For he so hated the world he gave his only misbegotten son so those who deny will perish.
"I thought you said you were smart, Harry."
"Smart ass, not smart."
But that was only the beginning as the whole room was against me.
"I remember you saying that too, Harry. I distinctly remember the word 'genius' being thrown around."
"Harry's always acting like he's the smartest one in the room."
Actually, that happens when I forget to act. Three on one, kicking me in the nuts right out of the blue. Look at all those shit eating grins. Any opening and they dive right in. Wise guy who started this continues his assault now he has his team lined up. We'll call him Curly.
"Look at this year end stories list! ISIS tops them all. They'll take out the whole world! And we're looking at Emperor Trump turning the White House into a casino. The streets are the Wild West with the cops and the crazies shooting everybody in sight. Climate reform is a joke, cats sleeping with dogs! What can we do, Harry? What does the genius say??"
I lend one eye over to Curly looking at him like the mental glue-sniffer that he is. Sad part is, in a way I envy that. Moe and Larry take the silence of my dismissal as a sign of weakness.
"Einstein Harry to the rescue!"
"Give us the answer! There must be an answer! We're waiting..."
I'll test how serious they are in their ribbing.
"I always thought the answer was to blame the Jews. Simple answers for simple minds!"
"Who you callin' simple?"
"Yeah, give us a real answer."
"My brain hurts!"
Painful as it can be, I suddenly see the wisdom of our God given mortality. Not dead yet, though.
"Turns out I do have an answer." Then I flash a winning smile.
"Bullshit!" "Yeah, right!" "Whatever..."
Time to turn the dance around. "OK, you came to me. Suit yourself. Have a nice ignorant life."
That buzzed around their dusty heads for a few moments, unsure how the shoe got on the other foot but helplessly determined to go forward.
"OK, what is your answer then?"
Six expectant eyes stared upon me. Dramatic effect required I pause. "Why would I tell you guys? Part of intelligence is in not trying to figure everything out."
"I knew it. You're full of shit."
"He just pretends to be a smart guy!"
I "fall" into their predictable trap. "OK, you got me. But not like you think. What you guys don't get is I don't want to save the world. I want to destroy this shithole so we can build something real. I'm keeping the answer to myself."
"You're keeping it because you don't know!"
"He just wants to act like he's right and everyone else is wrong."
"He can't destroy the world anyway."
"Sure I can. I use my secret weapon all the time. Works like a charm. You guys really want to debate on whether or not the world is falling apart? Go ahead, defend it, ISIS-lover."
"We're not going to listen to your negativity!" "Some parts of the world are seemingly just fine!" "Shit, OK, what is your secret weapon??"
"Nah, you hurt my feelings. Don't feel like talking now."
"You can't con us. You can't defeat the whole world. Brilliant scientists are working on solutions every day. Hand crafted political solutions are being constructed. We're only getting smarter. It's you who is the dummy! Tell me how you can deny all that!"
Oh, the triumphant looks on their blank faces. "Oh, easy, " I drawl. "I let them think they're right."
I wish to God I had an X-ray of their brains at that moment, the amount of crashing gears and flywheels flung outward must have provided a hilarious sight to the gods. Words would start to sputter out then falter like an engine coming to life. Finally, a completed sentence was able to escape.
"Whatever!"
I then clicked on the TV remote. "Hey, look! A 'Fast and Loud' marathon. I like the part where they drink beer."
"You're an idiot!"
"You're a fucking idiot!"
"You're a stupid fucking idiot!"
Should I tell them they'd be less bitter if they just simply became my blind disciples? "Quiet! Aaron is explaining air ride suspensions."
"Harry don't know nothin'. There's no secret weapon."
"If you had a real answer you'd come out and say it anyway. Yes, sir, you would!"
"He can't say nothin' 'cause he's scared. He's scared everyone will laugh at his stupid dumb answer."
Why am I suddenly getting the urge to put out roach traps? "The only thing that scares me is you three are eligible to vote."
That only stirred up the hornet's nest further with an outpouring of blabbering, perhaps in a fit of subconscious guilt. Sometimes you have to give barking dogs a bone.
"OK, OK! You want an answer? You really want a answer? I'll give you an answer: the answer is love."
After a stupefied moment all three broke out laughing.
"Knew he had nothing! Love won't help anything. Any dummy knows that!"
"You gotta have armies around the world so we can have wars and be safe!"
"You need complex geo-political negotiations between strife torn lands to keep the world divided."
"You need large scale all-encompassing blackmail to keep people in line using fictional concepts like money."
"Love won't bring any of that! Ha ha ha."
