Hiding your meaning

It has come to my attention that people in this country have found a new passion of hiding the truth behind words of comfort. I understand the desire to do such a thing, to hide the ugly and strange behind nice well meaning sentiment or to hide behind the shield of religious rights to protect the willfully ignorant from reality.

Not being a person of political desire or aspirations I tend to look at the arguments of any political centered person with observation and understanding as my goal. I try to not be persuaded by argument but instead watch them circle the conversation and push fact or fiction into their realm of thought. While doing this attempt to push lies and deceit towards their opposition.

When I was young and learning about life and work, I had an interview with a company I endeavored for over a year to get a job with. The firm was impressed with my resume they enjoy talking with me but as the hard question came down I had some interesting ways to cover up some of my previous failings. I had a terrible experience with a previous employer, to hide my shame of my mistakes I pushed and emphasized the employers failings in an attempt to bolster the illusion of me. To his credit the older man listened to me and when I finished my tail of woe, he calmly move the interview on. At the end he said he would love to have me join their company save for one reason.

“When a person speaks ill, they speak as if to hide.”

I knew then I would not be joining this company nor would I ever be able to. His words have guided me to understand reality as it is not what some person said it was or should be. The man knew my shame even though I attempted to hide it, he knew I was injured from the past and needed to learn from it. He let me down softly and let me leave with my head held high. The next interview I had I spoke the truth about that previous employer and I received the job. His lesson couldn't have been more clear, honesty was not the reason I gained the job it was the fact that I spoke honest to reality not what I wanted reality to be.

How does this lovely little story apply to politics? How does this mean anything? It does not change the laws on abortion, it will not change the economics of this country? So why does this mean anything if it does not do anything?

It does and this is how:

When approach by one presenting information, ask what this person will gain from presenting said information to you? When answered you will learn what type of taint the person will have in presenting said information.

This allows you to see what is trying to be sold to you.

I do not care if you claim elephant or donkey nor do I really need to know, but to hid meaning with confusing talking points that mean nothing and give nice clean answers without taking a real stand is a sign of weakness and the pointlessness of your ability to freely think. You deserve to be slaved to idealism and suffer from the addiction of partisan behavior.

The Convenience of Thought..

Ever since humanity had collectively been able to think beyond the realms in which they stood. Their minds pushed the envelope of the societal and physical walls of the world around us. At some points in the past the envelope broke and peeled past the point of repair allowing the societies that would surpass the ones that dare think beyond their station a little advantage for the next attempt to cross the vast abyss of ignorance in the journey for knowledge.

In our society today when spend twelve plus years in some type of schooling in an attempt to the learn what was already open and understood to be. This serves not only as a basic function of pushing the average intellect up, it puts the individual on a higher platform of functionality then what was previously possible.

Where there was ignorance, there was darkness. The basic functions of the natural world around us seem basic and well understood and they are.

It is here that we stand to loose again. Where we have struggle to show light and bring forth great understandings, we also shudder in fear and drown in supposition about what it could be and what else could be meant.

Once the envelop has been pushed, once knowledge escapes from the boundaries of what is known, it is impossible to return to the lesser state of ignorance. Only with the death and destruction of civilizations has the veil of blissful ignorance has recovered our eyes.

I fear that we know attempt to do pull back what has been uncovered. We cover our ears when knowledge is presented to us, finding the colors of a moving picture far more worthy of our attention. We silence our thoughts with the thoughtless prattle of pretty faces. We sigh on command and laugh when prompted. When the bell stops ringing do we sit silently with the absence of thought to accompany us in the plastic injected world we fought and bled for?

Does the scholar know that when the walls of the fortress begin to shake under the fire of the enemy, that the scholar is the goal of the enemies hands and not the soldier or king.

When what was not know becomes a part of our knowledge and is pushed from its darkness and given a place in the library of human achievement, rarely is it what we want to know or want to believe what is. More often then not, when new discoveries push back that darkened veil it comes at the cost of what we desire the nature and how the universe should be as a matter of convenience. In some cases the eyes are purposefully stitched back shut when such advancements are made, for it does not fit into what is desired to be real and meaningful. In other cases knowledge is purposefully destroyed for a matter of purity, mainly human purity.

With thick fingers and lazy arms we are quick to hold up signs claim perfections that stand weak in the wind. With loud voices we shout praises into the air for those that lay in earth for us to stare into flags floating with the wind, with what mind and soul do we stand and become great? We show more interest with the shapes of two animals and how their leaders sing their own praise from the windows of every growing ivory towers. The horizon of knowledge and greatness keeps moving further from us and we sit claiming greatness on laurels that rot.

