Monday, February 08, 2016

The Short Unhappy Life Of Dozo Maserati

"Why should I care? I'm Dozo Maserati!" That's what I loved about Dozo: he was his own superhero. The group discussion had been on who should become President and nothing could have bored him more. Nothing outside his immediate span of attention interested him. He led a rock star's life, time was his own. As far as he was concerned, the rest of us were migrant workers toiling in futility down on master's farm. Unfortunately, he was right about that.

First, let me explain the name: I can't. I can tell you it was on his driver's license but I'll be damned if I ever saw it on a birth certificate. He'd just grin when we asked him about it but with the money he had I assume it would have been easy enough to change his name to the Japanese word for "please" and that of a famous maker of supercars. Funny part is, it fit him. But then again, if he really was the one who picked it out I guess it should.

When he was alive, much was a mystery. He did nothing for a living we working class suckers could discern yet he did not want for money. When he spoke of his family it was clear he did not come from money. We knew he wasn't a drug dealer. Press him and he'd only reply, "I'm Dozo Maserati!" Part of me knew better but by God I so dearly wanted to believe in him!

One thing I do know was he liked to draw and create. He had his own little shop down in Deep Ellum, Dallas' nightclub and bohemian arts district. He showed it to me on occasion and I loved it. It was like his own personal gallery showing. One piece in particular I liked was called "Fuck you! She Said". He'd taken a coffee cup full of coffee and thrown it against this white poster board. No human hand could ever match that impact. He told me it actually took several attempts to get it right because the coffee kept flying out before it hit the poster. When I foolishly asked how he managed to overcome that problem I got the standard reply: "I'm Dozo Maserati!"

I told him he should open the shop up to the public, see what people had to say. He asked me what for. I (finally) got to say, "Because you're Dozo Maserati!" He tried to flash his usual smile at me but I saw the pain in his eyes. That's when I knew for sure his life was one big masquerade, an act no one could crack. Being independently wealthy shielded him from many evils of the world while also releasing him to do and say as he pleased. Wasn't that enough? I do have to admit he was certainly pleased with himself in some regard. What that regard was he'd never reveal but I felt it had something to do with how he got his money.

Sometimes he'd pay me to spend the day with him, or rather, he made up for the wages I'd lose for taking the day off. He'd go off and buy these two, three thousand dollar Italian leather shoes. Salesman said they took ten months to make! I'm sitting there watching this spectacle, laughing on the inside. Dozo would ask if I wanted a pair but I said I had no use for them. It was ethereal spending a day in his world. Others have wealth, but he never had to answer to anybody for his. "What's the point of being rich if you're some cocksucking CEO?"

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. That's certainly how I'd play it if I could. I was definitely envious of Dozo but not to the point of bitterness. There just had to be a price he paid somewhere for living what I called the perfect lifestyle. He never stayed with any one woman for a long period of time. I suspected what he was hiding from us he hid from them too. When it came time for revelation he'd quit and start all over again. But I glossed that over saying he just hadn't met the right one yet.

"I'm empty, man." We were driving along in Dozo's latest Maserati (a classic Bora, in fact) and he knew he was supposed to be on top of the world. He'd beaten the system yet again. Always so anxious to prove he was somebody! So I couldn't believe my ears when the smile disappeared and he uttered that line of futility. I gave a quick laugh waiting for the punch line. Then he looked over at me with a sober face I'll never forget. Something had him worried. Something he couldn't trick or buy his way out of.

"If you think the hell and drudgery of my job gives my life meaning you're sadly mistaken," I tried to console. I'd lose myself in Dozo's world when we were together, sort of like going to the movies. But he'd halted the film projector and the light of day brought me back to daily suicide and gaping, ceaseless regrets. I had to believe independent wealth would solve my problems. Last thing I wanted was him popping my bubble.

