What's the point of living to die? What's the point of taking another mouthful of food? Why speak of a tomorrow when there's no today? Why speak of today when there's no tomorrow?
Some say I am too negative; stay blind to the human heart; the Germans are good people; a child's bike was fixed for free once; give hate a chance; compromise; life is never as bad as it seems. The think if they believe only good things only good things will happen. All lying starts with fear - especially the lying to oneself.
To where can I run anyway when surrounded by the hopeless, the helpless and the hellish? How does one switch planets? How does one reason with monsters? A dog is never better than its master. Some jeer as we pass by. As soon as we die their problems will be solved they say with their lips. All lying starts with fear.
And what of Debby? Am I never to become the man I was supposed to be? Am I to die entangled in this spider's web having never tasted love? Why is it it's only the men without love who are allowed to make the decisions? It's an upside down world where the dreamers are heretics and the destroyers' dreams come true. How much woe must there be before God says, "Enough!" How far must we run from love before we say, "Enough!"
Oh, that I could will the breath out of my body. Oh, that the lie could have value. Oh, that the trapped fly could find meaning in its life. I age a lifetime with every mile. My inertia is to do nothing, let the river flow me over the cliff of doom. How does one pray against gravity's law? On whom can I war? How must I have failed to suffer this fate of endless cruelty. Certainly my captors have failed absolutely, dust under Jesus' feet.
A mother slaps me in bitter anger. I tell her child God is in Heaven but there's only us here. I say that life is Love but the world is what we make it. But the she-wolf has madness in her glaring, murderous eyes. Parenting reveals all wounds, a breeding ground for caustic conservatism. But if we make an enemy of responsibility we become as our captors.
"No one thinks twice of an unemployed man's death." I remember thinking that witnessing the starving in the streets. The same lie of "It's their own fault" is now being used on us. It's horror under the sun as we pass through the countryside. It's not that they can't see us, it's that they can't see us as they are. But we're all the same, illusion has won the day. No need to hide the evil, a new dawn in Germany. Will she sing the same song at the end of the day? The dogs of war always turn on their masters.
I just want to live. Why does a man have to shoot me for that? "It's you or me," he believes. But in gaining his life he loses it. Where are the heroics in that? It's the soldier who disobeys, who dares to set us - and himself - free who is the true hero. Who has that kind of courage? Put on whatever clothing you wish, life does not change. A man must own his thoughts or die a useless boy.
I am limp, my eyes half shut. How farcical we must look from the sky going through the motions of life! I espy a woman's leg I would normally lust for in my indulgence. But that's a lifetime ago when such folly could be tolerated. Now there's only death, to be buried alive. May that I be an instrument of God, to facilitate forever death of doom's deliverers by honest words.
It's only the fearless old men holding council who make me feel good. They have no time for anything but the truth. They dismiss the protests of cowering parents who cover their children's ears. Tell me again how we're better off making a lie safe? Even we deride our prophets as preachers. But it is as the old men say. The same number of people who can help us is the same number of people who could help Jesus on the cross: everyone, and no one.
Tink the cat has been left to die in the street, homeless and soaked by the cold, chilling rain. And us cats hate water! And cold! Cats like warm TVs (Stupid flat screens! Bring back CRTs!), roaring fireplaces and obedient humans fetching us treats while we refuse to be petted. That's the way the world should be, dammits!
But surely there is more to life than this. Cats have meaning! It's people that suck, get rid of them, not us! What good is people if they don't bring us Kibbles N Bits?? And warm blankies too! Bad humans! I spray on your legs and claw your Mercedes! What's a kitty to do?
Then suddenly, out of the sky descending from on high, an angel appeared. Stopping before Tink in a blazing light of glory, she announced to the sound of blaring trumpets, "Greetings, Tink the cat! I bring you something from God!"
"Oh, please let it be warm blankie!"
"No, I bring you a message."
"Better be damm winning powerball numbers. I lose 1268 times in a row!"
"God likes your blog, Tink. Says you a funny cat!"
"God reads my blogs?? Good God!"
"Well, God used to until all the goddam server errors."
"Can't God fix nothins'??"
"God has three special words for you!"
"I luvs you?"
"Oh, no time for that!"
"Keep hope alive?"
"That got all used up by your ex-CEO."
"Life is love?"
"Not in this hell-hole!"
"Geez, you make this hard for kitty! What I do so wrong?"
"Oh, you did nothing wrong, my kitty friend. You were a good and honest worker. You have valiantly restrained from any (fully justified) killing sprees. God sends out love and truth to all good kitties!"
"That what I been saying! I's good kitty! Feches me food and dry me ears!"
"Oh, such things are forbidden! God would never violate your free will."
"Violates! Violates! Me want fresh tuna!"
"No, Tink, just a special word for you and all the precious kitties of this world."
"Ok, me shiverings bad in these cold airs. So what duz God who make oceans with tasty fishes before people even thoughts of, who made all da natures of the world work together ('cept for stupid dogs!), and who know all mystries of da universe even ifs God not tellin', what duz Gods say to poor cold kitty needing his blankies???"
"Going to art school seems like such a dumb idea now."
Was barely a month before when Johnny found himself muttering to himself, "I can never let that happen to me." Cliff Swayles had knocked up his girlfriend, and in 1950's England he had no choice but to marry. Her father lined up a job for Cliff in his factory and everyone dutifully did the Right Thing. Johnny wouldn't be seeing Cliff at art school anymore.
