Thursday, September 21, 2017

Yes, You Are STUPID!


Twice this week I've seen TV morons emphatically declare you can't call people stupid, as if everyone deserves a participation trophy just for being born. Well, you know what I think of that? I think it's STUPID! It's an idiotic attempt to strip meaning from our choices, that there are no good or bad ones, and - by inference - there can be no intelligent people if we're all on the same plane. I'm a genius, you're a genius.

Don't get me wrong, I know what Tweedledum and Tweedledee are driving at. "You have to get yourself elected! Can't be catering to honesty! Lie to do good later!" With this line of thinking next thing you know you have your nose up Mrs. Jones' ass telling her her shit don't stink - just as God intended life to be. Well, that's a plan, just not a viable one. Stupid needs to be called stupid if you want to serve your fellow man.

"I wants finger my on stove hott!"

"Didn't you do that before and it burned you and was very painful?"

"So thats what?"

"Well, I would hope you wouldn't want to repeat that experience."

"You librul fashist telling me wot to doodoo!"

"No, I'm simply making an observation to see if you find any benefit to it. I remember you screaming quite loudly last time."

"Butt now is smartster! I heared preeching say attitude good do anything! So I ain't taking no attitude vibrants bad from ewe!!"

"The truth should never be taken for an insult. You're acting like a moron."

"Don't me call stoopids! Not dare no! I's stikkin' up myself from likes of yoo! I got friend really, name Duck. Duck, stoopid I is?"

"Absolutely not!" encouraged the Duck. "You do what you think is best. You're a fine fellow, an upstanding world citizen, and a beacon of enlightenment in a dark world."

"Seeee? Good me feels him! Not likes ewe!!!"

Then the moron stuck his finger on the hot stove, screamed loudly, and ran from the room blaming it all on the "librul fashist." So yes, the Duck gets elected because stupid people want to feel good about being stupid because their goddam conscience keeps telling them something else. Everybody votes themselves to be Jesus in the voting booth!

More on (moron) this later.



Tuesday, September 19, 2017

How Far We've Fallen

From this:




To this:




From the Voice of Conviction to Low Energy Don. We are defined by the voices we raise up. We obviously are a more self-loathing nation, bent in decline. It cannot end well without correction. How many hearts will we break and how many lives will we take? It's happening right now.

Burn Out


Her thoughts while mounted:

He's more active than usual...has he got his vigor back?...have the old days returned like when our love was alive?...no...this is something different...he's scared...of what?...losing something?...yes, he's afraid of losing something...his identity? his youth? his manhood?...I can never know, we don't talk...it feels like he's a...stranger!...a desperate loner!..."Oh, God!" I get the sense he's been talking to someone about his troubles...he doesn't trust me anymore...just like I don't trust him...he fears he's going to lose me?...or maybe it's a part of himself he's losing...I'm just now seeing how far the divide is between us...I'm scared, so much more alone than I thought...I can't survive outside this marriage, God help me if it turns out I can't survive in it...what will I do?...is that the thought that has hit him?...is that why he's trying to re-create the old days when we were first married..."Oh, God!" I just can't fake it like I did before...that isn't in me anymore, to be able to lie like that to keep things going...this isn't going to work, is it?...he's going to find out he really has lost whatever he's afraid of having lost...that we have lost...does this mean our story ends up in a cliché?...middle aged man has affair. wife got fat. marriage got stale...yes, I can hear it now... "Oh, God!" I couldn't bear that...to be talked about like that...to be forever defamed...to have my years of lies be exposed...no! no! "Oh God!" no!!!


His thoughts after dismounting:

Got her to say "Oh, God" four times!...and she doesn't suspect a thing...damn, I want that Holly in Personnel...I need to feel alive again...but I'm afraid of her...how good can I really still do it with someone who isn't a dead cow?...divorce is unthinkable...can't imagine having to go around the rest of my time explaining what a fraud we've been for thirty years...but the thought is so liberating!...but Holly is for the side, not marrying, even if she wasn't 15 years younger...who am I?...I can't believe my life is turning out like this...all I care about is keeping up the façade...there's nothing more fun than being unrespectable while being considered respectable!..it keeps calling out to me...what would she do if she knew?...crawl into her Bible?...probably so...I played that game before... it's Holly's fine legs I need...NEED!...I don't want to die...I can't live here in this suffocating house and all her false morality...she'd die without our priest's and her parents' approval...I need my dick's approval or I'll explode...I secretly do love lying...it's the only time I feel alive...what can I do?...be honest?...never...I can't let anyone see me like I really am...I'm losing hope!...did I ever really have it?...I'll probably just chicken out with Holly anyway...I really can't afford to let anyone know how I've ruined my life...don't tell me this is all there is!...no!, no!, no!



Actually, it's not fucking funny at all

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Strange Way

How else to prove your love?

She said:

Didn't I hear you cry this morning, didn't I feel you weep?
Teardrops flowin' down on me, like rivers in my sleep.
And in my dream of laughter, you came creepin' with your fears.
Telling me your sorrows, in the tracings of your tears.

