Passion & Politics

For nearly ten years now, I’ve been curiously watching politics here in the US. Mostly trying to understand why it seems like one side or the other is going to break out in civil war chants or not, due to all the partisanship going on. That aside, and I’ve noticed something else over the last decade or so; Politics is no longer a passion of the people. It is now a full-blown career path. I mean to say; it’s just not about people anymore. It’s about connections, money, payroll and retirement. It’s now a science on how to win, how to manipulate market awareness, control propaganda… it’s pretty sad.

And of course, the people who haven’t realized this and actually put forth a passionate effort are mostly seen as a threat to job security by their peers. Look at every embarrassing ”caught on tape” scandal now. There’s an entire staff of people paid specifically to tell the perpetrator what to say, when to say it, when to release certain information, who to accept an interview with, how to buy time before x, y and z events. It’s an institution built around supporting an institution. A profession to bend truth in order to maintain profitability.

And as usually, one of the biggest institutions to fault for this is the public. People assuming they are helpless or otherwise contributing to the problem by accepting the behavior. Complacent primates looking for a silverback to be riled up by. There’s a lot I could fault about the Roman empire but one thing they had was the belief in the furthering of civilization and our ultimate statement of “Screw You Mother Nature”… thumbs. Instead, we like to pay tax money to people who will humor us using knuckles and the least amount tools possible to complete any given task.

The worst part of all of it is I have to keep paying them to do it by law. If that’s not job security, I don’t know what is.

Dreaming, Not of Here

I dreamed I was in front of a supermarket that was closed. All the lights except a few were out and I was laying outside the windows. I had a really thick jacket made of some kind of bone and reptile skin, smoke grey and black, with matching pants and a bustier. I had thigh-high boots made of bone, spurs and revolvers and a pair of Ninjato on my back. I know, messed up right?

I shook my head a bit because I was a bit foggy and I realised I’d been stabbed in the stomach, beaten in the face and I was bruised all over. I saw the reflection of police lights but heard no siren. I knew they were coming over to look. There was blood on the ground, presumably mine. I kept trying to use a planter to stand up but I couldn’t function right. I slipped, got dizzy or otherwise couldn’t really get my balance. The four-inch tooth-like heels weren’t helping anything. The police drew closer and I felt pressed to stand up and maybe run. I heard them get out of the car and I saw light out of the corner of my eye. They said something but it just rang in my ears. I couldn’t understand.

I tried getting up again and got a good grip on the cobble-like stone planter. I finally rose to my feet as I realised they were commanding me to turn around. The swords crossed and rising off my back most likely made them nervous. This didn’t occur to me until later. I tried turning around but my hands didn’t grip right. My head hurt and I was dizzy. I somewhat fell, spinning, with my back on the planter and an officer fired. I just saw the horizon leap and suddenly I saw the heavens. One officer yelled at his partner and they stopped firing. My head slammed back and I fell to the ground with my back against the planter.

It seemed like moments that an ambulance arrived and the EMTs stared at the officers with aggravation and alienation in their eyes. I could barely hold a thought, my mind was just in haze. They took me to a hospital. I was strapped to a bed like a psychiatric patient. Wrists, chest, head, waist, feet… I couldn’t move. There was an officer at my door and the nurses seemed nervous treating me. I couldn’t help but feel accused of some horrid crime. But what? They had taken the clothes off of me that I was wearing. Just a hospital gown. They asked my name… I didn’t know. They asked what happened… I didn’t know.

Days passed. I was feeling better quickly, but still not up to fighting my way out. One morning, a nurse opened the thick, heavy curtains holding the light at bay. I felt something painful at my back. Pushing through my spine and rib cage. The nurse began to panic. I started squirming but I couldn’t move. It hurt terribly. The nurse held me down but looked toward the officer desperately. The officer stood speechless. The pain grew and I felt like bone was bordering on breaking. I was still disoriented. The pain grew and the nurse called for help. I felt the mattress compress. It groaned and ripped. The bed creaked like it was bending. I still lie in pain, arching my back to try to relieve it. Several ribs broke audibly as something pressed my upwards against the restraints.

A doctor screamed at the officer begging to release the restraints. The officer nodded, then doubled back and told the nurse only to release the chest and head. She did so. I raised from the bed, my arms yanked behind by the wrist restraints. I screamed as my shoulder came out of socket. The doctor screamed at the officer. He only nodded. The doctor and nurse worked feverishly to release me. I felt a bone break but it was below my back… below me. Finally I could move. I leapt upward, feeling my broken ribs and I screeched in perfect melody again. I fell to the floor and scurried towards the back of the room. Immediately, I saw great white wings. One broken, one moving at my will. I thrust it at the others in the room to usher them away.