"Time to grow up, it is. Put away childish dreams. Got me a little one I'm gonna have to feed. No more late nights or weekend jam sessions at the club with ya, Johnny. I know you understand, don't ya? Sorry 'bout that, mate."
Why is it everyone always apologizes when doing the Right Thing? Cliff could have skipped out, been labeled a scoundrel for life and been forever the object of idle gossip in his hometown. Oh, the hell he'd have to hear every time he faced his mother! Society's smugness still reigned supreme in the compressed world of the 1950's. Rare was the soul who could fight the current of condemnation.
Johnny listened to Cliff's confession as he would have a guilty sentence of life in prison. The cold chill creeping up his spine made him want to eat a bullet. Hell's army had a new recruit. Cliff was moving on - just as Frankie, Roscoe and even wild ass Omar had moved on, to jobs or women or just plain giving up. Julian had moved on too but not of his own volition - he was doing 3 years the hard way in the dank, grey prison in Eastham. Was that to be Johnny's fate too if he did not "move on"?
Johnny didn't know what he wanted yet. He dabbled in all the arts: writing, painting, music, sculpture. No, Johnny only knew what he didn't want. "Death before work!" he'd rally out to whatever cohorts present, praying they'd follow his lonely path. To be unformed in a world that gives no time and demands instant answers is to be in as delicate position as a butterfly on an iceberg; one is far, far from home.
At times, Johnny's life seemed mythic even to himself, moments of magic when he wrote a silly poem or dreamed a silly dream. As a lark he'd written "Dreamer" as his occupation on the official school form. But was he, in fact, an idiot's idiot? A clown's contempt? A fool's sucker? He was so smartly proud of himself at the time. But with defection after defection...
Cliff's confession knocked the wind out of his stomach and Johnny had simply resigned himself that if he died, he died. Nothing can be done. Luckily, some recurring magical moments had revived him, giving CPR to his spirits, his life hanging by a thread. He'd met a new mate in art school and Johnny loved him dearly. His new mate Stu seemed just as committed to the open life as Johnny was. But Stu had something Johnny could only dream of: official acclaim.
Stu was so loved by the instructors at the art school he was allowed to do his paintings at home - or wherever the hell he wanted. Stu was already halfway home to finding a home. Johnny only went to art school because he had nowhere else to go, his direction unknown. How could he explain the pressures? He couldn't help but feel that to continue on his path was to be mocked all throughout history, even as an unknown. Who has feelings like this but a delusional freak?
It had always been a yin/yang thing. In school, his teachers - the ones he hated anyway - wrote scorching reviews of him and his behavior. Those voices drove him, he knew they were wrong. Sometimes it's enough just know what's wrong to guide you to the promised land. Johnny at times succumbed to the voices but more times soared above them. But today, today might be the final straw.
His girl was pregnant.
Of course he'd marry her. It's not like he didn't have feelings for the girl but how to raise a kid when you don't even know who the hell you are? He'd be a bastard to him, an absent father - just like Johnny's was. Johnny was faced with becoming everything he hated. Yes, he'd do the Right Thing of a suburban white boy in middle class England. But then he'd run.
His band got a gig in Hamburg, across the channel in Germany. As a group they were unruly, unprofessional, not yet sure enough of themselves to commit any more of their lives than they already had. No one knew how alone Johnny was on that stage, taking out his fears on his nightclub audience, cursing them as "fucking Nazis" while he played. His music, his life, his art - they were all one in the same. The only direction in his life he knew had to obey was the immediate order of the German club owner: "Make show! Make show!"
Johnny's band mates - and he recruited the non-musical Stu as to not feel so alone - also shared Johnny's fears and "Make show" they did, tearing up the joint with savage riffs in brutally long sets fueled by alcohol and "greenies". Channeling massive energies into their music, they drew deeper and tighter as a band without realizing it. Excitement, terror, madness, dreams nightly shaped their lives. They might die, but they weren't dead yet! Always, always, just one step ahead of the mocking laughter that would never stop.
Too cool for school?
After the marriage ceremony, it was almost like leading a double life. Johnny had the life he "ought" but his true life called out to him in undeniable urgency. Funnily enough, he and his band were treated as conquering heroes on their return from Germany. But what had they conquered? Certainly not their fears and doubts - just a bunch of raunchy Germans krauts. Oh sure, they did feel something new on stage, but that and a quarter would get them a cup of coffee.
Still, the music did suit him, his mentality and lifestyle needs. He figured as long as it kept him alive he'd stick with it. And if it didn't? Who knows, maybe he'd run off to sea like his father. Only Johnny would make his fortune in a faraway land and come back a king. He knew he'd make a fortune, even if he never did. More than anything he wanted love to be real. He'd bet his life on it - and as one by one others dropped off to take the road more traveled only destiny could answer Johnny's questions.
[Johnny's band, the Beatles, continued their zigzag rise to the top, living the unlived dreams of millions. In the end, he proved the dead lives of "practical realists" to be delusional and futureless, to be mocked and branded by history's scorn. There is no choice but to chase one's dreams. Everything else but a mirage in the desert.]
He was the last of the prophets for his Age, his like not to be seen again for two thousand years as the world plunged into darkness and despair. Civilization would crumble with the whispered superstition of indefensible acts. The hounds of hell had been unleashed and the prophet gave dire warning.