That's a strange way to tell me you love me
When your sorrow is all I can see
If you just want to cry to somebody, don't cry to me, no
Don't cry to me, no

Didn't I hear your voice this morning, didn't you call my name?
I heard you whisper softly, but the words were never plain.
And in your dream of darkness, I came shinin' like the sun.
Waiting for the laughter, but the laughter never comes.

That's a strange way to tell me you love me
When your sorrow is all I can see
If you just want to cry to somebody, don't cry to me, no
Don't cry to me, no
 
Didn't you feel alone this morning, didn't you need a friend?
And in your darkest hour, you came runnin' back again
 
That's a strange way to tell me you love me
That's a strange way to tell me you love me
That's a strange way to tell me you love me



Saturday, September 16, 2017

The Tallent Brothers Saga


"If you don't have good dreams you have nightmares."
- Diner

"Where do words go?" A funny question when I first heard it. "They have to come from somewhere so they have to go somewhere." Innocent words of a child, wisdom lost with age. It was explained that words are like a river, always flowing, sometimes dammed but impossible to stay blocked (a lesson continually re-learned), some that rise to the light and some are perverted in the dark. The universe is infinite - it has to be to hold the billions of word streams filling it.

So I had that buzzing around in my head thinking about the Tallent brothers. In a perverted society, it is the perverted who assimilate the easiest. (Which is why the assimilated vociferously praise their society). The Tallent brothers were four guys broken by life, then driven by fear of rejection to appear respectable, to mix in with all the other broken toys of the world with mismatched parts and torn hearts. Souls like the Tallent brothers are everywhere, but their plight was more obvious to me as they hailed from my small town where it's harder to hide.

Rural Texas has a lot of strange people with lives bent on a tangent from their original courses. The commonality of it makes eccentricities almost seem normal. Truth is, you can be just about anything from a pig-fucking freak to a KKK member - just so long as you aren't liberal. That they cannot stand, a light shining on their shame for God to see. Naturally, these are the ones who praise Jesus the loudest, for that is the liberal whom they most want to betray. Deep inside we know the clock is ticking and this behavior must be wiped out for evermore.

I'm always observing like a spy. Sometimes I deliberately turn it off in order to facilitate relationships forced upon me. Thus it's those I have no relationship with - but contact with - that I espy the most. The Tallent brothers fall in that category, souls like mice in a lab for me to study and learn. To learn what? Perhaps of my own failures. Perhaps just to shine a mirror on our sorrow to God, to show what we've become - not that I don't know that nothing is so ruthless and unbending as love. It's love's way or no way at all.


Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup;
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe
- Across the universe

I've read of those who say every life is one filled with miracles, and it's whether those miracles are stillborn or allowed to flower that decides a person's life. I think about that when I see what most would describe as the most mundane and mediocre of trajectories. Are they achieving their potential, even if it's not valued by a perverted world? Or have they descended to mediocrity by virtue of wasted opportunities? Can one be a superstar cashier but a loser CEO? The metrics of the world are not defined by the Word. At least not now, anyway.

Strange as it may be, golf is a wonderful metaphor for life. That's the conclusion I reached working in the country club pro shop as a kid. I myself would putter around on the putting green and I remember when I relaxed and let go I made some amazing putts. When I tried really hard I invariably missed. I knew there was a lesson in there but never had the guts to apply it to life in general. I didn't know what would happen to me if I kept letting go. I did know what would happen to me (however unpleasant) if I did not.

But for one summer I got a steady dose of the Tallent brothers, oil beneficiaries from a departed father. They cashed checks for a living. The oldest took over the ranch on the northeast side of town. I delivered a pizza there once and it was like peeking into a permanent party. The laughing woman I ogled who answered the door clearly had no use for me. I wondered how I could have anything to offer to a goddess like her - especially if I had to compete with gods who've escaped the killing drudgery of menial jobs (and all jobs are menial). I learned more, however, later in life.

So who were these guys? Tyler, the oldest, was your original frat boy, devoid of original thought while lusting for original sin. Just listening to him in the pro shop made you want to slap him but he was too pathetic to be worth the effort. He liked having a formula for life: see what the world values then go get it. What he couldn't figure out was how to fill the gaping hole inside him for the things he valued the world did not. Weak. As a teenager, though, I never saw the side of him that suffered.


Think of what you're saying
You can get it wrong and still you think that it's alright
- We Can Work It Out

Next in line was Taylor, the brother who never measured up. He was not able to pimp himself into frat boy glory like Tyler. Only on the golf course could he outdo his older brother and thus gain a foothold of respect. It was his sole refuge. Off the course, with no skills to whore, he was left behind to dream of the wonderful mystic life of the elite frat gangs. In other words, he was illusioned. My young mind had no clue how deeply that cut him.

Terry was desperate for his own identity and had me completely fooled as a good ol' boy, tough on the outside, terrified on the inside. I marveled at the accoutrements of his act: the dually pickup, his broken-in cowboy hat, his $5,000 boots - no phony could have all that! Or so I surmised. But part of me rebelled and amused myself thinking if they passed a law forcing everyone to drive the exact same small Japanese car that Terry would be right fucked out of his identity, a drowning man. I wondered if I was being too harsh but over time Terry became a parody of himself, always repeating the same stories.