They all stood, staring in shock. I looked towards the opened window. Somehow I knew that this sunlight was my strength and truth. The truth I found was no holy bond to some otherworldly creature. I was alone and always had been. And these people in this room would result in my incarceration beyond that of prison… but to human fascination instead.

I woke up, terrified of being something of light and beyond that of common understanding. If angels existed, perhaps I understand now why they left.

Dominos, Patterns and Gypsies

Recently I was reminded of a habit I’ve tried to break for years. Many times when I contemplate the go-ons around me, I start to see patterns and domino affects. A simple example would be something to the effect of; a bum is standing outside a coffee shop with that targeting look in their eye. You know you’re dressed a little better than the average and therefor, you plausibly predict the bum is going to ask you for money. That’s a really simplified example, mind you. A little more advanced is that looking at the fellow, you can see by the scowl and the slightly desperate look in their eye that saying no will cause a scene or worse. Then if you decide to give them the ten dollars which you can feasibly predict is going to buy them a fix instead of food; you can’t come back to that place without a lifeline plan to keep away from them because they know they got you to give it to them the first time.

I hate doing that. My mind won’t let up with these kinds of patterns and domino effects most of the time. In a workplace a coworker tells you they’re getting sick and tired of their job and they hate the boss. Typically this is also the person that tends to screw things up to their own more convenient ends and somehow expects a reward or otherwise instant and effortless gratification. The boss gives them a written warning for their gracefully neglected workload and they throw a tantrum. Subsequently they spend the next two or three weeks making everyone’s lives hell by not working, griping about how mistreated they are and otherwise causing drama. The boss talks to them about it, they quit instead of doing their relatively easy job. It all starts with that one step, action, conversation or subtle hint.

I can lay down a pyramid effect with the simplest things including a selection of plausible outcomes based on what the subjects may or may not do. And I hate it. I’m not always right, mind you. But I’m right more often than I like to admit. I usually don’t even talk about it. It’s like the classic tale of knowing the future but no one will listen. I got tired of that in my childhood. I once told my mother step by step how to save her marriage when I was eleven years old. And it worked. I told my dad (both are/were divorced  and remarried) his wife was going to get bitter and tear him apart if he didn’t leave her. One year later they began a two-year divorce and she took millions from him and left. Practically destroyed him. But it wasn’t that simple. I told them when, why and how step by step.

Lately I’ve been seeing very bad patterns in several groups of people I know. I can see that two, if not three, groups of good friends are going to scatter to the wind within six months time. In all three circles, they’re destroying their common bond. And otherwise, their lives are separated enough that there is little more than unmotivated phone calls to bind them. And as usual I’m helpless to stop it.

I should’ve just lived like a gypsy ’til I died of health issues. Wander about making no ties or binds at all and savoring every stranger I meet for the few hours I will know them.

My Philosophy Kills Me

Okay, let’s get down and dirty. Let’s talk about healthcare, addiction, dying and longer life spans. How about it? What do you think this world should look like in twenty years? Really, think about this a minute before you read on.

Alright, so let’s say we can live to an average of ninety years old. Now add in the trendy half a percent kid per household and desire to see it all before the age of forty. Now add in that cigarettes and football injuries are on the federal hit list and not the big killers like obesity and diabetes. Now let’s toss in the multi-billion dollar fertility industry. What do you have? Overpopulation mainly in the elderly populous and a bunch of single, irresponsible moms trying desperately to have a kid without committing to a man they despise for his various commentary about the female anatomy because his A-typical parents were told never to discipline their children for being rude.

Now throw in that at least half of these people are carrying various genetic diseases and other over-medicated immune deficiencies. Now toss in there the religious and political pressures to live out the stereotypical 2.5 children wrapped in a picket fence. What do we have now? Several billion twins and quintuplets at the age of eighty trying to have kids and dying because their parents kept them away from bacteria, overdosed on fertility drugs and never showed them that their instincts can get them hurt or killed. Diabetes, cancer-causing physical and immune deformities and poor survival skills are not going to save us in fifty years.