The convenience of thought...

The Radio Speaks (the Fair of Imbalanced thought)

Merchants of Ignorance

In long hours of the day, does one have time to ponder the significance of their being? In times of artificial solace to we pretend to do so. The markings of weakness, and of damnable aspirations cover our faces and blend into our skin, the tale tell signs of interference of a natural calling. The blending of thought and action, our hands slip into our back pockets and draw out the very meaning of our souls, and pay for the trinkets and pictures of beauty sold to us in fast lanes of stores. Express lane for the moments and memories that should mean something. Surrendering to ease of construction then to the ease of existence, the light of understanding, the blinding of the night, the desperation of an entire peoples call out to the starless sky. No longer the curious, the night sky lies blank and truly absent. The questions of life and the meaning of breathing no longer an aspect to intelligence or to true conversation. The gaping maw of ignorance claims more and more of us.

The collective cry of the people is to hide what is great and destroy that which is to confusing to understand. Try not, and do not, for thy lot in life is to only do, not to question why. The merchants of ignorance call to us, our hands quietly slip into our back pockets and we do obey. They sell us the ideas to believe in, from their high seats and high places these merchants profess to us that they and they alone know how to save us, and it is up to us to help them. The calling has come. They continue, that they should not be challenged, that in their words and works do they know what is to come, and what is to come without their leadership or calling, is the destruction of our way of life. Either to march in battle to live the life of a warrior, “ours is not to say or do ours is just to do and die” The battle cry of so many weakened souls. Do they stand and fight for the beliefs of those that have transplanted emotions and so called truths into their minds, or do they fight for their fellows that stand behind and shake in fear at the sight of such an enemy that claims all the will to fight.

To listen the merchants of ignorance is to surrender your thought and lives to them. To stand on their principles of action-less thought. “...just do and die.” Is what they ask of you, to call to the stands of control and ask to take back what was once theirs. The liable of life and blood rests upon them that stand for freedom of the few over the freedom of all. For the merchants speak to freedom as ally and friend. For thy beg for its protection when they stand trail for so many falsehoods, as they stand to remove it from their enemies as it suits them. These merchants know no line to cross that they cannot change for their betterment, and call it for our better good.

To take action against the merchants of ignorance is to stand against the will of so many, so many people converted to the strength of being weak. For if it not be known, for it shall never be known. Is their battle cry hidden behind so many other words. Freedom for us, and none for you. Once known what they speak is the fear of so many people that have been tared and feathered in the past.

The ideals of the ignorant call for the disestablishment of all and potential gain of knowledge. The boundaries of human knowledge have already been met and further explanation will disrupt the natural order of world. Do not look to the sky for the answers that could claim our world in a ball of friary death. But look to the wise men that come to lead us, with their guidance do we stand absolute against the friary darts of the adversary. The battle cry of the dumb, and weak.. The stance of one could force its way into the eyes and ears of all.

I call for the merchants of ignorance to stand in open and proclaim their falsehoods so they can be seen as the false prophets. Their words meld into ones of patriotism and racism, ones with acceptance and hate. Words and workings that will undo the very human fabric that connect us. They stand to gain from the fight that we will ensue on their behalf, and when the fates do eventually turn against them. They will be gone, with the hard work and zeal that produced them being nothing but shadows of their former glory echoing silently in the air.

As they stand now, almost untouchable. With their quiet army mobilizing for them, their perceived monopoly on free thought is guiding them. That is their greatest weakness, their inability to love thy neighbor, in this weakness they claim the guiding hand of divinity, to that end they break all rules of moral and good standing. Their perceived weaknesses of the collective us, painted up in broad stripes of dreadful colors. They stand counting our heads, marking us with the mark of enemy or friend. Classifying us as victor or defeated before the battles have even started. The weakest of us to go first, into field of battle to be swallowed up by the demons of fanaticism. There from our perches do we get to see and enjoy the mess that we caused, our collective weakness on display for our enjoyment. The battle for our freedom is at hand. It does not lie with those whose disembodied voice crawl through the annals of our air to claim themselves holy and right in this war. Victory lies with the individual speaking not being sold to the highest bidder of thoughts and ideas. But maybe the hope the individual becoming the great machine that could save the free, and not become yet another slave to the merchants of ignorance might just be a dream. For the individual could just be weak and without any strength of thought is no more then a injured fawn ripe for the taking. Be wary of the merchants, be wary of the ideals that speak to all meaningful ideas and have no real actionable method of reality.