Like many people, the stooges are only eloquent when in the wrong. Spouting moronic mantras of the world gave them a feeling of support that allowed them to feel smart and special. Sort of like voters. My response was to switch channels to check out Erin Burnett's tits. This filled my three companions with smug confidence, assured I was unable renounce their arguments.
"Got nothing to say now, do you?"
"Kumbaya boy just wants to give everyone a big hug and solve all the problems in the world!"
"We just owned your ass! Shut you up like a child! Come on, hot shot, what do think of that!?"
Careful not to let my eyes wander off Erin's bountiful breasts, I (deliberately) mindlessly replied: "I think you're right."
"Oh, Jesus, a space buoy - nowhere left to run. How far have I gone? What did I do? What do I do..."
At the edge of the universe is the edge of reality. Only the deathly desperate reach this place. To close an eye is to die. Space scavengers patrol in ceaseless pursuit of prey, vampires with no life of their own who must subsist on the lives of others found. Expect no quarter, no reason, no hesitation in their hungry hate. And who is there to speak out against them? Their victims are too dead and the fools who follow them speak well of their wicked ways.
What can I do to survive here? Can anyone survive here? How long can I avoid the patrols? My heart can't stop racing. What will they do? They'll find me, hunt me down, tear me to pieces. What else can they do? Start a rock slide or maybe surrender. No, that was a movie. No happy endings in real life. I'm cornered. I ran too far. Is there a way back at all? Is there no way to make amends?
DOW-DOIZ dow-doiz DOW-DOIZ dow-doiz
That alternating signal noise is the heartbeat of insanity. Floater fragments drift through my mind's eye.
And thus she came with heart aflame to tear apart the sky.
Demons birthed from mother earth screech, "Now's the time to die!"
Souls of killing holes flee from land to shrinking land.
But the tide that terrifies finally takes her by the hand.
DOW-DOIZ dow-doiz DOW-DOIZ dow-doiz
You only get away with this once. Now what do I do?
Beyond the buoy is the curvature of the universe, warping existence like a funhouse mirror. To step past is to become a penny on a railroad track stretched beyond repair. But we the Unworthy cannot enter the time dimensions lest we destroy them. No way out. Truly, the beast does sit upon the throne.
I have seen the beast and it fears I may speak its name. It knows its time is short but many are those who are planning futures as if it will rule forever. Their lives will be swept out with the tide. Who can bargain with the ocean? That's the fool's bet the beast wishes the blind to play. That and to be driven to the edge of a space buoy...
DOW-DOIZ dow-doiz DOW-DOIZ dow-doiz
How long has that buoy been bleating that signal? I have to obey the boundary it marks. Who hasn't seen the corpses of those who step beyond? Hideous, mangled bodies testifying to last moments of irrationality. That's the real battle, isn't it? Between the rational and irrational. Forsake fortune for fire to "prove" your poisonous perfidy pure. To step beyond is to take illusion to its logical conclusion.
I can't stay here. Even as that infernal signal is driving me mad, blood drops of life drip from me in ticking decay. Only next to the curvature of the universe can you hear the space winds. Once a soul-stealing sound like that is heard, life is never the same. The winds block the daily musings and chatter from reaching here. All you hear is the terrifying black silence that swallows words from your lips in cruel abortion.
When I tell people this is not sustainable they claim I'm either "crying wolf" or being "negative". I really, really, really don't want to live with you.
With nothing left, I hold onto the buoy and step beyond. Like a body holding onto a tree in a high wind my body stretches out as I slip into the curve. What I see when beyond the buoy is not supposed to be seen. I can see a billion dying suns setting on the horizon of our dimension into impenetrable black, above them another horizon of infinite color. That must be the borders to the time dimensions. I have the final ultimate proof of this dimension's sinking doom. But soon I will let go of the buoy like the morons before me who stepped past, my mangled body drifting back to be mocked and desecrated, horrifying children.
This vision dies with me in stillborn tears, my life pointless to the end.
This truly is hell in every sense of the word. Not a bone in my body wants to go on. Nothing is worth enduring this. I knew you were my last chance, Emily. I would have done things for you I'd do for no one else. And I would have done them without misgiving or doubt. But to be with you I had to walk into the light. Instead, I hurt you and ran away.
I think about you almost every day. As life has continued to disintegrate for me I cry out for your friendship. What do you do when a piece of you is missing? Wandering through this world of monsters a half-person in need. Even if I could shake the feelings of regret I'm still left with the overwhelming abyss of emptiness before me. I've done horrible things, Emily. Things before I met you I didn't want you to find out about. You can only face the people you don't care about when you're this ashamed of your life.
That's a cold, cold fate.