Before I go on, let me add some other interesting tidbits about myself. I’m a type one diabetic (Juvenile Diabetic) bordering on brittle with numerous complications including renal failure, vision loss and heart disease. Life is rough. Do I want a cure? Sure. I also have Severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (yes, there’s such a thing as ‘Severe’) which has led to numerous accompanying disorders such as Disassociative Identity Disorder (‘multiple personality disorder’ for those of you whom are out of touch) and Schizophrenia. I actually see people whom I saw die and they tell me good and bad things all the time. It’s like a movie running in my head some days. Don’t worry, I cope just fine and I’m happy that this is all the problems I have after all the crap I’ve been through. So yeah, let’s get back to my point now that you can’t tell me I have no idea what I’m talking about.

What’s going to happen after we keep our children away from all forms of bacteria, don’t even grab their arm forcefully, tax our lovely neighbors to take care of them and have them sit in front of the television every day watching infomercials and R rated movies? What’s going to happen now that we’re forcing otherwise doomed-to-death infants to be born because our psychologist said we needed a baby and prescribed us some barely tested pharmaceutical that makes us puke out every meal and so dizzy we can’t walk straight? Easy answer on that one.

We’re going to have frail, weak, allergic children that get sick after walking in the woods for ten minutes and can’t distinguish between beating a man to death and defending themselves until they’ve beaten a man to death or raped some helpless, equally frail, woman. We’ll have people living to the age of ninety regularly as long as they stay indoors and take the three fistfuls of medications a day they’ve been sold by Congress at the taxpayer’s expense. Because honestly, who wants to die? To think, once it was a glorious thing to die.

Is it possible that we’re sabotaging ourselves in some reflection of history? Maybe. But my opinion is that with the direction we’re going, we’re all going to be terrified of leaving our media-encrusted, internet-ready homes in fear of getting a common cold at this rate. “Survival of the fittest” is a term with purpose. We may not like it. We may think it’s barbaric and cough and spit at the thought of such a thing in our well-governed world but I fancy that it’s only because the thought of dying is such a fearful thing. Not that it’s because we’re trying to look out for two or three generations from now.

In short, by my own philosophy I would be disallowed to reproduce and generally shunned by society unless I could fend enough money to get all, and I do mean ‘all’, the money I needed to care for myself. And even then, I wouldn’t be allowed to reproduce unless there was a solid cure for my own ailments.

Fear, Hesitation and Voices

I was thinking about a conversation I had recently. So many things crossed my mind to say. Good points and thoughtful insights. I said none of these things. I hurriedly spit out responses, over thought my replies and basically wound up sounding far too busy and distracted to have an intellect worth noting. What is that?

So often we find ourselves looking back at comments and conversations we’ve had and simply shake our head at what we forgot to say, hesitated to say and frankly couldn’t bring ourselves to say. When I’m on the other end of this, I can see or hear every moment the person makes these judgement calls. The glancing of the eyes, the millisecond pauses before speaking, the slow glances away and the changes in the pitch of the voice. I’m mindful of this when I do it as well. I usually wind up in a never-ending face palm match with my conscience.

If there were a magic pill that caused us to speak our minds with as thoughtful and honest of a presentation we know we could muster, I think this world would be a better place. Politicians and best friends would lose that vast distinction of insight and trained, honed defensiveness. Everything we said would display our true emotion and capacity for communication. I’m sure there’s a flaw in that idea somewhere.

I would like nothing better at times than to have my full and undivided presence of mind in every conversation I might have. Fears of so many things, depending on who we’re talking to, typically hold us back. Fear that the light and humorous take on a serious conversation might result in ridicule and alienation. Fear that what we might think is a brilliant idea is seen as silly or childish. Fear that we lack the training and education to contribute in a manner one could respect. Fear that the integrity and confidence we worked all our lives to achieve would tumble over like dominos in one simple misunderstanding. Fear that what we have to say just isn’t important enough to mention.

Actually, I think fears big and small may be the biggest killer of my eloquence and grace. At the end of the day I know that I’m smart, thoughtful and insightful. It’s the bane of my existence. Looking back on the day at how many times those qualities simply abandoned me in one conversation with a perceived equal. Which I like to think is every conversation I have.

Maybe that magic pill should just lessen our fear in general. Not abolish it, mind you. Just make it less overwhelming so that we can see a world that’s worth risking our place in it. Maybe without the thirty veils of fear we could all take a leap to achieve a sense of liberation we’ve been missing for three generations.