"No. Sure as hell don't want that, either. But it's one thing to find answers for the world, another finding answers for me. I just don't know what the point of anything is. Beating the world isn't the same as beating life. I feel like there's this wall or something between me and what I want and I just can't get around it. I can get every thing that I want, but I can't get what I want. Maybe I'm not as smart as I thought."

I didn't want to hear this depressing talk. "But you're Dozo Maserati!"

That forced a smile on his face and he spoke no more of his woes. Later, I felt guilty about cutting him off, my own misery and pain getting the best of me. I see this a lot, so much possible constructive dialog lost down the drain of sorrows.

Only other time I caught him being snippy was when I saw a Keith Moon biography on his desk at his Deep Ellum place. "Hey, that's you!" Dozo had told me of his tearing up a hotel room once and I thought he'd be flattered at the comparison. His eyes first looked at me, then the book I was pointing to. "No. Moonie had talent." Then he turned his back to me. Fuck, I was just trying to play along. I never quite could put all the pieces together.

Then he stopped coming 'round. A year later, I get a knock on my door. It was Dozo. He looked at death's door - which turned out to be the case.

"My blood is poisoned, there's no going back. I have to tell someone before I die. I want to tell everything but you can tell no one. They'll be laughing at me forever."

I was honored he'd chosen me and not held a grudge for my previous rude gaffes. "Sure thing, I'll protect the legend of Dozo Maserati!"

Even then that caused him to strain a smile. "It's like this. You know how I always like to go out camping and hiking. I do that because I like to be alone. I don't like having to explain my life. I can't do what you and the other guys do. No way can I hold down a job - ever. It would kill me."

"Trust me, it's killing me too. World doesn't care if you live or die, though."

"Exactly. People are shit. All I wanted to do was sit around and draw. That's it. I was facing getting out of school and being on my own. I found this cave way out on this rancher's land with a sign warning of hazardous gas inside. I figured what better place to commit suicide? Let the assholes wonder what happened to me. No one ever listened when I wanted to talk anyway."

Shit, that included me. God, what I wouldn't give to grow up. Dozo continued. "I get inside and it's dark and damp, the perfect place to die alone unwanted. But this thin layer of water is running down the sides in the back. It was shiny so I went over to investigate. I couldn't believe it but it was gold! I felt like the Count of Monte Cristo finding the treasure chest. One minute you think you're doomed to die the next the world is at your feet. With the water washing away for God knows how long the first nuggets were so loose I could get them out by hand."


Dozo continued speaking in this voice I'd never heard before. "Yeah, I know. Shocked the shit out of me too. I couldn't tell anyone. They might horn in on me or tell the owner and I'd be screwed. I figured I'd been handed a death sentence in life, what did I have to lose taking the gold? The owners only showed up to get away from wherever their real house was. Was easy to get the gold out. I started feeling...destined."

Dozo started coughing. He held up his hand to motion me to not to try and give aid. His fate was sealed. Nothing anyone could do. The façade was dead.

"I dunno. I don't know what I was thinking. I was so angry. Getting the gold seemed like my just reward, ya know? For making up for living in this crummy world. I was dead, man! No way out. Even if that poison gas did kill me, what difference does that make to a condemned man? Plus I figured that sign was from way back and the cave was OK now. How was I to know it was a slow poison? Took seven years to catch up to me."

I went over and locked the door and lowered the lights. "No one needs to know anyone's home." I knew Dozo didn't want anyone to see him in this condition. Superheroes aren't supposed to die. He was motionless but I knew he was grateful. I sat back down. I knew my role as Father Confessor wasn't over.

"What gets to me now is how sure I was finding that gold at that exact right time...that meant something. It had to! Couldn't be coincidence. I felt it in my bones. But, shit, with this death sentence...what did it do? Just delayed the inevitable. What was the point, godammit! I just die seven years later. So fucking what!"