Tyler was the Married One - a task wholly expected of him as one to carry on the clan name. Taylor had not married - further proof of his failure. Terry rotated in and out of relationships, worshipping women as they arrived, cursing them after departure. Each was jealous of the other for various reasons: perceived freedom, security, or hope. Each lived in fear of having made a fatal error. It drove them together, it drove them apart. It was years later before I pieced this together. But I'm not writing this today because of those three miserable sots. I'm writing because of the youngest brother, Trevor.

Trevor was a golfing prodigy, a player who could make pro level shots that made other members look on in awe. I would hear chatter after a round was completed and even witnessed a few rounds myself. I can still remember the hissing sound of the spinning ball arriving from the sky like a guided laser, stopping exactly on the green where he wanted. Of all the brothers, I most wished Trevor to be real. He always had a hot babe on his arm and was by far the funniest and one so dearly wishes to see a person happy living the supposed good life, that there really is something to which to aspire, that he hadn't let his riches corrupt him; a true hero.

But Trevor is dead now. He died of a heart attack on the golf course - just as the Tallent brothers' father had.

Death by Honda!

Who in the hell d'you think you are?
A super star?
Well, right you are!
- Instant Karma

You see, Trevor was what they call a "practice round" golfer. In tournaments - year after year - he failed miserably once under the lights. I remember the deep frustration of his poor showings as I rooted for him, always to be disappointed. There was no doubt Trevor had talent, but on the inside he was a zero. For him to win a tournament would have been too much a lie for him to bear. Would he have been better off not being born of wealth?

Each of the brothers let their wealth define them. What kind of miracles had they buried deep inside their bank vault? The need to appear successful - a rich man can claim no excuses! - consumed them and hollowed them out. I thought to myself: how many famous talented people are born rich? Only David Crosby came to mind. I always thought the Tallent brothers were living the life. Most of us wreck the miracles in our lives, maybe it's just easier for the rich to do; fooling life, fooling the world, fooling themselves.



Thursday, September 14, 2017

Interview With A Hillary


[She may have lost the election but she's baaack! Hero Hillary details the vast conspiracy that aligned against her full of trolls and fools who didn't vote in her best interest. Tonight, she sets the record straight!]

Let's get down to brass tacks. Just exactly whom do you blame for losing the election?

H: Not sure I can really answer that specifically. One thing I do know is: her name isn't Hillary.

And everyone was so mean to you for being a woman! How much do you think that held you back?

H: Women are the niggers of the world so we really don't have a chance - even if we did just elect one twice before. There's no doubt I'm just a penis away from a two-term administration.

Perhaps if you'd worn an oversized strap-on like Miley Cyrus you'd have gained the male backwoods vote.

H: Polling certainly indicated that! But that would have hurt Donald's feelings and it's a woman's role to support men.

Such sensitivity! Is that why you let him breathe down your neck during the debate and make "your hair stand on end"?

H: Absolutely. I quickly calculated and triangulated the effects of playing the victim to an evil man to whom a woman cannot stand up against. Politicians can't risk self-respect anyway, thank God. I was scared shitless!

Come debate ME, Donald Duck!

So what is your definition of feminism?

H: Feminism is proving women can be just like men. Did you see me vote for the Iraq war? Huh, huh? Pretty bad ass!

Why is it you think men don't aspire to act like women?

H: Who the hell would want to act like a woman?

You truly are a great feminist!

H: Been working at it my whole life. It's just one of the many reasons I'm owed the Presidency.

Would you honor us with a list of some other reasons?

H: It's always been my destiny to be President. But being a mere woman I can't afford to have integrity or principles like a man could. The things we woman must go through! Just look at that cunt Bernie. Oh sure, he's for doing the right thing, no one's going to elect his stupid ass. Good thing we women had our thumb on the scale at the DNC, eh?

At least there's one male you defeated!

H: Yeah, but he's a big white pussy. I need the vote of the cap-wearing, tobacco-chewing, wife-beater t-shirt male population. So I correctly calculated the proper stances and the pretended beliefs to be elected. I was only defeated by the electoral college - which, of course, they wouldn't have used if I'd been a man!

Well, frankly, Hillary, that was in play regardless of gender.

H: Are you a traitor to women? And those goddam states where I just barely missed! I've been retabulating the numbers nightly to see how to get those voters back. Hold that election again today and I'd whoop that damn male's ass just like a man would!

But, Hillary -

H: All ya gotta do is just tweak the message a little...maybe add a bit more blue to the logo...spice up the rally...maybe get some strippers...or...

I'm afraid Hillary's microphone has stopped working, everyone. This certainly has been a stimulating, ratings worthy interview. [Turns head from mic. "Can someone stop her incessant mumbling!"] But let this be a lesson to you, folks. Don't lose the easiest election in history to a pussy-grabbing, racist, classist sociopath or you too will spend the rest of your life in denial and perpetual humiliation as a mumbling vegetable.



Sunday, September 10, 2017

Encounters In The Japanese Garden


It was a forced trip. The LED string that lights my miniature Japanese paper lanterns had gone suddenly defective after only a few months. So back to the Japanese Garden gift shop to get a new one. Of course, a stroll was required as well.

