the fools are magicians and those we figured were for the best scholars and wizened wizards actually were really foolish pretenders faking their way to the imaginary top of whatever heap was thought can easily make them champions among men whose ways are distant and nostalgic as the ‘venerated saint’ is yet another way of saying ‘fool’ though with much more respect as the spectrum so ordains it necessary in among the common vulgar people who sit and laugh and are entertained by the plights of all of those who suffer to make things better in this brooding den of antagonists we have become in order to get to all the work done and the results we implied before the window of opportunity closes, so we can never wholly silence the voices speaking in out-of-turn with each other trying …
no humble narrator Here to guide you away safely through the dark side of the solar being we are while still within this vessel awaiting orders to change, and thus our adaptability to what we perceive when receiving information as signals and symbols too potent to avail for the mood of a better moment yet to make a message of effective communication possible to more than the select few who choose to lead us all in an inane fashion viewing themselves as the greater sovereigns for a peopled collective than they who as individuals could each manage destiny for their own reasons instead of supplanting others motives for the personal one, pushing what little sensations we have to burst and bubble at a surface attention while speaking in tongues too soft to notice any of the proper etiquette necessary …
the self-fulfilling prophesies triggering a constricted air hole through which to breathe in the tiny bits and bytes of informative fuel that can inspire us to greater feats of whose foibles are tracked in consistent lock and step all throughout our cycles on this planet making a sub-optimal choice for our own reasons as seasoned by our individual attitudes and perspective suspects subjective in this a rat race made misery to quell curiosity that humans naturally feel in spite of the programming used to seal us inside, to determine a fate for ourselves when the weight of the world sits upon our shoulders each together though apart as clockwork cogs barely cognizant of the system surrounding us working a motivational motor of mojo on our parts through the demi-semi-quasi-waiving sounds that seem to be a stewing throughout the cosmos …
firstly, how does jesus or any religious figure from the past or any other time in history become any holy functionary or missionary of function perhaps as better put into words within code embedded into the human heart to try solving these alien problems by creating yet more problems that no other person contains a logical conclusion without some prevalence of literal interpretation of all kinds by their scriptures in order to justify the beliefs of the few, and then secondly what exactly is my definition of a proto-eso-terrorist… romantically, in an attempt to understand ourselves from other eras to some extent i believe, we are drawn into the suffering of these christ figures from ages past because they can reveal a deeper substance within us all that should not be undermined by a superficial excess as promoted by …
you are the epitome of stupid or perhaps ignorant as the fear washes over you and your frequent lies you say are true though of what standard measured are we so subdued from establishing free contact to these parts of our universal culture instead of the biased by-product of the mass-evading concern for compassion in part reinforcing the shapes of the traditional amid the troubling dissenters whose known curiosity admits their weakness to question aspects they do not know as fact, those suspicious factors attacked with no graceful approach in a statement of violence rather static and obnoxious to witness as the howls of victim and victor share in a space thoroughly devoid of happiness or respect but only an animal instinct latching onto the weapons of war and cruelty of terror and atrocity as the various social plagues …
i hate you, and your lazy ways looking for the opportunity whenever it lays in your path to betray and exploit or display and distort any truth to the situation out of guilt or shame for the words as you might have used them in error to your idiotic melees with the powers-that-be casually random which is pitiful behavior to remain an adulterated specimen yet barely an adult fully-grown to size up with as many of the rest of these capable people amongst you, might as well call it quits before dancing gig is up while a big wig with a name souled amidst the buyers’ blitz as zeitgeist jinx on all good things that may haps comes to pass as a bold expression revolting against the timelessness of these as hollow phases we go through again and again …
posthumously from days after the fact these words like explanation have worked their way out of this odd mind of mine built up after years of this daily occurrence where everyday it all changes no matter how potent the ritual take ahold of us in our mechanical quizzicality as has made us the ever-evolving casualty a mutation of self consciousness, tradition masks the ignorance and insecurity that is derived from up-keeping these disguises so well distracting away from the personal search for the meaning of life as we mutilate our hands and our lands and our minds to fit the efficient paradigm that eats away like decay at our souls when we have fatally sold out our last strand of sense that could save us from the authority of oblivion, and the knowledge that rhythm and melody can help …
‘… The journalist is driving, ignoring his passenger who is nearly naked after taking off most of his clothing, which he holds out the window, trying to wind-wash the Mace out of it. His eyes are bright red and his face and chest are soaked with beer he’s been using to rinse the awful chemical off his flesh. The front of his woolen trousers is soaked with vomit; his body is racked with fits of coughing and wild choking sobs. The journalist rams the big car through traffic and into a spot in front of the terminal, then he reaches over to open the door on the passenger’s side and shoves the Englishman out, snarling: “Bug off, you worthless faggot! You twisted pigfucker!…’
~ David Foster Wallace on addressing a deeper cause to rid pain.
‘… “Jesus, look at the corruption in that face!” he whispered. “Look at the madness, the fear, the greed!” I looked, then quickly turned my back on the table he was sketching. The face he’d picked out to draw was the face of an old friend of mine, a prep school football star in the good old days with a sleek red Chevy convertible and a very quick hand, it was said, with the snaps of a 32B brassiere. They called him “Cat Man.”
But now, a dozen years later, I wouldn’t have recognized him anywhere but here, where I should have expected to find him, in the Paddock bar on Derby Day… fat slanted eyes and a pimp’s smile, blue silk suit and his friends looking like crooked bank tellers on a binge…’