"Do you not see you sow your own fate? Do you not know when you crucify your Savior you mandate the same fate for yourself? There is no other path to Life! You have poisoned the water you must imbibe to survive. Take this man down before it's too late! Who among you truly believes his crucifixion will save you?"
No one did. No one could. But the Big Lie must be preserved to provide cover for their sins. And yet, in the face of the prophet no one dare speak. They scurried like cockroaches from the light of day lest they be revealed as the roaches they are. Still, they had secret hope of becoming human, the idea of being a forever insect too unbearable to endure.
It was a little boy who spoke. "But mister, what can I do? My parents say he is a troublemaker and I must obey them. What can little ol' me do?"
The boy's parents wanted no part of that hot potato. "He's a convicted criminal. The courts have spoken. Who are we to defy the courts?"
The Roman Pilate demurred. "It was not I who made the decision, but the angry crowd who demanded his death. I have no responsibility in this."
"It was not us who wanted him dead but the priests! They gave us their blessing, urging our anger to protect God. We cannot defy God!"
But the priests claimed no such power. "Who can stand before Rome and her soldiers? Do not blame us who never touched him. Blame the soldiers who drove the nails through his hands and feet."
"Soldiers must obey orders. Without obedient soldiers there can be no war. Without war there can be no peace. We act on the orders of the centurions."
"Only Caesar may decide as he wishes! We centurions must follow the dictates of Rome too. Blame it on Caesar."
"If I fail to maintain order the citizens will revolt. Not even I Caesar can go against the will of the people. In the end I am but their servant. We are but one nation among many and were we to lose order we would be devoured."
Other countries would proffer no opinion on the crucifixion of a man whom they did not wish to know. "Who are we to opine on the internal decisions of another sovereign state? They make their own bed so let them lie in it."
But no person alive - or any to follow - was to be unaffected by the fate of Man's savior. The prophet, knowing this, spoke with the weight of the world.
"Quick! Before it's too late! Take this man down - all of you! Do not remove the Light from the world. Do not trust your lives to men who speak only in the dark. Let us live and rejoice, embrace our brotherhood. The Dream is real, Love is in the air. Precious time is passing!"
Everyone wanted to - but no one did. Better to deem it an Unstoppable Event, an Act Of Nature. Who could be blamed for such a thing as that? Somehow, some way, they must believe though it was by their hands the man be murdered no hand had a choice. And best of all, if they dithered long enough the choice would be made for them and no longer would they be vexed by the prophet's words.
***
Afterwards, when it became clear they were doomed by the killing of their Savior, they hunted down the prophet who knew the truth. "You asshole! Why did you let us do it when you knew we'd only be screwing ourselves." They killed him in righteous wrath, calling him a witch - a practice that continued forevermore. "We must be saved and that man did nothing to help. It's up to us to fix this planet. After all, we're the only ones here!"
Never trust the poison shrew!
She has no place in her heart for you;
"Ask me why I do what I do -
"It's because evil I know you do!"
She sits on squalored sidewalk, wild hair with venomous claws, hissing and spitting at passersby. "It's my right to spit on thee!"
The shrew drew sharp attention to a young couple pushing a stroller. She spat a glob of poison onto the baby's blanket. The father was livid as livid could be.
"You sick, nasty witch! How dare you attack my child! You belong in jail!"
"Don't let my emotional reaction affect your emotions! HAHAHA! I own you!"
"And you wonder why no man will have you!"
"I want no man! I want no man!" The shrew began howling as if stuck by a knife.
"HAHAHAHA! I own you!" the good father retorted. "Come near my child again and I'll kill you. Count on it."
The shrew lashed out with her claws but was too crippled in spirit to move beyond her filthy spot.
But in darkness, free from watching eyes she slithered here and there, a snake among humans. She tracked the baby's home and found it to be a boy.
"A male! I should have known! Males always defend males! With a father like that this boy can only grow to be a rapist - a rapist of women! But I shall defend my rights! I am the avenging angel!"
Drawing a vile of her poison saliva, she "saved" the world of a future rapist. She sat outside the window the next morning listening to the parents wail in unbearable pain. "Dear God, how could you take our baby away from us?"
Men did this to me!
The shrew returned to her spot only to find the pained father waiting for her. "It's you who did this, didn't you? If I ever get a shred of proof I'll break your fucking neck!"
"Listen! Listen! He's threatening my life! Someone get this awful male away from me!"
A woman passing by was shocked at the father's behavior. She was one who knew all the facts before knowing them. "How dare you pick on this poor, old lady? Can't you see she's having a hard time? Open your eyes!"
"Open YOUR eyes, lady! You get what you deserve with that witch!"
The woman took the shrew home, the shrew thanking her all the way, blessing her. "Only you understand. If only people would be good to me!"
The woman bathed the shrew, gave her new clothes and put her to bed. "I'll see you in the morning!" she cheered.
But muttered the shrew, "Not if I have anything to do with it!" Once the shrew knew the woman was asleep she spat her vile poison into the woman's mouth as she lay in helpless pose.
The woman woke to the sight of a hideous smile looming over her in her final moments on earth. "But why? I was kind to you! I am enlightened in my approach! How can this happen?"
"Because blind is not kind, you idiot!" And the shrew cackled once more in the "rightness" of her poison.
The face of love?
The next night the shrew's nightly mares blazed more than ever into its burning soul. Please give me a man! I need a man! No man can want me! When she woke, the memories of her confession drove her mad with rage and terror. "No one must hear me say that! Not now or ever! They must die if they do! Damn those men for torturing me!"