The air in the room of my cheap apartment was explosive. I sure as hell couldn't answer his pleas. I would have thought the same thing. Still, I felt something was missing from the equation. Exactly what I could not tell. Faith. That was the word that came to me at the time. But I didn't have the nerve to throw that in the face of a dying man. Truth is, if you ever need a coward, look me up.

Dozo had only one thing left to tell me as he exited the door never to return. "My real name is Lupton Pittman."

"Thanks, Dozo," I defiantly replied. I think in the corner of his mouth I spotted one last faint smile of a lifetime.

EPILOGUE: The tragic irony came later. Almost too painful for me to tell. In going through Dozo's Deep Ellum gallery, his work got noticed and a showing was made at Zhulong gallery (recently closed, damn it, but some pieces are for sale at Griffin Trading). Prices for his work skyrocketed immediately, over $7,000 for the coffee cup piece alone. The gold really was a savior. It bought him time to blossom into an artist.

But he'd let the gold mine possess him. Dozo's argument had been he wasn't allowed to do what he wanted - what he needed - in this world. But when he got the gold he still clung to that notion, keeping his blinding anger alive. He so badly believed he was screwed he made it come true even when he wasn't. That's what really killed him - and stole a much needed artist from a hurting world.

Dozo's favorite song

Saturday, February 06, 2016

The Corporate Cell

No one in this room believes in God. Least of all the phony Christians. When it comes time to do the corporate cheer (literally) their voices are the loudest. They think by claiming God it washes their greed clean. And that that gives them license - in their minds anyway - to fuck you any way they see fit. A bunch of self-oblivious snakes. They'll strike you the minute you relax.

I wonder if being on the thirty-sixth floor contributes to the cult mentality around here. The smirking credo is the higher the floor the higher the esteem. As they stand on the morning elevator watching their "lessers" get off on lower floors, they inwardly smile at their being special just by virtue of time spent in the elevator. Every time I survey this room I see the end of civilization.

Not that they see it this way! Just the opposite! They think they're ushering in the future, advancing mankind, improving the world. You can see the Jim Jones glimmer in their eyes as they speak of  grand plans hatched by gurus sitting high up in ivory towers. "He's got a PhD!" Their Cheshire smiles of smug self-satisfaction as you're sitting in the conference room with its panoramic backdrop provide a surreal scene of heads floating in the clouds.

Believe me when I tell you I know this idiot

Of course, their real objective is to remain disconnected to reality at all times. The greater the disconnect, the greater the success! It's a frightening formula for any of those still connected, but those are few - and getting fewer.

There are basically three groups. The vampires who hide in management's hard heart, the zombies who stagger along uncaring if life or death awaits them, and the competents (to be fair some of whom are Christians) who keep things together but are under constant attack from the other two groups who live in dire fear of exposure. You wonder what's going to happen when they drive the last of the competents out the door. Will the fools see reality then? How much longer will truth wait to claim its victorious day?

You can hear the office zombies and vampires gloat about the latest movies about zombies and vampires. People like seeing themselves onscreen (and to see themselves be elected too!). That's the limit of their thinking: "Oh, that's me! I'm going to tell everyone I think that's great!" As if that's enough to make it so. Even more scary.

Looking at these fuckers in their quaffed cubicles and sanctified offices operating in divine ignorance is to truly see a mad tea party in action. It's a wonderful waltz of self-deception complete with a perpetual flow of perky emails and contrived events asking to prove your furor for the faith. In this tea party, "one lump or two" means how many times do you want to be hit over the head. Ask for three and be a good boy! The abuse makes the abused feel safe.

You need VP approval before you can pour the tea. Why?
Because that's who knows the least!

But it was the Sky Man who was the talk of the office. He was this husky black guy, looked to be in his late-thirties, who washed windows without the usual platform. It was terrifying watching him hang suspended from the tops of our fellow sky scrapers, bouncing from window to window in high winds. The expression on his face was of complete calmness, however, just as if he were standing on the ground. Just getting close to the window gives me vertigo. But this guy is out there dancing around hundreds of feet in the air without a care in the world.