My first encounter was with a bride-to-be. She is getting married next weekend at the garden (which I made a mental note to avoid). She was also blocking the entrance gate as she picked up her basket full of fish food packets. Apparently she wanted each guest to experience the joy of feeding the gorgeous koi that populate the garden waters. Not a bad idea but...

"Oh, look. Some of these packets are less filled than others."

Oh, boy. She went on to demonstrate her outrage of the unevenness of the hand-filled bags to the attendant. The bride had a friend with her too so no way for me to flash my membership card to get by. As I listened to the bride whine and insist on equally matching packets I felt pity for her poor husband. Finally, the gate attendant took pity on me who took a time out to let me through. God knows how long that woman stayed there.

I smirked to myself as I stepped into my beloved Japans, recalling one of my favorite haikus:

Marrying women
Do always love their wedding,
Sometimes their husband


Gurin 48

I enjoyed the mid-morning serenity with the still mild temperatures on a windless day. I was uneasy though as this was not a visit of inspiration but of a task to be done. I wondered if I were passing through from a sense of obligation. After all, I'd been only a few weeks before (when I wrote an uncharacteristically optimistic haiku). Something was bothering me but like the princess and the pea, the problem was buried too deeply. I heard some faint music at the other end, so I sauntered over to see if an event was going as often happens on the weekend.

By one of the seating areas is a tricky set of steps leading down to the water to cross over. I'm always careful when descending them but as I did I noticed a figure approaching from my left on the path I was about to enter. I glanced up to judge the speed of the figure to make sure we would not collide. But as I did I saw a dark haired woman about my height flashing me a winning smile that made my heart skip as I took notice of her. I registered that with no outward reaction as I needed to return my attention to the steps.

But now I was really bothered. That woman! She smiled as if she knew me! I wasn't in a position to study her and most likely she was just being friendly but...alarm bells were going off inside. I'm not even saying this was a romantic thing, but something told me this is someone I need to get to know. I am hungry in so many ways. I thought of the Clooney speech in "Out of sight" about two people who see each other for a moment and there's a "recognition". That's what I felt.


Heron7

I went on to explore the source of the music but no events were to be found in the garden. Must be coming from the Botanical gardens restaurant nearby. I noticed a decent stream of fellow visitors as I strolled. I also noticed the Smiling Woman. She was crouching at various places to feed the fish. I was way too embarrassed to get closer to her but I was dying to read her face and know more.

Then I saw something else. A pair of two red beetles, like I'd never seen before. The previous master gardener used to post all sorts of insects and wildlife he found at the garden, things I rarely noticed. It made me feel I was missing out. But spotting these two guys gave me a chance to post my own discovery - but they scrambled away before I could get the phone out. Just missed.

Everything felt off-kilter, like I was out of step with something. I had to assume I was over-reacting, though. I took the handicapped route for variety's sake up the hill to the back path on the very east side by the fence. Almost no one takes that path as there's a parallel one that's more direct right beside it, a few feet higher. I needed space while in this distracted state.

The Secret Path Of Osaka Castle

But sure enough, right as I step to the top I'm facing a girl and her boyfriend looking directly toward me, the girl with a 35mm camera pointed dead on. I smiled at them in the recognition I must be ruining her picture. She lowered her camera with a peeved look. I know every angle of the garden and couldn't imagine what she was taking a shot of. I had to quickly decide if I wanted to go back down or make her wait as I awkwardly passed by. I chose the latter. The photography girl didn't speak to me but her boyfriend made a verbal acknowledgement. Kids.

So I made a point to avoid them as well as the Smiling Woman. Yet as I continued around the garden, I couldn't shake the sense of excitement from that flashing smile. Damn, I wanted to get to the bottom of it! I stopped at another of the covered seating areas, watching the light reflecting off the water dance upon the leaves above. I've done so many photo essays of the garden I don't bring my camera unless I have something specific in mind. But in this and my previous visit I saw small moments I wanted to capture and promised myself to never come again without my Canon.

There's another final hill towards the gift shop and as I reached the top, guess who I run into? The Smiling Woman! She smiled again when she saw me, like she knew I'd been thinking about her. My face immediately flushed and I looked away as if I were viewing the garden. But as she got closer I turned back and worked up the courage to say "Hey" as we passed but it was like she was nearly laughing at that point. Who knows, maybe she was laughing at me. She certainly seemed to have the advantage.

Gift Shop

I lingered for a long time in the gift shop hoping she'd pass through as it's one of the exits to the garden. But a voice inside me said not to hope for that. I scanned the parking lot as I left. Maybe I saw her pulling out in an old Acura. Maybe not. I was too scared to stick my face in the car window to see. My only hope now is that this is not over and fate will cross our paths once again. Hard to know what's real and what's imagined.



Thursday, September 07, 2017

Will The Deep State Assassinate Trump??