Dead is Trendy

Dying…

We’re all doing it. It’s probably the most popular activity in history, aside from being born. Statistically, it really blows everything else away. Whether we’re doing it with style or becoming the world’s most disgusting research photo, we’re all doing it. So cry out for anarchy… refuse to wear a toe-tag and call yourself an anti-conformist – but in the end, you’ll be doing it just like us.

Then there’s the question of not being dead yet. Some of us are dying way too fast, some just taking our time and even some are just taking a leap to try it. Not many people want to do it right now. And the ones that do are desperate to join the fad. Most often, one needs a great deal of experience before doing it with confidence. It’s no easy trend, but we can’t really get ahead without it, in many perspectives.

When you do die, it’s like an age-old party. Everyone comes to the party’s host, this being the dead person of course, and pays gracious respect. Then they join the crowd to be observed in their festivities. Afterwards half the party regroups somewhere to get inebriated. Romantic in a sense. The downfall being that the host typically pays the bill. But how different is that from being alive?

So where does the urge to rebel against it come from? It’s so popular that everyone in history has done it. How can it be so terrifying? For those who take their time, that is. For others who are doing it way too fast, there has to be some kind of underlying culture shock or psychological issue. It’s quite a drastic change to undertake with any measure of sanity. Unless all your friends have done it. Obviously pier pressure would be involved.

Inevitably, we will all do it. Some say there’s a party afterwards and all manner of people are smiling like idiots, welcoming you to the largest membership club in existence. Some say it’s finally over. No more having to choose trends or fashions.

I have to wonder; what do I want to remember the moment I realize I’ve been accepted into the largest membership club in existence?

Defines Us, Living

How does life and living define us? More importantly, how do we define it?

We’re all glamorous glory hounds that wish to be something great in our lives. Anything else would be Buddha or Gandhi. And we are not them, especially if you’re reading this blog. But our definition of it defines our pursuit of it. I would like nothing more than to have a huge publishing company read this and ask to release the many books I’ve written on my own terms. But alas, that will likely never happen. I would like that my efforts to save teenage street-rats became something wondrous, but it’s likely none of those street-rats remember my name.

Some would tell themselves that the pursuits of others are nothing more than wishful thinking while pursuing their own unattainable goals. Some would find a stroke of sheer genius-like coincidence that would propel them into a life of spotlight and recognition. But what I ask is; would they ever tell the tale as it really happened… sheer coincidence and the actions of others? And if one were brave enough to say no; how could they be so humble in the world we know today? Lets all watch the news and see, shall we?

We are destiny’s glutton for amusement. We will always prefer to take that path that leads us to the most glory. But can we resist it? That becomes the question most asked far after we’ve done the deed. Some of us, and I mean few of us, will run from such choices. Preferring to live in a time where right and wrong was simple and clearly defined. But more often than not, those few will be doing so because they have done the shallow deed of glory once or twice before.

But living life is full of these temptations of the ostracized persona. In times long since forgotten, all you needed was a good idea to receive that long awaited cheer of glory. In modern times, a good idea will end your career if presented to a superior paycheck. So now we sit silent, wishing we had the ear of those whom we would perceive rule our lives. Individuals whom were once like us… desperately waiting for a glorious break in the drab life of a subservient mind. But have they really broken free of it if they can’t simply listen?

In the end, we will all glamorize our days. Telling glorious tales of great moments in time that we could only hope had unraveled the way we tell the tale. Or could we just tell an honest tale? A tale of someone who lived in these times and knew their wondrous ideas would be silenced by those whom desired the glory for themselves and feared changes in the life that they could some day call glorious.

How will you tell your tales?

Why Are We Arguing?

Why are you arguing? Arguing is really made up of you, or someone else, forcing a point down someone else’s neck in hopes to win a moment of verbal dominance. If you stay objective, this is to be expected seeing as most means of exhibiting one’s dominance are illegal in most advanced civilizations. Seeing as we’re no longer allowed to beat each other over the head with large and heavy objects, arguing seems to have become far more common. Okay. So where does that leave the rest of us whom have no real urge to kill or maim people we don’t agree with?

It leaves us sitting, waiting and hoping that the arguer finishes so we can leave and perhaps never speak with them again. In the alternative, it leaves us sitting and waiting until we can burst out laughing about their determination and desperation to feel superior to us with words and opinioins alone. The most mindful and civilized of us quickly understand that this has gone beyond a discussion, and into passion. A distinct and dangerous line to cross. Others… well, they prefer to end the argument with statements of violence or simply slamming the preverbial door in our face, if not worse.