I'm stuck in the masquerade world as my true face decays from a lack of light. I told myself removing me from your life was the right thing to do. I still grapple with that. I can see now that whatever would have transpired it should have happened honestly. I don't know what it is this part of me that refuses to communicate. I beg God for the words to fix things between us. Writing here is the best I can do. And what is that?
I can't live outside of your world and I can't stink it up, either. That's the classic definition of purgatory, isn't it. It has crossed my mind that since I trusted you I could have gone through doors I am otherwise unable to and be closer to being the person I need to be. Dear God, to have lost that...
They have plans for me, Emily. Evil plans because that's all they know how to do. I dreamed of meeting you and hugging you for minutes on end. We knew each other before we ever met. I feel like a child left behind in the woods. There's no part of me that truly believes there's hope. I feed myself tormented lies to make it through the day. No one can hear my voice in the woods. I can't not want time with you. I never could.
"Can corporate Hollywood have a soul?" That was the question going in and the answer was as bad as I feared.
We want anything that does not remind us of us - and we're willing to pay for it. Truth is a dirty word. As time marches on, more and more truth is scrubbed from our creative output. Imagine making "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" today. Imagine our head-in-the-sand society wanting to see that ugly reflection. We're not digging for the truth anymore. We're burying it. Bury it with special effects and you have a hit on your hands!
Was there one character in the film you cared about? No. Was there one element in the film original or unpredictable? No. Was there any magic of the first trilogy? No.
We want to have our own heroes same as yesteryear. That's why we still have our awards shows, etc. going on just as if the art done today is still of the same quality. So there will be many cheerleaders for this film proclaiming victory and departing the field (quickly!), hooting and hollering how the old guys aren't in touch anymore and the new generation is as good as ever.
How chilling.
The passionless will be passionate about passionless films. The empty will love the empty. The dead will love the dead. To see people raving over this warmed over terd is to witness detachment from reality on par with a Presidential debate. Our hunger for fiction leads down the path to boredom.
A droid has vital news that must get through! Boring. The droid happens upon the one place in the universe where a girl (unbeknownst to her) is imbued with the Force! Boring. Conflict between parent and child! Boring. "Luke, I am your father" only works once.
Feel my force upon your wallet
I would love to see a "making of" documentary of this film, of how they convinced themselves this was a good movie. I'd love to hear them spew forth on their grand intentions and how they executed them. Just how much of this was self-deception and how much was genuine contempt for the public? Were we to turn on this franchise this sort of abominable behavior would end.
For perspective, take the beginning of the film where we see a storm trooper acting strangely and then refusing to engage in mass slaughter of a village. Is it because he's a Jedi in disguise, coming to save the day? Is it because he has a backstory that has turned him against his killing ways? Is there some sort of secret agenda he has that conflicts with the empire? Nah, none of that. We never find out why he stops killing or why we should trust him as a good guy.
This is PC catering to both the left and the right. He refuses to participate in war but refuses to decry it. Here we are in America engaging in the most evil wars in our history and not even one nod on the soullessness of those endeavors or the price our soldiers pay as they commit suicide in droves upon return. Sure, they want to keep politics out of the film. Keeps out the heart, mind and soul as well.
There's nothing that's going to stop this planet from dying (outside of divine intervention) but let's at least be honest about it as we're going down. The soul you save just might be your own.
Since posting "Picasso In The Sky With Diamonds" I've received numerous notes and inquiries from classrooms and other interested parties around the world understandably asking for analysis and explanation. This doesn't happen with every posting but with a massive influx like this I feel compelled to respond in a follow-up posting to clear the air. I realize I may have to adjust this later if repeated new lines of inquiry come across my desk but here goes for now.
Did Picasso really wander the Spanish countryside looking for inspiration?
No idea. Only factual research I did was to check the year of his first cubist painting and set it in the year before. Historical fiction.
Are you saying with this piece Picasso stole his idea for Cubism?
Well, it's his actual quote about how great artists steal! But no, I'm making no accusations. I just wanted to give something that could be an example of thievery. Had Cubism remained in that blacksmith's hands it would never have seen the light of day. A parallel to this is Led Zeppelin stealing riffs from other songs, most notably the opening to Stairway To Heaven. But it's Stairway that made the riff, not the other way around. I think that is an important point when talking about Zeppelin's plagiarism.
What other lines are actual Picasso quotes?
"Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen." "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up." "Art is a lie that tells the truth." That last one is my favorite. I hope my context did those lines justice in illustration of what he meant.
What was the point of a blacksmith discovering Cubism? Why couldn't he become famous?