BREITFART BULLHORN
All The News Not Fit To Print

Alert! Alert! We've all seen news stories of Secret Service members complaining of covering our beloved President but what isn't known is the Deep State plot from Obama holdovers who see an opening with the low approval numbers presented by the lying media to commit the greatest crime since the killing of Jesus! Sound insane? I'll tell you what insane is. Can someone tell me why we use the SAME people who guarded Obama to guard a real President? You think those Obama loyalists give a damn about our Dear Leader as they walk around stewing in constant jealousy of being forced to serve a real man and American?

Our President is too kind, too wholesome to see the raging threats around him. His masterful tweets have ushered in a new era of modernity to the Presidency that the lesser-brained previous administration would not and could not embrace. That alone has set leftist terrorist organizations on fire, spewing lies and propaganda through their liberal controlled media outlets. And trust me when I tell you these people will stop at nothing. No behavior is off limits to them if it means taking power - and the assassination is just the beginning!


Racist Muslims don't allow whites!

In order to prevent an orderly transition of power, Obama and Hillary will collude to send millions of disruptors into the streets to destroy our Constitution! It's well known Obama rose to power by the might of his Muslim brotherhood and when they take the streets, white Christian neighborhoods will burn! Hide your wives and daughters from their exposed black penises! Combined with Hillary's Antifa guerrillas the entire country will be thrown into chaos. 250 years of progress down the drain!

It's time for the true resistance movement to take action. Patriot websites are offering 55 gallon barrels of pig's blood to allow for thousands of rounds to be dipped and ready to go. Hey, Muslims! Do not pass Go, go directly to hell! We'll be waiting for you with our Instant Damnation Bullets (IDBs). Might have to take out a few of them so-called journalists along the way too. Pop enough of them and maybe they'll see the light on criticizing the leader of the free world of whom only good things should be said all you dummies trying to weaken our democracy.

Spreading the word!

The threat is real and it's out there. This is no time to get complacent. Anyone can see how mad the election losers are and what they'll do to overturn the forces of truth and light. Just makes my heart sick to hear them scheme and prevaricate with no shame whatsoever! You want a serpent like Hillary in charge, telling us how to run our daily life, outlawing meat and forcing everyone to eat organic leftist vegetables? I'm not making this up, folks. What a nightmare!

Know why the haters call our rallies 'hate rallies'? Because they hate that we're right! See, it's their own hate they are projecting onto us. It's the oldest form of hypocrisy. America is for Americans now! We've taken the country back and we're going to keep it! But we must be vigilant! Deep State enemies are everywhere. Indoctrinate your children with the truth to keep them safe from liberal teachings. The fight never ends.


Watch this space as we keep you informed of the latest dastardly leftist plots, fighting imaginary enemies in their head just to keep their hate alive! Though they demonize us in the media on a daily basis we will not be deterred. The latest story we're investigating is a baby selling ring they are using to finance their operations! No one will give leftists money because people know what frauds they are. But we will not stop until every last liberal bastard terrorist is gone!



Wednesday, September 06, 2017

Goupil: My First Kill At 17

"You don't look up [an assassin like] Joubert in the Yellow Pages."
- Three Days Of The Condor

People ask me how I became this assassin monster and I tell them it happens in inches - like for everyone. It was not my dream or my intent or even ever cross my mind. It's just that doors keep closing to you until finally - without choice - the one you find open determines your fate. I could not hide my killing. I could not do it as some revered CEO in a boardroom, or put on a uniform and think that makes it OK, or be part of the crowd voting for murder of Jesus. We live in a world of unadmitted killers. But that doesn't make it any easier to live with.

********

Marseille is probably more often associated with "drugs", "Kalashnikovs", and "murder" than "tranquil squares, stepped streets and bustling 19th century avenues". You see, even to this day the docks and streets of Marseille seethe with underground activity. It is easy for a teenage boy to be drawn into the underworld - especially when he sees no legitimate future for himself. And as an outsider with no fabric of my own to hold on to I said yes to people others would say no to. My conduit to the underworld was an American named Derrick.

School would not last much longer and I'd be thrust into the world to fend for myself. This was on my mind as I worked nightly as a busboy clearing the tables and breaking down the salad bar. Naturally, tests were conducted in school of my intelligence and aptitude. I was even taken aside and scolded by a teacher for not doing better in class according to my high IQ. How to explain my lack of interest in their jobs? I had to hide, to obfuscate, to prevaricate for my behavior. Little did I realize that would become a lifetime pattern.

Derrick was very exotic to me. He was about ten years older and his tales of America regaled me as he described a land of ultimate freedom. He too was a loner and was into doing his own thing regardless of the world around him. Looking back it's hard to say if he was in actuality recruiting me but more likely he recognized my kindred spirit and lack of need for conventionality. Derrick himself was not a smuggler but his boss was. He didn't punch a time clock as I was forced to, he merely completed tasks as ordered and the rest of his time was up to him. Awesome!


The rest of the events I have not thought of since that time. Now that I'm forcing myself to recount this I see why. It has only become more painful as I age. My anger took me down the wrong path. This is where my trail of tears began. Maybe writing this memoir isn't such a good idea. I should leave my woes buried in past. No one can save me now so why open this old wound. I do not plan on forgiving myself whatsoever. Do I tell this only to entertain the bloodthirsty mob?