Another scenario is that the subject of our passionate discussion mistakes our display as a potential argument and simply withdraws into silence, aggrivating our passions all-the-more. So how can we discuss, rather than argue?

The first thing I try to do is to place myself in the other person’s shoes. Understand why they are so passionate and present my points in a manner that even they could rightiously shake their fists at. I try and explore why it is that their ideal has no real logical basis and why they might have come to that ideal. More often than not, I simply don’t. I just sit, waiting for their rant to make some manner of sense I can relate to.

In the end, the other person typically will need to display their dominance even more than before in order to save face from a logical, well researched perspective. This, of course, aggrivates them and drives them to extremes in order to seem more rightous and proud than me. And then, a month or more later, they silently and discreately give the subtlest of aknowledgements in order to save their pride but in the same token, gain respect that they do in fact have a brain and sometimes use it if so forced.

So if you’re the arguer, understand you’ve done nothing but show your dominance to no one but yourself for your own self-identity. And if you’re the discusser, understand that you’ve done nothing but show you’ll let an arguer win. If you’re both arguers, understand that you might wind up in a fist fight. If you’re both discussers, understand that you must take time to research and understand each other’s point.

If you’re like me, understand that you’ll always wonder why people feel the need to argue with you and that you’ll need to take self-defense courses to survive half the arguers you wind up dealing with. If you’re not, take some domestic courses because you’ll likely wind up serving a man who sees the world in a way that no longer exists by modern standards.

Arguing; the new method of violence and dominance.

Discussion; the new and old taboo of religion and politics.

Bloggerify Blog of Brainiacle Bumbling

Alright, so… I’ve been challenged to present my brain on blogs. I’ve attempted this on several other forums of communication and mostly what I’ve found is that I’m writing a diary. No one sees it, no one cares and there’s not much more than my own dilusions of grandure and paranoia of such to comfort me. So this is yet another attempt of bleeding my brain matter onto the internet to be lost in all that is unholy.

For my first trick, I’ll post about the blogger syndrome. What better way to feel like we are creative rebels of modern society than to whisper our madness into the darkness that we call cyberspace! We can say anything we like with little to no fear of judgement or recourse because, after all, we can always delete a post and ban a poster if what they say is mean. Okay, well… this is an advantage is many respects.

The question is; do I want to silence someone who is seeing me from a light in which I do not relate to? No, not really. That would make me no better than some corporate sell-out who’s doing their best to maintain profitability to the shareholders by silencing those who would hold them in a bad light. But with all the profit mongering and media whoring going on, where does my little blog fit in?

Well for those who enjoy reading aspects of self-humiliation and moments of clarity in a smoke filled room this might be entertaining. Of course we all want to paint ourselves as some kind of modern day wonder-girl, or boy. But the truth is, we’re all just swimming in a sea of mismarketed skincare and depression products. Have some more of that ancient chamomele delight tea while you read the rest of this.

Did you know that we drink Prosac every day? That kinda freaks me out. There’s antidepresants in my water supply. So yeah. Strange enough I’m a lot more complacant this past five years than ever before. Honestly that’s probably a good thing. Moving right along… blogging. Spill your brains on the internet and wait with bated breath for an intelligent, and maybe profitable, reply. Who’s reading this, really? It’s not Steve Stauphenopolis, or however you spell that, I’m sure.

Oh, and some contraversy… I almost forgot. Obama is a media deprived political rock star who’s desperate to retain a legacy he was never owed. A dreamer that likes to force his opposition to be dreamy and forget that someday there’s going to be a bill for all that money he spent. Who’s money is he spending? Well he thinks it’s going to be the very families and lineage that built this country. Unfortunately they all decided to leave the country when he got in office which is why taxes will be hiked on the middle class sooner than anyone can afford. I now have to pay $.73/minute to talk to some of my wealthy family, for example. You disagree? Find me 3 trillion dollars in our country’s wealthiest people that’s ready to be handed over and I’ll humor you for ten minutes. Most numbers reported about our wealthy are based on their worth, not their income. It’s not liquid. So where does that money come from? China. Just like Clinton’s master plan. Sell the country to China and hoard the fame and glory.

So yeah, there. There’s some contraversy some people can yell at me about to get the conversation started. I’ll talk about babies and flowers next time… maybe.