Artistic theft was the initial thrust of the post so that element had to be in there. Another point I wanted to make was not all genius comes to light in a direct manner. I do believe that happens all the time. Stairway is a good example of that. The opening notes would have been lost to our consciousness if not for Zeppelin's use of them. Genius is half the battle, putting it into the light is the other. Doing one is easy. Doing both is when lightning strikes.
But how could a simple blacksmith come up with Cubism? Only a great artist can do that.
Who said he was simple? His life was rather complicated in my mind. The key line from his is this: "But I wasn't even trying to do anything." It seems like a throwaway statement but its meaning is twofold. First, it shows he had no external pressure to be a great artist like Picasso who was making art his claim to fame. Many, many an artist has failed under the pressure of having to produce. Picasso knew people with the blacksmith's kind of freedom were more likely to come up with The Next Great Thing. That's what sent him searching in the first place (according to the story).
Secondly, by not trying to do anything the blacksmith's true feelings were able to come through unfettered. It's like the story of John Lennon desperately trying to write a meaningful song. He tried all day and nothing came to him. So he crashed on the bed and gave up. Minute he did that "Nowhere Man" came to him. It's about letting go. Had the blacksmith been actually trying to do something meaningful the output would have been garbage.
So is this an allegory to your own blog as well?
That's an insightful question. Answer is "yes". I am like the blacksmith in that my pain drives me to write. But I cannot connect it to something larger. That's why I call this blogging, not writing. This is closer to writing exercises, something you don't expect to see the light of day. The stuff I wrote for the light of day I don't do anymore. And to return to that I would need Emily, who is gone with the wind. There's a moral component to being a successful artist that cannot be overlooked. Dreams are slippery things.
"This sucks. This REALLY fucking sucks. Waterboarding got nothin' on this hellhole. Just fucking shoot me. There's no point to life, no reason, no hope, just being buried in this window-less nightmare until I die. I hope you're happy, God! I hope you're goddam fucking happy! Because if this is all life is you can go to hell!"
Aaron waited for a response - even a negative one just so he'd know he'd been heard from above - but only mocking silence filled the room of his father's medical lab. Aaron was drowning in drudgery but walking away from the money would only aggravate the situation as his current salary would certainly drop by a good three quarters were he to leave. The daily swallowing of this bitter pill poisoned him from within until literally it oozed from his pores in the form of stress lesions. Losing his skin snowballed his despair even further into dark depths of infamy.
"See, goddamit, you can never do what you want in life!"
This credo was a constant refrain in Aaron's lost life. Working under his father's thumb was salt in the wailing wound, driving him to pillowed screams in the night to be set free. Every day on this path was another day washed away by the universe. That too ate at him. Choosing to absolve himself, his father became the stumbling block to success, a jailor of his son. Aaron couldn't change the world or make God listen. What he could do is wish his father dead. With each passing minute the certainty of that as the key to solving his problem became firmer in his mind.
Aaron had spent his life under a blanket of family silence. He'd refused any relationships, alienating his classmates, and isolating himself during formative teen years, warping him for life. Having never lived life, he never understood life, watching others travel roads he'd never know. But no one asked him why he did this though the answer was clear in his head: he hated his father ever since being a small child. He vowed he must hide these feelings - or the fact he even had feelings - but who would want him then? "Life, is doom."
Physically and emotionally hideous, Aaron's torment became a daily death march of forced foul food. His sexual fantasies involved bondage and forced feminization by cruel women who channeled his self-loathing. But he still knew that at the end of that road lay only a cliff of loneliness - and loneliness he already had in spades. Wandering in the living tomb of his job sealed his fate. Death could not come soon enough.
It was a monster relief on days when his father was out of the lab like today. Aaron gave himself free reign to vent and rant to the cold, white fluorescent lights of the dropped ceiling. If he ever tried to complain to family members of his demise, his concerns were dismissed. How bad could it be? He wasn't dead. Aaron was just wanting attention, no doubt. As far as he was concerned, no one had a clue as to what he felt.
Then his older brother rushed in announcing their father had been in accident and needed blood right away. Instinctively, Aaron complied, handing a bag to his brother. "Better make another one just in case. He'll probably need it." Watching his brother rush back out the door, in idea came to Aaron for making his escape once and for all. With his father dead he'd inherent the lab and all its worth. Sell it, get out, start over someplace new.
The idea of actually living, of hope for the first time in decades thrilled Aaron's long starving soul to irresistible ecstasy. Yes, he would do it. He'd poison the second bag of blood and be free. After all, wasn't his life as valuable as anyone else's? What about his turn to live instead of pouting on the sidelines? The more he thought about it, the more right it seemed. Carefully and expertly so it could not be noticed, Aaron mixed a vial of deadly Clozure into the bag. How exciting!