For now I shut down the recorder. I don't know when I can pick this up again. If I had the hand of a friend to hold onto I could maybe see myself going forward. All those girls I worshiped and dreamed of from afar at school...I had to redeem myself in their eyes, like a tech boy does now by writing an app to compensate for inadequacies. What a blind fool! My life swirling around me, lost on my own.


I am back. I had to write of my present before I could go back to my past. The love I let slip through my fingers; running away from doom ensured my doom. Long repressed details are returning. I'd forgotten my connection to Catherine Dorléac, calling her up but then backing out of asking her for a date. Maybe I shut some of those doors myself. Every boy in school wanted her but I still should have given myself a chance. Instead of knowing her bliss I put myself in the arms of gangsters. Merde!

I lived like a hermit while others partied and I religiously stashed away my busboy salary. I felt a special destiny in store for me as a man who could not walk society's ordained path. Soon, I had several thousand francs and I would parlay that into something more, I knew not what, all I needed was an opportunity. That opportunity came with the American Derrick. Some opportunity. Looking back the obviousness of what was to happen is glaring.

Ah, Catherine!

I had the chance to buy a small Egyptian amulet. Smugglers don't like to sell directly to fences because it's too easy to be traced back. I would be the middleman wholesaler, the go-between, who takes his cut and vanishes into the night. I'd increase my personal fortune by 50%. Do that a few more times and I'd have some real money. I was all primed and ready to go when I got the bad news the amulet was seized at the airport in a stroke of incredibly bad luck. But Derrick consoles me saying I can make ten times my money with a packet of cocaine.

Having practically tasted the apple of illicit money, I was primed to take a bigger bite. I agreed even though this had to be a one time deal and I hadn't even considered how I'd distribute it, I just assumed Derrick had contacts for that. He showed me the bottle of Procaine we'd cut it with then Derrick took me to Boyer, his boss. The office was small and dank, squeezed inside an industrial area. It was unkempt and treated with a measure of disdain. I remember thinking I'd never do legitimate business with a man who kept an office like that.

But I was a stupid boy thinking, Gee, this is how real-life gangsters are! They don't give a shit about anything, just business. Time to grow up and not worry about traditional mores. Truth is, he was just scum, and that's why everything around him looked like shit because he was shit. Derrick introduces me and I hand over the cash for the packet. But then his square, balding face starts yelling, asking how a boy like me gets that kind of money. Of course, no answer I gave was satisfactory.


"This is a set up! You think I'm stupid? I'll take your police 'buy money' and that is that." I remember Derrick arguing with him vehemently but my head was spinning in a surreal daze like I was in a stage play. I flashed back to beautiful Catherine and what an impossible dream it was to be on a date with her instead of in this dingy room with people I hate. Been thirty years since I thought of that painful flashback.

In the end I couldn't tell who was hustling me and who wasn't. My life's plans were ruined. I could never save up that kind of cash after moving out on my own. I'd be bussing tables for life. Derrick made a big show of saying he'd get my money back. Weeks passed. Nothing. I'd even made an 'Unwanted' poster of Boyer. Then finally Derrick said he'd had enough.

"Here, that one's yours." It was a gun he pulled out and slid across the dining table where I sat. "We'll just go take it but I can't do it alone." I stared at the gun and knew it was a turning point. Money is life and death, not a game. Boyer killed my dreams. I had no choice but to get back on track no matter how distasteful the task because the alternative was unthinkable. I was more excited than scared as we made our clandestine journey back to that dank office.

p2022, same as cops used

I will admit I wondered if Derrick had been in on my swindling. But after the shouting and the shooting and his dead body on the floor that pretty much absolved him. Boyer glared at me. "Let that be a lesson, kid. That's the second one I've taught you." My gun was pointing straight at him but he paid it no mind. To him, I was just a boy without nerve, to be laughed at later as he recounted the story to his hoodlum buddies. Problem was, I wasn't scared at all.

"Here's the third," I dryly replied.

I pulled the trigger and he dropped like a rock. I remember the profound regret I had that I had to kill the fucker for him to know exactly whom he was dealing with. But then again, I didn't know who I was until that moment, either. Call me a quick learner. I was calmness itself, using a Kleenex to open desk drawers to amazingly find my cash still on the premises. I had entered a new world, never to return, cut off from Catherine for life.



Tuesday, September 05, 2017

Prisoners Have No Friends


No one thought of her as a prisoner - just the opposite. In a land of economic slavery (with the slave rate increasing daily), she was among the fortunate very few who live in mansions in the floating world above the clouds. Of course, once having tasted life up there her most consuming fear in life is to fall from her lofty perch back into the real world to live at the mercy of daily savagery and inhumanity endured by the poor. But to stay, she must sin.

She was part of the Church-On-Sunday-So-I-Can-Sin-On-Monday crowd, the largest and most lethal terrorist group in the world. With her sin thusly sanctioned she joined the conservative Limousine Left who love to pose as liberals. In other words, she's all for equality - just as long as she keeps her comfortable way of life. She found a large contingent of fellow posers on the west coast and they dutifully assured each other of their divinity with impassioned speeches against the injustices of the world; street preachers in the clouds.