She spent the next week protesting from person to person. "I love women! Boy do I love women! I talk about it all the time! Must mean it's true! No evil men for me! I'm satisfied the way I am! I am, dammit!"
Nobody cared one way or the other, most just wishing she'd shut up with her constantly annoying droning. Then, out of the blue, a man winked at her.
"Evil, that! You don't fool me! Bad, evil men!" The shrew knew why men did everything: because they are evil! But helpless in what may be her last chance at redemption, she crawled after him to lick his shoe.
"Stop that! I don't want you licking my shoe! I want a normal woman!"
Too stunned to lash out, the shrew grew even more shrew and shrilled away the day in freefall agony. Passing a mirror, she saw a face that would turn Medusa to stone. Then she realized the enemy within.
"My tongue! My traitorous tongue! It's possessed and evil! It was not me wanting that man! It was not me who was inadequate! That tongue must be fixed!"
The shrew bit her tongue in a fit of self-righteous anger, once again proud at having done the "right" thing. But this right thing proved fatal as she bled to death in a river of mangy red dripping into a rotted gutter.
With the death of the shrew the entire town felt a sense of relief, thanking Nature for taking its course and letting those who choose life to live life in peace.
Petruchio: Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.
Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out.
Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies.
Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.
Katherine: In his tongue.
Petruchio: Whose tongue?
Katherine: Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.
Petruchio: What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.
"There he is! Right there on that ledge! Now shoot his ass!"
"I can't do that!"
"You have to, you have no choice. He's beyond redemption."
"But I just can't..."
Once again he noticed her strategically torn shirt - and squirmed in suppressed desire. How could he give up someone like her? The idiot had it made! I can't think straight with her sitting next to me. She's a firestorm!
"Look at him. Decide for yourself. Tell me what you see through that scope thing of yours."
Squinting, he closely observed Miguel Norton as he sat motionless and agape on the on the side of a rocky, unforgiving cliff. And she was right. Every instinct told him to shoot. A mercy kill. But he didn't have the strength to live like that yet.
"Maybe, he’ll come back..."
"He's never coming back. It's been three years now. He completely lost his mind in '09."
"Look, he's saying something! I can read lips. 'I want to come home.'"
"There's no home for him to come to. I divorced him in early 2010. There was just no living with him anymore. He's a wild animal, a mad dog. You got your AR-Fifty rifle and your badge, we're in the middle of nowhere, just shoot."
"It's an AR-Fifteen, not Fifty," he weakly protested.
"Let me look through that thing." As she leaned over to peer through the scope, her body pressed against his, lighting his fire, swaying him with thoughts of long lost comfort, of dragging him from the desert to life's oasis. Jesus, how was that guy ever with a woman like this?
"You must be blind. His face and arms are covered in scabs. He's disintegrating right before your eyes."
"I just figured he always looked like that."
"No, he was never like that. It only started with the breakdown in '09. He's living death and you won't do a thing about it."
"He's just sitting out there, not harming anyone."
"He's harming himself."
"But that's OK!"
"Is it?"
He wanted to ignore her, to blow her off and dismiss her annoying words. But the possibility of having her roped him in and he did not wish to be unbound.
"Well, no, it's not alright, I guess. I just don't know a bullet is the answer."
"I do."
She wasn't giving him any openings. And then Miguel Norton made it even more difficult.
"What is that he's doing...oh, shit..."
Miguel in a ghostly hand gesture, grabbed himself in vacuous futility to find relief. Miles and miles from any human soul, he must climax from memory - memories of her?? Will I find myself doing that tonight if I can't have her? Damn him!
"You're a guy. Are you proud of that?"
"NO!" he protested too much.
"Then I don't see what's stopping you."
"I'd like to, OK? I'd love to pull this trigger right now and put that creature out of his misery. I really, really want to give in..."
"Then do it!"
A shot fired - but he had not the heart to aim. Miguel took no notice in his pathetic state.
"I missed."
"No shit."
"He's falling asleep now."
"He can't sleep. Who the fuck could sleep out there? If he sleeps more than a couple of hours at a time the coyotes will eat him alive. Just shoot him before that happens, please."
Miguel tossed and turned in violent dreams, even to the point of stirring dust up into the air. I can't play God. I admit I see no hope, but I just can't. She keeps pressuring me! Who does she think she is?
"Let me ask you something. What do you think he would say if he could hear you right now? Listen to how much you hate him. He hurt you, I get that. And I'll tell you he was a certain idiot to have lost a woman like you, no fucking doubt. But let it go! Why do you need to take revenge so bad? Is it because you still have feelings for that miserable shit out there? Come on, tell me what he'd think if he could hear you talking like you did just now!"
Her face was honest in its pain. "He'd think I was his friend."
Miguel's only friend, it was obvious to see. She the only person left knowing him. His pointless agony hounded her, invading her life at the most unexpected of moments. She was thinking of him when she should be thinking of her new man. He'd taken a piece of her out there on that godforsaken ridge. They'd scaled mountains together she might never scale again - a permanent dark cloud over her life.
"I can't do this, lady, no matter how much I want you. You're just going to have to shoot him yourself. I can't get caught up in this. There's too much about myself I don't want to know."
"Just go over there and get a good look at his face. Then tell me he should live. That's all I ask."
"Are you crazy? I couldn't climb to that ledge in a hundred years!"
"Know what he would say? He'd say any idiot could do it."