Sure enough, his brother came back taking the bag with him. Aaron was surprised his feelings didn't give him away. He couldn't hide the guilt of what he was doing. He'd always felt guilt anytime he tried to live. Denial served as a perverse morality, making his falseness whole - if unbearable. But he'd banked on his brother being too distracted to notice and that was apparently exactly what happened. Besides, nobody really knew Aaron so who could even suspect this devious act?
If his father did die, Aaron decided he'd blame God. If God made the second bag necessary then it was God who did the killing. Aaron had certainly left a window open for his father to live if fate allowed. "Up to you now, God, if he lives or dies. Hope you're happy how it comes out!" The wait was like walking on hot coals with sweat literally coming off his forehead from hot flashes of fear and emotion. What had he done? Probably nothing. He'd always shortchanged God, he knew, and God would let his father live to teach Aaron a lesson.
Then he got word of his father's death.
*******
CODA: Driven by overwhelming and inescapable guilt (Aaron tried many therapies but without ever giving a full confession to the murder his efforts were wasted) he kept the lab open, working it himself even as his health continued to deteriorate. Any question of his having value as person was answered - and not for the better. The loneliness and isolation sapped his remaining spirit until on his deathbed he knew he must confess before facing finality.
"I killed father. I put Clozure in the second bag of blood. I hated him. I hated my whole life. Ya'll never knew how I felt or what I was going through, I know. But I couldn't help myself. Please forgive me!"
"You idiot!" laughed his brother. "I threw away that second bag of blood. Your feelings for Dad were never a secret. It hit me later I never saw you draw up that bag and I suspected there could be something wrong with it. Besides, by that time the hospital was able to make up the difference. Dad died from nothing you did. You should have confessed years ago."
"I wanted to confess! I really did. I wanted to with every bone in my body! You're telling I lived my life in hiding for nothing??"
"Yup."
"See, God? I told you I can never do what I want!"
It's tough, ya know. Really tough to be on your own, all alone in the world. You never really get both eyes all the way shut when you sleep. There's never that sense of security no matter how many mental tricks you try. My moments of "rest" are elusive and ill timed, like when I'm at the clinic waiting my turn to see the nurse's familiar face with whom I have a good rapport. My eyes cry out to shut feeling a sense of structure at long last.
Rest of the time is hell. More and more upscale developments are moving in around downtown Dallas. Many ill-meaning yuppies are angry at the sight of us and to be approached for money is a fate worse than death for them. They've mounted social media campaigns to stomp us out like cockroaches. They don't want to know us. They certainly don't want to know we even exist. Deep down inside, you see, they know our fate will one day be their fate. Ouch!
Most homeless at the shelter aren't homeless. Or rather, they are people in need of temporary assistance. After a few scary weeks they are back on their feet hopefully back to whatever place they had before. Those are the houseless. I am the homeless. I have no place. I can't even imagine of having a place. (I wrote about this in one of my very first posts)
Head north passed the $2,500 a month apartments and you find Preston Hollow and University Park with a whole host of dazzling houses. As I drive by them I first am interested in the architecture then ask myself could I ever picture myself living there. Part of me thinks to live there would be a dream beyond all dreams. I could fill it with themes and designs to suit me and live happily ever after.
But that just doesn't ring true.
I've always felt very temporary about myself
I picture me in a place more temporary than a full blown house. I could see me on a weekday morn on my third floor patio sipping my coffee looking over uptown as workers scramble to their daily rut. But that would feel like a cage. I've had a lifetime of apartments and management's rules and regulations. I want my own space and nothing less can do. So that doesn't ring true, either.
I've thought about a house in the country breathing those wonderful smells and dreaming the world as I wish it to be. But can you imagine a grungy, bearded homeless man wandering over 60 acres trying to call that home? That also doesn't fit. Every scenario I see looking out the window as I ride around is wrong for me. That's a tad disconcerting.
It's only the streets that say "me". The streets are dirty and broken. They ask nothing of you nor give nothing. Your business is your own. No one can knock on your door to check alarms or whatever. No one can tax your real estate. No strings whatsoever. You have nothing to lose so there's less to fear. I see that man popping out of his Aston Martin Vantage heading into the W hotel and part of me screams with envy. But then I ask myself would I want to be the puppet to my possessions he is and the free air in my lungs cries out "No!"
I dearly would love to sleep. I know I could sleep for a year or two straight through if I ever got to stop running as this frying pan scalds my feet if I stay in one place too long. I won't be the first to die from that, I know. We're all looking for home. And yes, the streets are home to me because I most certainly cannot live with me.