I did not enjoy watching the Sky Man work. Daredevils hold little interest for me. I don't know what his motivation was. Maybe he didn't value his life so cleaning that way meant nothing to him. Maybe he wanted to show off but I never got that impression from him. Maybe like the zombies he thought "this is just the way it is" and didn't think to question the risk. I was dying to pick his brain to hear what he'd say. Rumor was somebody did actually talk to him and Sky Man claimed "it was just a job."

Whatever. His presence certainly caused many ripples in the closed confines of our cell. "That man is crazy! He has no idea what he's doing!" That came from one of the dunderheads who really does have no idea what she's doing. You could tell she needed him to fail or quit in order to prove that those who avoid risk, i.e. thinking, are the "smart ones". The sharks loved to watch him. They didn't want to miss the chance of watching him fall. When I said as much to one them he got really angry and stormed off. Still get a few minor victories in here and there.

Management praised Sky Man for "doing what it takes to get the job done." Basically, they were treating him like they do any contractor. Use them, abuse them, and throw them away. They get put into the most impossible positions with the most unrealistic expectations then the poor saps take the blame when things go wrong. It's a beautiful set up for management to outsource the responsibility while taking credit when a project is completed. So they loved seeing Sky Man risk his life to give clean windows to the world.

I was on vacation when he fell to his death. They said it was a freak accident. Sky Man certainly did always look confident in that contraption of his and part of me desperately wanted to believe in him. Winning the lottery is nigh impossible. Winning the reverse lottery, however, seems fairly easy. If that chance in a million will kill you, there's a good chance it will happen. My first reaction was how pissed I was he died before I got a chance to talk to him. I never knew how much hope and anticipation I was harboring for that until too late.

Nothing was ever said but I do think a piece of us died too in the office. New people who came in after his death were looked upon as green grunts who don't know the ropes, had not experienced the horrors of war, and wouldn't believe us had we bothered to explain. Nervous jokes were made about Sky Man's death and I have to admit a couple of them I found funny too. We have to laugh at our own deaths to make it through the day. Seriously, someone thinks there's a future in that?

"What is it all for?" I think that's the (unspoken) question foisted on us by Sky Man's death. The corporate propaganda spews forth as ceaselessly as ever yet we veterans can't muster up the phony enthusiasm as before. Instead, we continue our silent parade of mock accomplishments as we too fall to our fate. Yes, there are still the book-reading radicals speaking of these being "exciting times" of drinking the Kool-Aid, deifying doomed decisions, and going to the grave for the greater glory of the corporation.

But I think our lives mean more than that. I think Sky Man's life meant more than that too. RIP, Sky Man. You are gone but not forgotten. Who knows? Maybe you were lucky to get out before facing the final outcome of the hell on earth we are creating.

Thursday, February 04, 2016

Dude, You're Hurting The Cause!

He sat in silence at the head of the Jerusalem table. He was not agitated but those standing around him buzzed like angry bees. To read his face was impossible. Was he bored? Inattentive? Completely beaten down? Or simply too self-possessed to have interest in the noise of other's nonsense? For a person without insight it was impossible to discern. Most who saw him at this moment settled for painting him with a brush of their own making.

These men who'd come to chastise him - to correct him - were assured in their concrete arguments of the illiberal left, desperate with their gambled lives to convince and cajole. They considered the seated man at the table as one of their flock and to have even one lost sheep was unbearable to them - and they'd fight to bring him into the fold with the utmost powers of their persuasion. In unspoken coordination, each approached the man at the table to make his plea.

"First, let me say - and I think everyone would agree - we certainly appreciate your passion and convictions!" Nodding heads and murmurs confirmed this. "But there has to be a line. Passions without limits leads to ruin."

"I for one say it's good to stir things up. We need your voice. But if people turn against us - if we are too radical - what hope is there of reform? Who would support us then?"