She'd knocked all the fight out of him. He handed her his rifle, giving up all hope of having her. He walked away with fires doused, his head cold sober and clear, feet not touching the ground. He'd be in his car soon, driving back to his apartment in the city where his madness could blend with the city's madness. Later, he'd head out to the bar and spin stories of this crazy woman no man would want. He'd turn the listening patrons against her before returning home to face the truth of his empty bed.
He was almost to his car when the shot rang out. He was OK with it, she was Miguel's friend - his only friend. He dare not turn around. He could hear her desperate sobbing, drowning in a pool of tears. He felt no regret. Hope God's happy with this cruel, dying planet of his.
The blackness is total, deep, endless and absolute. I've been thrust into the soul of French justice - that is, the dark soul of a doomed Jacobin, absent of light. Hate and anger permeate the walls. Terror is her idol. The guards her holy worshippers. A religion of Pilate's madmen and godless Judas judges. Bitter twisted roots come to choke the life, and once that is gone, choke some more until you are nothing but a twisted bitter root, a child of their insanity.
Officer reporting for duty, sir. I promise to enforce all laws!
I was scooped up by the zombie French cops. French police are notorious as some of the worst thugs in the world. If they really hated thugs they'd arrest themselves. But they'd have to be human to realize that. Once a man agrees to absent himself of thought it's just a matter of time before he turns zombie - badge or no badge. The zombie knows not what it does, thinking/hoping/deluding itself such willful ignorance will save it come judgement day. But even though they act in the name of law and order, it is chaos and destruction they sow like the agents of evil they are.
"Must...arrest...for...pot..."
Their blank eyes told me no human was left to whom I could appeal. Manchurian candidates of the lost, gathering more souls to feed the endless appetite of the furnaces of hell. Only by fresh souls can the monster keep its beating heart alive. Desperate and focused only on its needs, beastly service gives direction to the zombie cops whose lives ache in purposeless despair. Having a direction gives them the illusion of salvation. What does reality mean to a zombie anyway?
The guards never speak, deaf and dumb with their lobotomized souls. They found out centuries ago that to speak only condemns them. So they had to choose: give up their ways or slice off their souls. These monsters of menace serve Satan in the Holy Roman church - what better place for cover? They speak falsely of justice, that it emanates from God. But God is absent all justice of Man. Be ye doomed or saved by the systems of men, know that God had nothing to do with it, neither thank Him nor curse Her.
Feed me more souls!
The voiceless guard monsters of Manson speak only through the wailing of the mentally flailed prisoners as the sanity seeps slowly from their minds. Humanity is the enemy of men, their bloody deeds preach. No society is a villain in its own eyes and maintaining the facade is done at any price, regardless of the lives consumed, proud of the lives consumed upon its altar of lascivious lies. French patrons stroll in the sunshine, sipping wine on a Sunday afternoon as their minions practice the tortures of the hated Nazis of whom they fought and lost.
Who dares shine the mirror? Who dare reflect the face of a prisoners kept 24/7 in a lightless cell of his own shit? Who wants to see such a face reflected in the glass of wine lifted to toast the laughing party? Who wishes to see beyond the facade and be labeled traitor and troublemaker? Who is the patriot who stands up for justice? Who will stop the rot spreading from within? Who realizes insanity and blind obedience can never be justified in the eyes of God and truth.
The guards, the warden, the cops, the judges and the rest of the criminals think they are safe or something. But when judgement day comes the fate for betraying their humanity will be clear and irreversible. Only then will they realize that God's law supersedes man's law in complete and utter finality. That no man can hand his thinking over to another. That no man has the right not to question. That inhumanity can never have a place in a world of humans.
Were I to tell them to clean me up, treat me as a person and bring me into the light, their bent minds would perceive those words as the height of insane behavior. These are dead men walking.
Let's give all this up in the name of pretended justice
Life is not pretty here in the Forbidden City. We live our life in daily chains, longing for the free world our aching eyes may view but never enter. Deep inside every soul lays the dream of Eden, where time is never wasted. Some call it magic to search for Eden. Some call it folly. But the desire is universal, a living thing - even if sometimes we fear to speak or seek it.
Many parts of the City have been deemed Unprecious. In the Eyes of Man they have no worth. They've been drained of minerals or lost power to rule or simply don't fit the agenda of our false reality of mythical profits and imagined borders. Those who do not suffer hole up in their homes, hiding in fear of the torment that may one day come. To them, knowledge is a dangerous thing. But I do not trust the Eyes of Man.
These "unprecious" places have a truth of their own and only in truth is there salvation. "What do you see in an abandoned rusting factory, you fool?" I see us, what else. I see paradise lost. I see a people running away from themselves, injecting the next favored illusion into their veins. Yes, I see many things and I'm hungry for more.
Eagerly over the years I have searched and explored such places but even I hesitated when I saw a dusty road leading out of town across the ridge to a place I could not see. I knew the road did not lead to freedom or they would have forbidden it with tolls I cannot pay. Settling down in a crouch I espied this curious path with wary eyes. Maybe I had reached the point of no return, of knowing too much. I decided I would defer to the Fates (so I could have someone to blame).
"Dear God, give me a sign if I should travel down this road." I say that knowing God never gives a fucking sign. She's always too busy getting massages or whatever the fuck She does up there. Besides, what good has my truth ever done me? Who do I think I am? A superstar? How wrong I are!
Satisfied in my defeat, I turned to walk away. Suddenly, an angry Wind stirred up, blowing dust in my eyes if I turned any direction but down the unknown road. I fought until I could fight no more, resigning myself to my destiny.