"When you steal 600 dollars you can just disappear.
"When you steal 600 million, they will find you."
Poor Hans. Imagine using stupid ol' guns to steal! You don't have to be an outlaw to be an "exceptional" thief. One can do it and be perfectly legitimate in the eyes of the law (man's law, anyway). The art of the steal has long been a tradition of American business. As it has become normalized, the gall of the thievery is given little thought and, frankly, is expected. If one can legally socialize money, one does. Sort of a reverse Robin Hood, taking from the poor and giving to the rich.
Like many billionaires who are bored, Ray L. Hunt has nothing productive to do with his life but as every life must have a direction his is to acquire more and more useless paper wealth. When in doubt, plunder! This evil comes under the benign (to our twisted ears) designation of "business" and anything with that label is given a free pass no matter how heinous the effect on human lives. The savagery of this proposal flies under the radar of our corrupt society but there will come a time we are forever deemed as a barbaric age.
So Hunt's greedy hands want to reach into the wallet of every hard-working or hard up Texan in the state and heist a chunk of their cash giving nothing in return. Some just call that good business! What's a quarter of a billion dollars between friends? It's fun screwing grandma on her fixed income while you're vacationing on the Riviera. At some point this whole greed thing is going to collapse (as we all knew it would) so better get yours while you can. Snatch that cookie from the neighbor's hand!
Where did the roots of this corruption begin? The notorious Enron. Our elected prostitutes were more than eager with the prospect of "deregulation", i.e. taking a regulated consumer staple into the wild west in a massive betrayal of public trust. If we started hanging some of these whores we wouldn't have to live in fear of our electric bills tripling (as happened before).
Seeing an opportunity of a massive long-term public raping for decades to come, Texas' largest utility was sold with a heavily indebted LBO, the thieves wild-eyed with glee. What they didn't count on was the massive depression of natural gas prices not to return in the near future (but not to say never to return). That crippled their strategy of rape and plunder pushing TXU into bankruptcy, a once unheard of thought for a longstanding public utility.
This leaves the door open for wolves in businessmen's clothing to hijack the situation to their benefit from a trusting (or just as corrupt) public. Things don't have to be like this. We don't have to be at each other's throats as a matter of course. But when lives are empty and hungry, the vampires rush in to feed on both the unsuspecting and the willing fools. We'll find out in January if this treachery is left to pass in yet another of a long string of burglaries and burglary attempts in Texas history.
After the Bomb, after Hiroshima, after the flashing light, came Black Rain. A survivor termed it "greasy", covering them head to toe. Within the rain - within the blackness - more horror. Horror to be realized for years and decades to come. Infested with radiation, the black droplets seeped through the skin, penetrating into the deepest core of the body to wait, to destroy, to kill.
My dearest Japans, what have you done to bring this on yourself?
In her history, Japan equally embraced the beautiful and the profane, never choosing. And in not choosing, became criminal. She never hid her lust for power, a ruthless meritocracy deeming only those who master power can be master. The only rule was to win, none caring how. For centuries she lay as a sleeping tiger after settling her internal wars. And when the world finally poked her, she came out roaring.
The tiger yearned to feel its strength. It clawed its way into the world, ripping flesh from bone. For a time, its hunger could not be stopped. It gloried in the thought of ultimate triumph, rulers of the world. But this was a journey into darkness and lifelessness for the Japans. The tears she hid turned toxic and opaque. Amid her treasured colors ran black veins to feed them; disaster looming.
Many were those who believed her sorrow was her weakness, that it betrayed their cause, undermined their power, and would write their final doom. But that was her secret savior, the chrysanthemum breaking the sword. Many were those who said there's no hope outside of the sword, to fear what lay hidden in the darkness behind the bamboo; have faith in the black limbs holding them together. Then, when the repressed tears came forth as Black Rain, everyone's worst fears were realized.
After the droplets of death, is there a future? Have the sins of the past erased her hope? If so, she would not be the first to have been so foolish. This was a new kind of fear: not of death, but of life. Without the beauty of her colors life going forward would be trapped in eternal bleakness. The tears falling from the sky had come to save them, to purify and refresh. In the aftermath, that was easy to see. But by having declared their tears their enemy - with relentless fanaticism - they had laced them with as an unspeakable a death as the Japans had handed out.
Gradually, painfully, the colors returned. The journey from darkness to light is never ending. The flower within having sustained her in the end. Now I too must ask myself: am I doomed by the sins of my past. Did I crush too cruelly the flower of life? Will I walk upon pathways of love or die of thirst in a dry riverbed? I know this, this fear of life in the aftermath of Black Rain. One is never the same.