It is said we live in a "man's world" but since everything is the opposite of what it is the truth is we live in a woman's world, full of needy men wholly dependent on women for life. "Lord of the Flies" does not work on an island full of girls. But in order to avoid blame and responsibility, moron men were ordered by women to run the world ("Ain't no woman of mine gonna work!" the slave mentality boasts), bringing ruin to both genders. But since she too gave up on herself, she gave into guilt and did her duty according to the world's demand: self-betrayal.

She rotted over the years, hiding her misery more and more. She was always finding an excuse for self-betrayal: her husband, her children, her religion. They each made demands of her, giving a false purpose to life. She slowly convinced herself she was in actuality "a nothing", thus making her soul's sacrifice a virtue. Denial redefined from deadly to divine. In this way she came to see herself as being "responsible" when used for sex, hiding truth from her children, and feeling worthless for God. But all she really was, was a prisoner.


Desperate to cover up her crimes, she secretly gave wholesale thanks for sex traffickers, the chosen enemy of her state. While having never defended her own womanhood (that would cost her her place among the clouds!), she lashed out at "evil fiends" who preyed upon females. Above all, she needed to find an enemy to point to for her woes. Thus a woman who trafficked her own sex for profit was able to pose as a protector of women. Everything is the opposite of what it is.

But one Sunday, she felt the priest was staring directly into her heart.

"There's no possible hope in hiding." As a repressed homosexual he was speaking of his darkest moments, cut off from love. Feeling that no one in his congregation could understand his hell - that they must be normal people leading normal lives - he wrapped his confession in the words of Jesus about shining one's light and not to hide it. Thus a man who hid his light drew praise for a moving sermon impassioned by urging others to shine theirs. Everything is the opposite of what it is.

But the damage was done. To have her fate so clearly expressed jarred her into panic. She'd read the stories, she'd passed through the poorer streets; the outside world holds endless horrors. How could someone who's lived in a cocoon all her life have the courage to break out? There's no possible hope in hiding. She needed a friend, someone to whom she did not have to lie. But to reveal herself to even one person was to risk everything.

Forced to face she had no hope her personality turned dark and bitter; conservative. She gave judgmental commentary during gossip. "Why can't Debby get her act together? Stop complaining. Just do it!" She then complained she was tired of people not taking responsibility for their lives. "I just can't understand it." She even twisted herself into saying Republicans have a point. "You can't expect others to fix your life for you!" But never was she speaking of anyone but herself.


As time passed, her complaining became angrier and more pervasive. She talked of liberal fools, her new medical ailments, an overall lack of faith in God, people refusing to come clean, and warned how she was "running out of patience." She knew that in this world, in this life, with her vast riches and with her reproductive duties fulfilled, no one could call her a loser. But no matter how fervently she prayed or passed herself off as a moral beacon, she could not find rest or refuge.

Her truest friends - "liberal idiots" - she pushed away. Most vexing was when they showed comfort and kindness to her. She asked them to stop, explaining: "because I need someone to hate." To which one insulted companion replied, "You're just a real fucking bitch now, aren't you?" That soothed her need for hate - and also gave her a new goal in life: to piss off everyone still living in hope. "Dear Lord, please help me spite my enemies!" Just never mind she was adversarial of love.

But while nothing gave her more satisfaction than punching a liberal in the nose, that only supplied a short term fix for her craving. She needed more; wading into the sea of illusion, bathing in distorted reality, untethering herself from truth. At last she had found an Answer. She evangelized the way of illusion, to free yourself of phony facts, and offered praise of a world "unfairly maligned on a daily basis by the rabid left." As she had lost faith in herself, the more desperate she became to prop up the doomed institutions that had made and kept her life in the clouds.


Her compatriots - being less further down the road to insanity - were repelled by the growing obviousness of her delusional state. But to rebuke her was to be declared enemy and outcast. The word "unbalanced" began to be thrown around. But with a new President as her Pied Piper gleefully leading her to the unpromised land, she was surer than ever over the correctness of her course. After all, hadn't she escaped reality's clutches before by unearned virtue of her wealth?

Age only increased her venom and vitriol. No one wanted to be around her, always having to walk on eggshells; "babysitting." But "only we few are on the path to righteousness" as she rationalized her more isolated state. She said it proved she spoke the truth. But the years of rot took its toll on her mind. Dementia crept in with her constantly repeating the same thing, as if she couldn't get it through anyone's thick skull. Finally, she was placed in a home, to die among strangers, her years of vicious slander unknown to them.

Though privately loathed and despised, everyone spoke well of her at the funeral, harkening back to her days before the open descent. She'd never allowed in a friend to save her. Those who'd honestly tried to help did not attend. But in the afterlife, hearing the good words said about her she wailed. "No! No! I was a fucking bitch! Don't lie about me now! Someone speak the truth or I'll be buried forever..."



Sunday, September 03, 2017

Goupil: The Final Confession


The reason I started this memoir was based on a decision that came out of therapy. It was not a traditional therapy where one seeks to heal. Rather, I was trying to remove a block I have on shooting a gun. I am trapped, with no way to survive or make money. The only way I could see was to go back to my old profession no matter how much my heart is not in it.