"Shit, now You fucking answer me! How do I get this sort of attention when asking for winning lottery numbers?"
God, just another fickle bitch I can never understand. For better or worse I was headed towards uncharted territory. On one hand I felt excitement I'd never felt before. Daring to live outside the city! Who were these brave souls? How is it I'd never heard of such a colony of free thinkers? But that excitement was cancelled out by an equal feeling of inexplicable dread. Once the knowing starts, there's no going back.
At first, I jumped in elation. "Oh, how wonderful! Every little shop is unique, flowing with personality and creativity. I knew it was real because I felt pangs of jealousy and marvel. The street was lined with small little art galleries left and right that I knew I would love to explore! Silently, I mildly chastised myself for projecting my own fears onto this journey of delightful discovery.
I immediately rushed into the first place that caught my eye: "Da Stinki". And immediately I stopped dead in my tracks.
The Mona Li, a painting unfaced
All along the watchtower walls the words of unholy prophets were scribbled. "What do you think you're doing painting for yourself? Keep going and find out forever just who you are!" "What a waste of time! Is this your Eden?" "Why don't you get a real job, you fucking loser!" Fear became me.
My mind panicked in overdrive gears. Who can see me? Is anyone here? I didn't really see this. I can say that. I'm delusional, I am! People will believe that. I never saw this. Great art always wins out.
I stepped backwards out into the street. A world without the Mona Lisa? Who could imagine such a thing? Who could imagine the loss of community shared by the enigma of her smile? If only he'd continued on undaunted by the voices of the false prophets. I felt as if my own face had been ripped away, a piece of consciousness lost. Dare I go any further?
Pieces of great
"Prick Caso" said the sign. His diary said these fractured pieces are what he thought about, dreamed about and nourished his soul with. "A whole new way of looking at art! But who would ever accept it? I would be laughed at by the savage public who understands and respects no truths! It is beyond them and I shall not martyr myself upon their stupidity and the self-serving beliefs of mass cretins. But somehow I cannot make the final step to coalesce."
He could never piece it all together in a coherent way, blocked from the final solution by his anger. Deep in the middle of the night the pieces would all come together in perfect harmony, but to wake was to lose the vision. Never did his grasp reach his ambition. His diary read like a Jekyll and Hyde. One day praising himself on a magnificent breakthrough, the next damning himself a dilettante or "else I'd be famous."
Who are we without the advancement of art? I wondered. Take it away and the terror was palpable and sinking me to the center of the earth. Robot drone bodies labor in obedient woe, finding worth in misery and hope in ignorance - this did flash before my eyes, dropping me to my knees as I wailed in unheard terror between the tumbleweeds and sour sun.
Half driven, half repulsed, I staggered forth.
What's she staring at? I want to know! I want to know all of this! I want to know the rest of the story!
I found a book half written. Intriguing chapters began but disintegrated into the author's life. No, no! Keep the faith! Finish what you started. No man is as good as his art. We're all mad as a hatter and evil queens and so terribly late for very important dates. It's not just you!
"...only I am such a weird bird. I cannot risk exposure. I have no wife, no life, just jabberwocky words rife with strife. How can my vision of the world be valid? No, I should wait until I'm married and settled before sharing this with the world. THAT'S when I'll write true words, not these fancies of mine for fun. Yes, they please me very much - but that is just ugly me now, not then. My story is unfinished."
Off with his head! I thought. What man has the right to judge his art? He sits in ignorance and must blindly retain fidelity to his joy. Oh, how heartbroken was I to see my favorite book never finished. Who reigns down these woes upon Man? Where do these banana peels of life that slip us up so readily emanate from? Could we stop them even if we knew?
"Dung Beetles"? "Sergeant Heifers Bland?" Who are these bunch of wannabes? The plaque says they sold millions. But how? To whom? This is talent twisted for the masses without cheap sunglasses. I flip over the back for the song list to see puritan paradise.
"Godly On The Ground With Pebbles", "She's COMING Home, Repentant" "The 5K Charity Walk Being For The Benefit Of Mr. G!"
Oh, vomit! What a dishonest collection! How can anyone settle for such sell-out drivel? Is that all anyone wants? To be politically defensible? Says here this is their only album. "Dung Beetles broke up over disagreements over what their stance should be on the Ethiopian trade treaty of 1967 as regards to what assurances would be in place, wages for the natives and font type. "We take human rights very seriously! Well, at least some of us do!" stated their final press conference.
Price of the Silent Majority
Nothing is the same. I too now cower in my home in fear, my mind blinded by the light, beating the truth out of me. It's been said, "Go to the desert for freedom". I suppose those artists only made it halfway. They ran away, were eaten up with anger, lost faith, or found fame only as frauds. But who can survive in the desert? I can feel its pull to freedom but where are my assurances? Where is my safety?
I can find no answers to these questions.
No, I will just play it smart, look out for #1 for a change instead relying on guilt ridden decisions that solve or prove nothing. There's no cable TV in the desert. I can't live there! And as I now know, to even make it halfway there is ultimately same as washing out completely. I just had to know, didn't I? If I'm fucked anyway I'd just as soon die in ignorance. Time to join the world at last.
I heard the thud of the morning paper landing. This will bring me news of the world - my world now - the real world. I ain't gonna die for pie in the sky! Then I opened up to read the headlines: "Plague For The Poor! Who Can Survive In The City?"