His name was Luis Montoya Escobar. But to history, he has no name. He lived in a nameless village in the Spanish countryside after the turn of the 20th century. Luis labored as a miserable blacksmith convinced both the world and universe were out to get him. Not to mention his wife.
A man living on the edge of violence instead channeled his passions to canvass. Luis harbored no dreams of being a painter. His blacksmith father would highly disapprove of such a silly pursuit and Luis intended to honor his father's wishes. He was only driven to paint as a last resort, to pick up a brush instead of a knife.
But to the heavens he could not deny he was a fractured soul no matter how he repressed his dreams. Every compliment was two-edged. If his blacksmithing were praised he'd dismiss it as a soulless pursuit. If his art were praised he'd dismiss it as a pointless pursuit. No matter which one he chose at any given time, it would be the other he longed for in his servitude of two masters.
As his despair weighed heavier on his shoulders, the more extreme his painting. By 1908, more than a few of the villagers considered his work deranged. Luis' wife had no sympathy for his creations either, especially since she was often their subject. From where the heartbreak of his life came from Luis could not pinpoint. True, he felt alive when painting but that provided no answer for the dilemma of feeding both his body and his soul.
One day, a traveler passed through in a steamy summer rain. Luis hated these humid days mired in the heat of his already suffocating shop. Thus, his temper was short when the traveler stopped to ask directions. Plus, he instinctively hated the man, recognizing something of himself. Luis was very tired of Luis and any reminder of himself was not welcome in the least.
The traveler was hungry - not for his stomach but for his soul. His constantly searching eyes took in everything down to the smallest detail. This man was on a quest for the Next Step, halted and hounded in his promising journey in life; directionless and floundering in festering fear. One thing he did know: it was out there somewhere. Both internally and externally the stranger combed the universe. Like a gun in his back, the aching emptiness drove him forward as a blinded man in a blizzard. Both heaven and hell nipped his heels: to live on the edge of unfound life-changing excitement was a storm he must endure or die.
Then suddenly the traveler broke through to Luis in their bickering conversation when he said, "You know, no matter what a man chooses to do in life, there is nothing harder than keeping a marriage alive. It's easier to spin a mountain on a needle than to do that!"
Luis needed no encouragement on that topic. They departed the shop for some afternoon wine and even though Luis had begun to hide his paintings he was eager to show this kindred alien traveler of the world his creations.
The traveler was in awe. "These are fantastic! You could shake up the world with these!"
"Oh, they are nothing. Just my feelings in haste."
"Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen. Tell me, when did you paint this one here?"
"That's the last one I did. The villagers have started to whisper about me, the work is that disturbing to them. I painted as a child but my father beat me out of it. I guess I still paint like a broken child."
"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up."
"But I wasn't even trying to do anything. Can't you see it barely looks like a woman? It just came out that way how I felt."
"Art is a lie that tells the truth. Let me take this last one at least and show it to the world. It will change your life!"
"Senor, I'm afraid you do not understand. This last one I did, I did like all the others. I got mad and drunk at my wife. I thought my head was going to split in two. That's the only time I paint. I don't really like going through that wretched, wretched pain. It tears my soul in two. I'm only telling you this because I think you're someone who can understand. My soul is fragmented like that painting. Mother Maria, help me!"
Luis, at odds with himself, could not be convinced to allow even one painting to be taken. He clung to them for dear life. Take them away and his life would slip through the cracks never to return - or so he convinced himself. The truth, however, was just the opposite. His name slipped through the cracks of history never to return even though having broached the next great direction of art in the modern world. But the traveler knew genius when he saw it.
Back in Madrid, his simmering brush - for he too was a painter - exploded with his own expression of "fragmented" painting, which he renamed "cubism". These expressions did indeed rock the art world, making him a superstar overnight. When asked if he was worried other artists would soon start copying this new style and perhaps steal his thunder, he replied: "Good artists copy. Great artists steal."
Luis never painted again. Instead, he divorced and spent the rest of his days in a bottle. The daily drunkenness was all the proof he needed of his cursed life. He had painted as well as he could but never was it enough to make him famous. Oh sure, that guy walking through the village liked them that one time but he must have been delusional thinking Luis out of everyone in the world had discovered some groundbreaking art technique. No, he'd done the sensible thing and not let himself be made a fool of. His father would be proud.