"Not everyone has your understanding, my good man. People see that sort of violent display you did today with confusion and, ultimately, rejection. It's the calm voice that persuades. People hear a calm voice and they listen. But they hear scolding and they turn away - no matter how righteous the cause."

"Frankly, sir, I'm not as inclined as my fellow brethren to be so forgiving of a man who makes a corded whip sowing chaos and disorder for those simply trying to earn a living. Be reasonable! Have a heart and show some understanding. None of us like the corrupt society in which we live. But anarchy is not the solution."

"Yes, it's implementing solutions we have to think about, not indulging one's passions. Pragmatism, realism, compromise - those are the tenets that lead to real change. One must respectfully disagree. That leads to dialog between reasonable men: we work out an arrangement, a compromise bringing us closer to where we want to be. We can't let the perfect be the enemy of the good."

"Couldn't have said it better myself. I hope you understand what we're saying. This is about making real progress, not chasing after ideals that can never be. Idealism has its time and place, and we love to hear you talk, but to act on it like you did today, well, frankly, it sets us back. Hearts become inflamed and hardened in their positions. Then it becomes impossible to bring them to enlightenment as you and we have been."

"Yes, that's all we're saying. Be reasonable. Those weren't bad people in the temple today. Business is not a dirty word. If you have a problem with their placement inside the temple, one lodges a complaint and it goes through channels with no hard feelings. Your sort of fanaticism cannot be tolerated in civilized society."

"We're not saying we don't need you. We most certainly need your voice! We very much want you for our worthy cause. That's why it's important you get on the same page as us. Together we can change the world! With God anything is possible!"

Be Worthy!

Carrot and stick, seduction and rejection, capitulation and judgment - the elders threw all their wiles against the impractical, unreasonable radical. If he remained unswayed and firm in his stance, they were doomed men, frauds under the sun, losing their high positions and most of all the certitude of their righteousness. They used their sense of morality as clubs wrapped in words of honey. Rare was the soul who could withstand their withering attacks coupled with baseless appeasements. The tiniest of stains would do, a man who clings to keeps his linen white their greatest enemy.

The man at the table remained within himself, motionless. Had he heard nothing? Impossible to believe not one of their arguments had reached him! Just tell us you heard us and victory is ours! If we fail to deceive him then we'll marginalize him like we've had to do in the past. But we've caught him red-handed. His violence today cannot be politically defended. We've somehow got to knock him off that perch of his. Then we can safely resume our mastery over the people as the holy ones.

Without acknowledgment or regard, the man stood up heading for the door. This caused great consternation among the elders who protested in growing fury until finally barring the exit. The men demanded an answer and would not let him pass until satisfied. Finally, the man spoke to the stone faces planted before him.

"Whom must answer to you?"

Would rather kill than ever turn over a table.
How radical is that??

The question caused to happen that which they'd hoped to do to him. They were momentarily thrown off-balance, without conviction or certainty; stained and exposed. Their minds scrambled for plausible new rationalizations on why they should morally rule, but in that time of confusion the man was able to pass through, though they be an army they were powerless without their spirit. As they watched him make his way back to the temple, to speak of the joy and promise of life, they called out in wailing last attempts, refusing to repent or relinquish their altar thrones.

"Many people answer to us! They come seeking knowledge and advice! Elders are to be respected! We are the way! We are the only way! Nothing gets done outside of us! You're a hopeless loser if you don't join us. Your words will go unheard, lost to history, your folly exposed for the ages! Repent and we will forgive you!"

The elders raged with undeniable murder in their hearts. That scared them at first to know they were capable of killing. Though claiming to be on an opposing side to the bankers and businessmen, it was the money men who gave the elders purpose, frenemies whom they could lord over in staged morality. But this man today was of a different sort. He must be stopped or their self-deemed "good works" would come to end. Yes! Yes! That's it! Say anything! We can claim we're killing him for the greater good just as the Hebrews were forced to kill the thieves among them who threatened survival of the whole.