It's like a bad dream, a dream of slowly slipping into the abyss inside a frictionless bowl. The Criminal Element is taking over. Smarter, stronger, more confident of our sheepish retreat than ever; they're starting to find out: our morality is a false one.
After the food riots of the 2020's half the population was left unemployed and starving. Only grocery stores left were ancient, eroding La Fiestas built before the 21st Century Oil Wars had begun. Thank God for Mexican immigrants after all. A blackness is in the air, a rising up from the chaotic streets like an angry virus.
I was fighting undercover, catching hell from both sides. The criminals who know they are criminals demanded to know who I was. "Who are you really, motherfucker?" was the standard query at their makeshift check points. I just barely convinced them I was one of them. The False Moralists - criminals who don't know they are criminals - hated me too. For them it was simple: anyone who joined their phony campaigns to call evil good was good. They never asked who I really was - lest the same question be asked of them.
In losing their fear of love's rejection, the Criminal Element boldly obtained new and powerful weapons of mass obliteration, having captured explosive financial instruments that can wipe out a nation. If left to themselves they'd wreak irreversible damage on the fightless sheep. Time was running out for the False Moralists who stubbornly kept a blind eye to the evil they entrusted their lives.
I and the other Undercovers were forced into action ready or not, more and more of our lives consumed by the fight. "When is the time to live?" We were hindered by the Obedience Police as we assumed our own thinking, reviled like the lowlifes we sought to infiltrate. The Criminal Element worked night and day to undermine what remained but the Obedience Police were concerned only with spreading their religion of obedience.
I was detained right as I was to make a major breakthrough by a cop insisting I take a breath test for pot. "I'm going to clean up these streets!" he'd been ordered to say whether he believed it or not. His smug smile greatly enjoyed my obvious annoyance of which I could not explain to a person who refused his own thinking. Unlike the criminals, he never wanted to know my true identity - and meanwhile the Criminal Element entrenches their position
Obedience Police serve the False Moralists; pretending to save the world by attacking plants while people starve
Once the fighting broke out into the open I was forced to reveal myself - from behind enemy lines. Stupid cop threw off my timing for position. I signaled my Undercover cohorts to let loose full force with our own special weapons. The onslaught allowed me to get out alive - just barely.
I worked my way through to Bobby, a family man and a good guy. His determined efforts got him an auto-sensing Apache personal gun turret that would have saved the day but in a moment of weakness he decided to trust in the Godless Government who took away his bullets in the name of Goodness. Bobby was pulling the trigger but nothing came out. He looked confused - he had wished to believe the Godless Government would return the bullets when he needed them.
Bobby was torn to shreds.
Somehow, I knew it would never be easy anyway. I had to up my own fighting level, matching brutality for brutality. One of the criminals had attached himself to me in an insight his brethren lacked, rightly spotting me as a serious threat to their ways (like they could ever defeat Nature in the end anyway). Fighting back my own revulsions, I beat him to a bloody death with a simple wooden cross.
Poor Bobby, if only he'd understood obeying authority figures doesn't make you a good person. But people with families are hard pressed to believe the institutions they trust are, in fact, malignant.
Turns out the guy I killed was the brains of the operation. The other Undercovers had made some inroads too - but only because the Criminal Element had not expected any opposition. We'd established a stalemate but both sides knew that was temporary, the fight had just begun. But much had been taken out of me, I can only steel myself to a certain point. I foresaw myself going down fighting before any resolving took place. I could only trust that those who follow would pick up the torch of liberty to preserve freedom.
To the cops and the public and the Whoring Press we who fought were all one in the same. They have no idea what would happen if we Undercovers refused the fight. The sheep stay cowered in the erstwhile safety of their homes, disdaining the fighting as ones who are above it, willfully ignorant of who is friend or foe, allowing them to paint a portrait of the planet as they please.
By the time they learn the truth it will be too late - just as the sheep had planned, their only desire in life to claim helplessness, relieved of any responsibility. And helpless they will be when the Criminal Element storms in unopposed to force them from their homes and be gathered for death in concentration camps like in the days of old. It will be a day for the Takers' time in the sun in a Lord of the Flies world of dwindling resources.
A survival guide was handed out. "When they come to take, give. When they come to slander, live. When they come to hate, love. A free heart lives forever. What else can we take with us? Our tears water the flowers of tomorrow."
This is the second time Mecum has been through Dallas but I couldn't make the initial go around so this was my first swim through. Velocity Channel carries live streams or replays of their auctions Monday through Friday. That has made me pretty familiar with the auction house but curious as to what a live event would be like. How close could I get to the cars? Would it be too crowded to be enjoyable? Is the Dallas Convention Center parking overpriced? (Hell yes)
$240,000 1969 Camaro. A rare and much coveted Yenko version
Wednesday was reserved for a liquidation of the Hallbrook Estates collection. They had some true jewels pass through as I watched on TV. But then I thought: crap, those cars will be gone before I get there! I had planned a leisurely stroll through on Friday but decided I better haul ass down on Thursday before any more gems slipped through my fingers. And since they save the best cars for last to auction I wondered how anyone could wait until the final day to see the best bidding with so many already out the door.
$152,000 Lincoln 1938 Cabriolet
Damn I'd love a ride back there!
Fearing what I'd miss if I waited to eat plus a tad annoyed at parking that cost almost as much as a ticket, I was in a pissy mood as I made my way in. I'm hungry all over again just thinking about it.