Daydreams

    Daydreaming.  There I find out what I should have become, what I should have done.  This make believe place that allows me to throw the dizzying array of  curses at my boss or co-worker as they smile snidely past me as they speak.   This place that allow to reenact the scenes that haunt me.  Words, motions, colors, where I was and how they stood and all of this to help bury the shame, frustration,  and pain that crawls up the back of the throat when the mind wanders that direction when not sufficiently occupied with the menial tasks of the day.  Come with me and take the place of me on my latest daydream.


    Eventually the mind either by force of thought or suffering from the torrents of terrible daily grind.  The need for some escape for the deeper part of the soul seeks it way from the Tomb that we have sealed it in.   The marker of which is guarded by the three headed lawyer, Need, Want, and Desire. His pin stripped suit the so many colors of hate and self loathing, with his three heads bobbing around fighting for position to see you with each one of his six eyes. He holds the key to the gate made from the bones of dreams abandoned by logic to fulfill the legal wishes of our minds.
    The Lawyer asks you for your reason to visit the entombed?  You say, ‘To set it free.  It screams to me, through the mist that escape the ground around the Gates of Broken Dreams‘.  He laughs at you, and asks again, ‘What is your reason for visiting the entombed?’  You looked into Desire’s eyes, and say, ‘I seek my soul to hear what I wanted to hear, what I remember my heart telling me so many years ago when my desires did not take on the suit of logic and order.’  Want laughs at you, the other heads fold back to allow the Want, full use of the only set of lungs the body has.  ‘You desire it free, but you want not for nothing for freedom yourself do you not? ‘ You say, ‘I do seek my souls freedom’.  Want’s smile sickly reaches to both sides of it face and he says, ‘You desire Soul to be free, yet you bound it in chains when you sought lies and passions over virtue did you not?’  Wants’ head rotates back to allow Desires throat to engage the lungs of the body and he said, ‘Did you not desire a wage, a hand in marriage, a house, a car, clothes to cover you, food to feed you, a job,’ ‘STOP’ you yell.  Desire continues, ‘Really?’ it questions one of the bodies arms flies up and grabs sick yellow hair of Desire’s skull and yanks it to one side, Want’s wicked gleam slides itself onto the throat, ‘So, what is it that you want?’  The hand comes back to force the head to move aside, and Desire’s flesh reconnects to the neck of the body, ‘What desire commands this?’ You weakly say, ‘I need it done.’  A dark grimace forms on the Desires’ brow, ’You Need it?’.  The hand wrenched at the sides of Desires’ face Want slid into place, looking carefully at you it asks, ’You Need it?’  ’Yes,’ this strange groan from your throat turns into a yell again, ’I Need it.’ Want looks at you, and feeling the need of the key that the other hand held on a sickly soiled ribbon,  The hand with the key gently moves up and pushes the Want off the throat,  Need stairs at you with weak eyes, weak eyes but with a strange glow.  No gesture, no speaking the hand with the key holds it out for you to take.
    It feels strangely light as you walk towards the gate the ribbon seemed moist and flowing,  The key seem to glisten the strange light of the tombs gate, it looks like congealed sweat in the shape of a weirdly formed key, the ribbon leaves a red trail blood behind everything that it touches, it is warm and soft to your fingers.  Raising the key and it’s ribbon closer to your eyes.  On the side of the key small words imprinted on it strange surface, “Manufactured by You”.  With odd and puzzled look, your flip the ribbon over, “Made by You”.  Again puzzled you reach the gate. 
    There you see a mass of bone like fragments glistening with images of houses, the faces of people, fancy cars, paychecks, sounds of laughter from one rail, and sounds of nature from a different one.   Some of the images you remember clearly, and some not so.  Touching the bone like parts the smooth unbroken surface seamless in perfection up to the point where it was violently fractured, broken by some vicious strike.  Some of the bone fragments turned black, they emitted not sounds and no images left their splintered edges.  The splinter edges tangled up into the shattered edges of another, each piece carefully place to build stout gate over a small stairway down into the Tomb.
    Looking for the lock you see a hole about the size of a tear drop in one of the bone like fragments,  gently you slide the key into the teardrop hole and turn it.   The sweat of the key flashes over the gate illuminating all the shattered facets of the bones.  Slowly the blood ribbon is drawn into the gate traveling down some form of vessels the bones gain color of muscles and then flesh reforming flexing and trying to move joints that are now fused,  the all the sounds emanating from each fragment have now turned into a deafening hum, the sounds of laughter is lost against the collective roar of each fragmented dream gaining some of its life back.  The seat stones of the hinges shatter throwing the gate and you into the air.