Thus the die was cast. Perfidious priests and poisoning politicians, bailed banksters and bribed businessmen, evil rulers and those who speak well of evil conspired to murder the one who dare expose them and lead them to salvation. This, they hoped, would save them from ruin - even as it guaranteed it. "He must die to protect our sins."
And Jesus entered the temple and drove out all those who were buying and selling in the temple, and overturned the tables of the Wall Street money changers and the seats of those who were selling doves. And He said to them, "It is written, 'MY HOUSE SHALL BE CALLED A HOUSE OF PRAYER'; but you are making it a robber's den."

When morning came, all the chief priests and elders of the people plotted against Jesus to put Him to death. And when they had bound Him, they led Him away and delivered Him to Pontius Pilate the governor.

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Walking Alone

I'm not a pleasant person to be around.

I don't apologize for that.

I didn't join the army.

I didn't love.

I hate the lies (good or bad) believed about me.

I hate the lies I tell.

I yearn to be indoors walking the streets.

I yearn to be on the streets while indoors.

Wherefore art thou, Freedom?

I'm ready for this to end.

The flames are only getting hotter.

None will mourn my passing for none have known me.

Those who think they do, know me least.

Few I have met who want to live.

I must eat quickly before they take it away.

Those who think they know best will die first,

Never to return.

No longer a time for all things under the sun.

What's done before can no longer be done.

No hope for all but there's hope for the one.

Thorns of the world rule undefeatable in unholy terror.

No happy ending. Just a happy beginning.

Assassins of the Son lead us in prayer.

"Excuse me. Excuse me! EXCUSE ME!"

I ignore the calls by entitled killers.

This is just one dead man talking to another.

There's nothing left to be proven.

I hear cheers and laughter in a passing bar.

Both devil and angel are applauded.

Reality's escape is never long.

Crumbling stability of locked handcuffs.

You've got yours but I've not got mine.

Walking alone until the end of time.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Citizen Cruz

Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called the children of God.

Wonder what the hatemongers will be called??

There's a new strain of evil in the land and all we can think to do is check its birth certificate. As we move towards inevitable (and irreversible) revelation, our true faces can resist the light for only so long. For those who care to look, scary creatures can be seen walking among us - some even running for Supreme Leader! Many are those who lament this with much consternation and gnashing of teeth. "Can't you see? Look! It's the devil himself!" But I? I break into song about good ol' Raffy Cruz! Like Rafael said to me, "Heck, win a tea party election in this town, you get a song written about you! Except I said I wanted a thong, not a song!""

There is a man?
But he's no man!
- We'll call him ma'am -
- and such a ham! -
And to the poor he'll slyly lure
He'll screw them all he can!

Who is this bum?
Who acts like scum?
This bastard son!
Canada from!
Just by his lying
Has the Honest Speaking on the run!

Who loves to hate?
His masturbate!
God's soul berate?
An angry state!
Who wouldn't get a bit upset
If you dated his mate?

So don't you snooze,
Your head he'll bruise,
His words confuse.
Your anger use.
I'll bet you five you're not alive
If you don't hear his boos.

Who'll give us hell?
It's Rafael!
(Chorus: It's Señor Vain!)
He doesn't like that Señor
He likes his white sounding name!

Who'll give a vote?
For this cutthroat!
Who'll sink your boat!
His lies don't float!
Who switches positions quicker
Than a mountain slick goat?

Who is so rude?
He's got a 'tude!
Whose shit don't stink?
Loves to hoodwink!
Who thinks your dough was made to spend,
And hides the way he thinks?

Who's Rafael?
He'll never tell!
(Chorus: He's just a flake!)
I'll bet you ten you aren't men
If you don't see a snake!

Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell.

Monday, January 25, 2016

Picking On The Math Guy

"You know what he said? He said Four!"

"Oh, my God! You're kidding!"

"Everyone started laughing! What a dummy!"