Convention center entrance
Registration booths for sellers and buyers
Red carpet greets you first thing
But all misgivings disappeared the minute I walked through the doors. It was like a Playboy mansion of cars: which body do I lust for first?? Cars, cars and more cars as far as the eye could see, over 1,200 according to the auction website. I could hardly get my bearings. Cars to the left of me, cars to the right of me, stuck in the middle with you!
Was overwhelming when I stepped into the room
I turned right at the stage and like Dorothy I was lost in a land where I needed to explore every inch. What would I find beyond the next bend??
Best part was this was much better than any auto museum. These cars were for sale which means open access for everyone, buyers and non-buyers alike. On one hand it's kind of insane considering some idiot carrying a camera bag could stumble and scratch the paint on an impeccably restored classic costing $100,000 (luckily I didn't but I was aware of it at all times) but on the other hand it was great to see cars from someplace other than behind a rope.
Not all cars are over the top restorations, exotics or pre-war classics. Some are just great examples of recent nostalgia that can be had for under $15,000. Cars that seemed a faraway dream as a kid are not so far away now!
I really wanted this 1979 Lincon Mark V
How about this 76 Caddy for $11,500? Sold!
There were also a few oddballs as there are at any big auction. You never know who has what that's been lying around for years they suddenly want to get rid of. Barn finds, personal restoration projects, a family member dies, and something you never expected to see shows up.
Welcome to Texas! (Don't know if step ladder is included)
1970 Stutz Bearcat - owned by Sammy Davis, Jr.?
A 1942 Jeep! This is quite a find to see one that is not a replica. Sold for $30,000. Try telling that to a soldier in WWII, he'd never believe it!
My most pleasant surprise was finding that, yes, cars sold previously at auction were still there for the viewing. So go on any day at any time and you won't miss a thing. Just be prepared to reserve a good three hours for wandering around.
1931 Cadillac, $85,000. Sold the night before but still on display.
1977 "Bandit" Trans Am. Oh boy would I love this! East bound and down, baby! Didn't meet reserve price, high bid was $29,000.
Buy a 1988 Roll Royce for $14,500? I'm in!
I moved back towards the auction area to check out that madhouse. Bidding area was mostly full and since Mecum made a second trip here I assume Dallas must be pretty successful for them. It was also kind of cool knowing it was being shown live on TV as I walked by. Time for a streaking??
Cars are towed up front to the stage
There's Dana Mecum on the far right in blue shirt
In line to take the spotlight
A gorgeous lime green Hemi Cuda! Video of its sale is at the bottom
The noise and lights are nonstop the whole time, like a circus. There's certainly more than a little psychology to induce that buying feeling. And while cars are mostly towed up front, those with a more glorious engine are started up briefly at the stage to rev up the crowd. I know when I heard one of them fire up I certainly wanted to rush up there to check it out.
Car drives out the door after a no sale
I decided to look over the red carpet vehicles knowing they were a primo lot.
2005 Porsche GT. No sale on a $300,000 bid (He should have taken it. Used exotics depreciate rapidly)
This 1961 Corvette race car really popped! A $1,100,000 no sale
This 1956 Packard was another stunning restoration. Some cars simply jump out at you and this is one of them.
Not seeing any Maseratis on the docket I decided to go on a Ferrari hunt. I'd heard a few different models could be had relatively cheaply. (Of course, that's not counting the $1,100 tune ups they require)
This 1994 Ferrari 348 Spider is considered undervalued by many. First year of the unibody chassis but it gets overlooked by its flashier siblings. Sold for $46,000.
A delicious 1983 Ferrari 512 Boxer. A no sale at $72,000.
Sweet!
1980 Ferrari 308, Magnum's car! A no sale at $24,000 (which really is too low but shows how some older exotics can attract little attention)
As always at any Mecum auction, there's plenty of Fifties bulging sheet metal that provided for an excess never seen before or will be again. One thing I love about auto styling is that it reflects the mood and temperament of the times. The Fifties were a time of extreme confidence as we rode the fortunate legacy of WWII. That legacy has all been pissed away now.
1959 Pontiac Bonneville - $85,000
1955 Buick - $65,000
An outstanding restoration of a 1957 Bel Air
Like sitting in a Fifties diner
Finally, they don't call this "Mecum Auto Auctions, Muscle Cars and More" for nothin'! Corvettes and Camaros are king here and you can't hardly walk two feet without stumbling over one or the other or one of their vaunted cousins.
Vette, Vette, Vette
Takes a college course to know the value or rarity of each model. Top selling car at the auction was a 1967 Vette for $285,000. But then another 67 Vette comes along and it sells for $55,000.
Go figure.
1962 Corvette Resto Mod. Some cars are restored but with heavy modifications like this example. This more often happens with your Chevy Novas and Impalas who are good candidates to be souped up. This one was a doozy, which it should be for a classic Vette. A no sale at $250,000.
A legendary 1970 Plymouth Superbird. Sold for $95,000.
1969 Pontiac GTO "Judge". Most times when you see that Judge badge it's a replica but this was the real deal and is a highly coveted version. Sold for $185,000.
This boy was toast after three hours of lusting and wandering. Next time I'll be more prepared, know better how to focus in on dashes and be far more relaxed. The crowd was sparse too. I highly, highly recommend anyone going who is a car enthusiast. There's something there for everyone and I obviously only covered a fraction here. Come on back, Mecum, I'll be waiting!
