more of a memory than an illusion.

The famous pilot Ernst Udet was awarded Germany’s highest honor, the Pour le Merite-for Merit (the Blue Max); a medal of honor that The Great Enlightened Absolutist, Frederick II of Prusia, founded.  Udet had 62 victories in World War I, yet he had a difficult time making money after The War.  He was the leader of the Flying Circus then he blew his brains out as Hermann Göring scapegoated Udet for the Luftwaffe’s failure.

Gary Powers’ parachute blossomed over the Soviet Union as his U2 plane went crashing to earth.  Power’s had no time to swallow his cyanide pill.  I surmise that someone wished he had popped that pill before he was interrogated with the question of value. 

Everything is designed by the Laws of Physics which measures and harnesses energy, creating mobility.  Matter and Anti-matter are intricately dependent on each other.  Energy and entropy are as well.  And creation can be a constructive or destructive act.  The trick is breaking the Laws of Physics and then solidifying them into new laws so someone can feel challenged and come along later and recreate what was once solidified.

The deliberate, yet necessary, modifications, or even obliterations of scientific laws is not as egregious as a Tijuana Side Show, which has a tendency to incite the spirit to break the bonds of the material world, in search of an undersold oversoul or an oversold undersoul. 

Mule Fuel was billowing through my blood stream.

And as J.J. shouts, “It’s not hard times!  It’s good times!  It’s so good, it’s DYNAMITE!”

We’re living poor in the ghetto.  Daddy James Evans is getting laid off, yelling, and huffing like a bull.  Brother Michael is getting his assed whooped by gangs.  Sister Thelma is being sexually harassed by thugs.  Momma Florida hasn’t any bread to put a decent meal on the dinner table.  And the oldest son doesn’t want to work, spending his days chasing any piss stinking, free-basing whore around town.  Then, when he ropes one in, he lacks the consideration but has the ignorance to bring her home for dinner.

J.J.’s so damn delirious he can’t stop shouting “Dynamite!”  Wake up J.J.!!!  There’s someone out there trying to kill the kids.

The gang at the retardation clinic is running everything from the inside.  And the Big Homos are giving the little homos a hard time, hanging them in social deviant detention centers.

You have to make people feel good to manipulate them.  Say, “Yeah.  I got the best person for the job,” and then grease them a bit before putting them in debt.  It’s an ends justifies the means T.V. show.  One that Alexander Hamilton could be proud of as an evident result of his Report on Manufactures, because Daddy Evans, who is beat down with perpetual problems, can’t get a loan from the bank.  As Secretary of Treasury Hamilton philosophized and theologized that,

All communities should divide themselves into the few and the many.  The first are rich and well-born, the other the mass of the people…are turbulent and changing; they seldom judge or determine right…Give, therefore, to the first class a distinct, permanent share in the government.  They will check the unsteadiness of the second, and, as they cannot receive any advantage by change, they therefore will maintain good government.  

What’s good government? 

According to Hamilton and his Wildcat Federalist pals government is definitely not free, but is wholly beholden to the wealthy and well-born.  James and Florida Evans should have made sure that their kids were born on Hamilton’s front porch to insure the “well-birth” of their children.  Then the Bank and the Government would be beholden to a black family from the ghetto in Chicago.  But maybe a loan shark can save the Evans Family.  Too bad Daddy Evans didn’t have a good insurance policy when he died in a auto accident.  Hamilton would have solved the Evans families’ plight by simply throwing them through the front door of a proper church to restrain their brutish appetites. 

Peter Dewey had his own personal touch on the question of suicide and value as he hurled insults at the unrestrained appetite of the French, and he had the class to do it in their own language, while they occupied Vietnam.  Who was Peter Dewey anyway?  He was a law unto himself, an OSS Officer and the first American to be killed in Vietnam by a Frenchman who didn’t care much for effronteries other than his own.   

Col. Bui Tin of the North Vietnamese Army possessed a collective understanding of the meaning of suicide and value’s determination.  He commanded, “Advance solidly, fight solidly,” and the North Vietnamese were victorious, while Tin’s maxim sounded through a flimsy and whimsical country that architected and orchestrated a land called Disney.  And the best administration this country has to offer at this time is a bunch of Carpet Bagging Bush Leaguers who espouse a “No Child Left Behind” education plan.  But that doesn’t mean that every child will get ahead.  Yet the same concept of value is peddled into each and every one of us.

The United States will eventually lose the empire because the methods used for determining value that the U.S. education and military stage uses are not based on the most honorable ideas, ideologies, slogans, beliefs, tragedies or pathos.

What is humanity’s obsession with memory and immortality about anyway?  Maybe it’s that we all have a nervous desire to hold apart of ourselves in eternity.

And yet, I’m fascinated with people.  Even when they annoy me I remain fascinated, understanding that their actions that annoy me also say something about who I am, which means that I am some sort of a narcissist.  But I am the only human being that I have access to all the days and nights that I have on this planet of dirt and water until my life leaves this earth; maybe to be remembered by those in this life, or maybe to be remembered by a Grander Consciousness but forgotten by the worlds consciousness, or maybe to be simply forgotten by both.  Ideally(?)... Remembered by both, that is, to be remembered by the world’s consciousness and the Grander Consciousness and thus become a full narcissist.

Maybe the best we can offer ourselves is to take everything with us when we die.  The United States should take account of her suicidal, walking dead, (who were the unwanted, downtrodden that the United States asked for from all over the world) and nurture them in the safe bosom of her ancestors.  If the United States cultivated its inherent questioning of authority and value and root it in a soil that is constantly oxygenated with humility than the U.S. might have a chance to grow in the good favor of the world.  But this would mean reevaluating our conception of value.

In the meantime, the person of death is the most powerful, seductive, passionate, and lonely person left in our memories…And so is the beautiful woman that slipped out of my bed this morning.  As I looked through my meager wardrobe, there remained a faint scent of her wealth, and I thought of Napoleon instructing his chamberlain, “I’m in a hurry…Dress me slowly.”

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