"Like, a total loser. Doesn't even know the answer for 2 + 2!"

The girls giggled at their classmate's woes for giving the incorrect answer. Correctness for them was very simple: whatever is accepted to be correct - and vice-versa. There is no mythical "truth" outside of that - unless you want to be laughed at! Social engineering at its finest.

The teachers too knew that which was correct: whatever put food on their tables. A few rebels would fight the new mandates but they were quickly ostracized and outcast. When word came down that the new answer to 2 + 2 is five, initial discussions quickly rationalized the new order.

"We have to keep an open mind. They're trying something new."

"There are no absolute truths. Only fringe radicals believe otherwise."

"What difference does it make what we say the answer is? One number is as good as another."

Some knew better but did not say better. Some did not care to know better. Some only knew what to repeat. But all who embraced the new order had one thing in common: they claimed they were being "responsible to society." "You can't eat ideals," scoffed one.

The king was very happy to hear about the mass corruption of his subjects. Had they been an honest people his rule would have ended in public outrage. He never could contain his spending and in doing so had vastly exceeded the kingdom's budget. But with the new way of counting, his reserves expanded overnight! Now when 400 coins were counted out the total came to 500. Budget balanced!

Malvin the Math Guy - he the ridicule of teenage girls - understood none of this. He saw no reason to lie and no reason to honor the king's destructive order. After all, no one has a say in the rules of math. They stand on their own. He could see that. What doesn't anyone else?

The Math Club - who had expelled Malvin - intellectualized in delightful conspiracy and hearsay the mysterious ways of the new order.

"I hear rumors that the latest research is pointing closer to six, not five."

"Amazing! This really is cutting edge stuff we're getting into nowadays."

"Yes, we can't be beholden to the old ways and old thinking. We must always be pressing forward. Some people can handle that. Some can't. Not everyone has the intellectual capacity to grasp these new concepts."

"Yeah, that Malvin is living in the past for sure. He's all sour grapes about this but he has only himself to blame."

"Indeed, with this new paradigm many previous mathematical impossibilities have been wiped away, unleashing new technologies of a brave new world!"

Malvin tried lying. He tried fitting in, but never could convince himself of the words he was instructed to say. He watched mournfully as the answer then changed to 5.5 ("First time ever two whole numbers equaled a decimal! Exciting breakthrough, this!") and then finally to Six (as the king's intoxicated spending accelerated). Malvin didn't know what to say or even to whom he could speak who would listen. He trudged along day after dying day in solitary confinement.

Part of him held out hope born of faith. Many times he'd heard the sneer: "Oh, so you're right and everyone else is wrong. What an asshole!" But he clung to his belief that even as a minority of one, the truth is still the truth. But the isolation wore on him. Malvin could never muster the confidence of expression of those who have wholesale social backing when parroting the latest "correct" answer. Malvin was simply dubbed the "Lonesome Loser".

In his darkest moments, even he had doubts hearing the eloquent and assured explanations from on high for the new formulas. These men couldn't just be making this up, going before the crowds without sound reason! That would be utter madness. What am I missing? From every angle I've tried I still come up with four. What Malvin was missing was that he painted others with his own brush; that others were fellow devotees of truth, and for them to derive a different answer concerned him mightily.

But the lies strained the kingdom as the new formulas were undone by reality. Three wheeled cars with four sides failed miserably. No one wanted to be "negative" or "betray" their rulers but life kept getting harder and harder as the doubts kept getting harder and harder to deny. As widespread panic rose to a fever pitch a reason must be found for their woes that did not include them. The answer was simple: Malvin.

The trial was attended by a packed courtroom and every word and action diligently reported. Everyone knew when to be shocked and outraged and acted their part on cue. The mass contempt for the traitor who spoke reason "fluently" comforted the liars who'd begun to fear the outcome of their wicked ways. "It's not us, after all! Whew! I knew he was no good. His nose is too big." This is what passed for insight.