The grotesque structure lay in pieces around you, the bone fragments that gain your sweat and blood had broken the tears that bonded the broken dreams together.  The blood and sweat seeps and pools around the last of the dying dreams and the bone like fragments begin to appear as the flesh melts away from them.  You feel some sorrow for the fragments, some of which go back to emitting pleasant sounds of laughter, and the such.  You get to your feet, and turn towards the now unblocked stair well.  You take a very deep breath, and step in.




                To be continued

Memories

In my search for new beginnings, I have found that my mind leads me to places that have distinct endings. Some of these places are the physical places that have a point of memory of an event that marked and end of emotion, but I do not remember what it was that ended.
In the back recesses of my memory, small points of light sing out to me as I think of these places. As I approach them, the colors, smells, and textures come into clearer focus playing out a macabre distorting facsimile of a distant reality. I see the faces of past friends and family as they once where, with the current mares of the present tingeing their skin and eyes. Pain that wasn’t there now appears as I try to remember that point, remember what it was that was so important; and why it was seared into my memory to leave me these haunted recollections that fuzz over with time. Details that I failed to notice then, become clearer now, subtle hand motions of a girl friend about to kiss me for the first time, the fire in the eyes of a friend finding out how hard my fist could be slamming against the side of his face. The strange wonderment of my eyes glinting in the mirror as I felt my heart for the first time, breaking under the weight of another’s hand clenching at it, tearing at it, with distant words of a poetic lines of break up. I see these points as they come into few and slide by some pushing into others confusing the picture. Actors of one memory sneaking into the stage of another casting lines that lack sense or actions that damage the memory and change the meaning of its logic to me.
The lack of clarity at these deranged points of memory, showing truly no connections to each other but tied together through the sapping strength of emotions attached to each one. The anger of insult in one, wraps in the anger of dismay of another, no contingency of time or space actually connecting them, now they are conjoined by that one trigging point. They orbit each other repeating again and again in my mind, I feel my pulse harden my skin grow cold as they mesh and morph into another memory, ones locked away deeply, the point of its light so distant and weak I can’t reach but now grows brighter and brighter. The deep green color and sharp tendrils of grass piercing my shirt, cool summer night air illuminated by the strange orange glow of argon lamps, the sweet smell of soft skin touching the my lips, catching of breath, then the sounds of cars. The pleasure seeping away, fading into the background the light fading again, the grass turns warm sand, weird desert skies replace the cool night air, the cars change into a fast moving thunder head crashing down upon the waters of desert lake, hot to cold, bright to dark, cascading to together and then fading out with the wind of a dying desert thunderstorm. Yet I stand reaching for what was pleasant, seeking out pleasure to find it connected to sympathy, and pain. The cycle of one birthing again in memory fades in death to birth another point.
Do moments not connect to one another without any real flow, we are constantly moving from a potential point of light in the chasm of memory to another, where they will either burn intensely or quietly, painful to pleasure, the gathering of each point seems to be lost. Do I begin as anew from a cut line of a director calling for actors to move on cue for certain actions to make perfectly round package that can easily be understood and allow us to sleep without the fear of strange reconciliations of our memories? When do I count the end, as the director of these weird puppet shows play out twisting in my mind, does my memory show its weakness when the points fade, as I hide each and everyone of them behind layers and layers of blackness to keep them from reaching me again.
Pain of regret stings me the most, I stare at myself in a mirror that once stood years ago, and I scream and claw at the shade of me, “Stand up! Do something!” hearing nothing the image fades, morphing into another point the fills the mind with colors of painted cinderblocks of the long hallway filled with people and me hurting for some reason, hurting from wounds inflicted to my pride, the convictions of my violence slipping away. Hate. I think? One maybe others, the sounds that their distorted faces make, still sound not clear, but still there, quietly behind me, quietly. Strange urges, run, laugh, retort…fight. There they stand, in all their glory of school aged children believing themselves men, lining up to show a front against another. The point fades again, the anger changes as the inventions of my own mind complete the memory the way it should have been, the way I should have been, that regret, that pain, the anger fuels it, the director yells action, my hands move, I wish I could have felt their flesh break under mine, the thought riles me to pleasure. But alas, I turned away, I left them, I left them mocking, I left them standing their fueling their pride at the cost of mine, at the cost of my memory being complete, leaving me with regret that I didn’t loose a fight in stance of years of hiding it behind a guise of composer of non activating hate… Do I begin it again? Do I live it again in some dream later, as I have done over and over, that sense of regret, that person that was once me in that mirror, that long ago mirror that I have destroyed hoping to have that point fade, fade to nothing against the every present back drop of memory…