It does not matter what I tell myself is the motivation, nor matter what object I aim at, I cannot pull a trigger. But what I will say now is what I did not tell the mind doctor. My old way of compartmentalizing my life proves worthless when trying to deal with my present reality. I thought I could tell the doctor just enough to remove the block, that I could get an answer without total confession.

Now I know differently.

There was a specific point in time when I could no longer shoot a gun. Oh, I have talked of my rejection of the gun before, like I'd come to a moral decision. But that is not the case. No, I remember that January day. I remember the sky and every cloud in it. Had I not been me it would have been a beautiful day, I recall thinking. But I was me, and I walked with a loaded gun. I was a man possessed.

Sheila had a smile that lit up the heavens. I was overwhelmed by her, bowled over by her kindness and intelligence. She found me at my lowest ebb, drained of hope and filled with doubt. I was in Los Angeles and still had money, open to trying anything. So naturally, I met her in my acting class. It was an explosion for me. Every word she spoke I treasured, every conversation a Christmas morning. She was exactly whom I prayed to meet.

Can you pick out the assassin?

Like me, the class was a bit of a lark for her. Whereas I had a deep drive to act from a lifelong campaign of deception, she was tentatively reaching out in recovery after a painful divorce. I threw myself into my roles but mine was a dead soul. She was more measured but hers a living soul – she actually had something to protect and preserve. It’s much harder to risk exposure when you have something to lose.

But at our height we wrote a skit together. She was “damn proud” of it, realizing her creative powers were greater than she thought. I didn’t realize until later I was driving her, pushing her to that extreme. She needed me. It was a glorious time of sharing but we only met in class, neither one broaching the subject of anything more.

But all this time a parallel course of guilt and loathing was building. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her of my dreaded past. How could she trust me after that? How long could I keep up the deception of normalcy, that I could never have a marriage such as she had? She was looking for a return to life, but my life only came alive when I was with her. While I knew she was not the woman for me, she made me feel like I was worthy.

Then I came to the crossroads and chose the devil’s path. I couldn’t confess my wicked life to a person such as her. Sheila was no fool and knew the meaning of life. It would be the end of our relationship. But I trusted her without reservation and to go forward in life I needed her. Never in my life before had I deferred to another person’s thinking. She could lead me out of the wilderness. But how could I impose myself on her life? What evidence was there I deserved her time? I could find none.


So I started to tear her down, to drive her from the class. She would put me and my needs out of her life. One day she stopped showing up. No one but me knew why. I was shattered, in tears, grieving day and night. I stayed in the class only to save face but my heart was not in it and it became just one more place where I was forced to lie about my destructive actions. It was suicide right on the stage.

After six months of falling I was a written wreck. My health deteriorated and remains affected to this day lo these many years later. My self-loathing mushroomed like an atomic cloud, judging myself, condemning myself. I stopped using a mirror for shaving. In movies I watched I knew it was I who was the bad guy the audience despised and reviled. I fell off a cliff with no end in sight. I was alone on an alien planet.

I imploded, swallowed whole by the void, losing my mind in the endless black, reaching out but finding nothing; fool for the ages. Then came the seizing panic. Always alone, a prisoner of my head, I pulled the plug on reality. Already an outcast, Sheila’s knowledge of me - of my true existence - left me with an unbearable fate: to be known. I felt sure I was to be the next O.J. spurned by high and low alike.

Not that she was the sort to tell - just the opposite, in fact. But the visions in my head, of her dragging me down the street by my ear. “Here he is! Judas reincarnated! A soul doomed for the ages no matter how many times he returns. Beware! Beware!” The compulsion for suicide after betrayal is an urge to be dearly reckoned with. Your entire being cries out for it. Only cowardice kept me alive.


Destroy the evidence. That’s what I told myself. With my secretive life before, I left no evidence to ever prove or disprove the wisdom of my ways. But Sheila knew – and I could not be stopped as my focus narrowed and narrowed until I saw nothing but her. Killing was what I knew. So killing is what I did.

I can still hear the sound of the gun falling to the floor afterwards. The spell was broken. I’d been sleepwalking only to awaken to a body dead by my own hand. I screamed, something I’d never done before. I found the deepest hole I could find and dove in. Never sleeping more than two hours at a time, the nightmares deep and intense. Seems I could not make a move without making things worse.

But I was forced into survival mode, details of which I mostly cannot describe. But first and foremost was repulsion of guns. I could not see them on TV or bear them in any way. If I did see one I would beg and plead for the owner to destroy it before it destroyed him. “It will not save your life. It will take your life!” No more guns, please. Not anywhere, not ever.

That is my one wish: for all instruments of death to be gone. We are fools to trust them. Beg for peace. Beg for forgiveness. Please don’t be like I was. Don’t think yourself clever or smart. “First do no harm.” That is the only way. Do you want to be forever trapped in hell like me? Can a gun bring back the dead? How can I shine this light to the world? How can I make them heed my knowing word? Only love can save – and a bullet won’t save you from that.

"If you cling to your life, you will lose it. If you let your life go, you will save it."