Malvin was given a fitting death: he was burned at the stake. Sanctimonious editorials lamented his unrepentant soul with false remorse ("But Malvin must die for the greater good"). A parade was held to celebrate the "purification" of the land. "The future is ours! We are safe at last!"

But immediately after the murder splintering groups seized intractable positions against one another. "Six is OK but not 6.5. Now that's crazy" "Anything less than eight is absurd!" "You people who want to keep increasing it are going to ruin everything! No one will take us seriously!" "What are you? Some radical who wants to go back to Four?" "People! Be reasonable. The truth is always somewhere in the middle. We should compromise on six." Contentions flared into grudges which flared into new purges and more state sponsored murders.

Eventually the kingdom died off of it's own volition engulfed in self-fear and hysteria. But this gave little satisfaction to Malvin who sat in Heaven watching. What's the point of anything if everyone ends up dead?

"So they lie their whole life, destroy the social fabric, and vilify and butcher anyone who sticks up for the truth and tries to make things work. What's the point? I don't get it. Why did they get a free ride when I got the shaft??"

That's when a smiling Jesus leaned over and whispered into Malvin's ear: "You don't see any of those fuckers here do you?"

Monday, January 18, 2016

In God We Mistrust

This calls for wisdom:
Let the one who has understanding calculate the number of the beast,
for it is the number of a man,
and his number is 666.

If we really trusted God money wouldn't exist!

In Tarrant County (Fort Worth), the property tax assessor sends out his notices with "In God We Trust" stamped on them in large block letters multiple times. He does not do this because he trusts God! Rather, it's money we truly trust to "save" us. A man's religion in the truest sense is in what he places the safeguarding of his life. If God is love then when is the last time you saw someone trusting love? It happens, but rarely.

But of course we have to say we trust God, especially when we emblazon it on our very own golden calf. The total mass power of this mutual agreed delusion is equal to a million billion suns. The amount of energy bent to keep the fiction of money alive is not comprehensible at this point. But rest assured we are bending the universe and when we finally give out and the universe irrevocably snaps back into place, we will be in for the shock of a lifetime - all our lifetimes, that is. To admit we are committing this horrible sin of waste is too horrible to confess.

Yet we must.

"Let me know if the numbers work." It's a phrase we say without thinking. It's a comforting phrase for it implies we can boil life down to something concrete and finite. It also absolves us of responsibility as we pretend to be helpless before the numbers beast. Put pollution controls on cement kilns? Put food in front of every man, woman and child? Let everyone work as much as they need? Only "numbers" can answer those questions. If the numbers say no then we poison our land, air, and water in petrified paralysis while claiming purity of heart.

They called him an hippie communist anarchist -
then had him crucified.

In Flint, the numbers said to poison the people. We are so contaminated by the beast we think nothing of it, only alleged radicals and anarchists are outraged. But it those who are not outraged who are the radicals and anarchists, destroyers of the world. So successful is the lie pontificating the beast gives us order and safety that causalities in that cause are acceptable. We poison for the greater good! Yet, were I to feed lead to a single child I'd be called a monster for the ages.

In the Sixties we dreamed the dream - but never lived it. When the dream does come for real, the unleashing of energy will be a supernova as we are no longer beholden to maintaining this binding fiction. Sauron's ring lives. Our rage and seething intensifies with every passing day, furious at our lack of freedom, fighting shadow monsters in mock resistance, waiting in agony for the dam to break. It's fucking excruciating. And only gets worse until resolved.

Still not convinced? Well, Nature always has the final say. It's funny watching us dictate to the universe. High priests of the economic religion spout infamous nonsense parsed from the soul. We bless our perfidy from on high, awed by the power of propaganda, thinking ourselves clever in worship of the number beast. If you think the lie only a small twist, unimportant and "understandable", perhaps even (laughably) prudent, then consider how you'd feel this is what our money looked like - and if you could even bear it.

Who we are without money is who we truly are