...you don't think about your woman, you don't think about the living world, you don't think about the moon or the sun or the sky, you don't think about yesterday or tomorrow, you don't think about the state of affairs or bombs dropping from the heavens, you don't think about starving children, you don't about justice to ensure a future, you don't think about assassins in the night or angels in the day, you don't think about left or right or up or down, you don't think about childhood dreams, you don't think about your gnawing insecurities, you don't think about the latest trends or who's fucking who, you don't think about what anyone is saying or praying, you don't think about if you've been dumb or smart, you don't think about anything really - except for one thing...
...getting out of that goddam pot.
So when I finally came out I was surprised. Confusion replaced clarity. Those who'd fought for me forgot me. How would I pay rent for the ground upon which I stood? What is the time? Will I follow the sun? I could hear those who'd been laughing at my demise. I saw victims rejoice for killers. I felt the sting of rejection return. I was angered over dirty air whereas I'd been happy breathing coal dust before. I became erect in my desires. Then at last, my thoughts returned to love.
Walking away, I heard voices in the halls of power speaking. "Keep them in the boiling pots and they'll never think of what we do. Makes you wonder why they let us do it! Hahaha!"
I wondered if the end of Man was nigh, with nothing to stop the bleeding or the spreading of darkness.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God."
But then I heard the screams stop. The king, who always delighted watching a soul boil in oil, watched in horror as the man got out of the pot unharmed and spoke before him. "No longer can you hurt me nor can anyone hurt anyone." As the man walked out the king ordered the guards to shoot but to no avail. Around the world, no weapon had any effect. Armies departed the field. Food was withheld but none starved. Rape, in all its forms, was disabled forever.
Those who fed on the artifice of the world fell to the bottom. No reason to obey a king now. Bankers, insurers, soldiers, jailors, thieves, hypocrites of all stripes decried the new world order imposed on them without say or quarter. Theirs had been empires built on pain. But Nature had refused these shackles - something they counted on never happening. "Now we have no future!" they wailed - and were correct.
But those who'd remained true to their heart, trusting in Nature even when the sun had been blocked out, breathed free air for the first time in history. The weed had ruled the flower for so long it was thought it would last forever. No soul was judged, only given that for which had been asked to receive. The meaning of dreams could never be trampled again. The dreamers celebrated. "Now we have a future," they rejoiced - and were correct.
[I always feel a sense of the absurd seeing a Presidential motorcade with the reams of security surrounding it in every direction. So many people willing to give their life to save that one person. Is that one life really more valuable than the next? How much longer will the illusion of kings last? In the real world, every life matters. In the false, inverted world we have now we've yet to realize the value and need of every soul. There can be no future until we face the fact every life deserves a motorcade of security.
Fallen under an evening park bench I found these pages ripped from a small notebook. My guess is the author uses that notebook in an attempt to hold on to what's left of his sanity. I would kill to see his daily musings, the observations of a man abandoned on the streets. I also know there are many who would literally kill not to read it - including whichever President is in power at the time. A person who hungers for the words of the rejected and the homeless can never be elected.
These are the words of a man obviously in pain, struggling against the world, himself and even life itself at certain points. His thoughts are an SOS to the world never to be heard. An inverted world is like a man holding a great weight over his head. One day his strength must give out. On that day we'll realize the gifts we've rejected over the ages, of words of warning and words of love holding true.]
Dear God,
Please make up your mind. Do you want me to have a soul or have money? The pursuit of either leads to death. So where is life? Am I to raise a family without money - or without a soul? I see neither having a future.
Who am I to fix this world? No one person can do that. And yet that obligation is on me if I am to survive. The knowledge of how to do this is beyond me. You must expect me to be Jesus and grab endless food from a basket. I guess I can't complain if that's where you set the bar but expect a lot of dead people in the end.
My health fades with every passing day. Blessed are the rich for they will receive healthcare. All you do God is dogpile on the downtrodden and oppressed. You say you'll provide for us as You do the free birds. Maybe someday, but not today. No bird is free who has to punch a time clock.
There is no place for me in this world. Reality is there's no place for anyone but that's a lesson yet to be learned. In the meantime, we are dying and dying to live. The numbers grow larger each passing day. We're trapped yet hate the most the man who throws off his chains.
Monsters of the world keep getting stronger. Holy hypocrites, anarchist capitalists, saboteurs of saints. In money we trust, in war we hope, in lies we have faith. I cannot do what they ask. You made me wrong, God.
You're a hard man, God. Real fucking hard. You're like the others. All you do is take. Everybody has their goddam hand in your pocket. I have nothing left, nowhere to go, nothing to construct. My mind is collapsing into a void, a complete blank. I hope this makes you happy.
Assassins and blackmailers gloat at the top, corporate pimps and whores in constant parade, snake oil slicksters own the airwaves. I am surrounded. Why have you made freedom from them a sin, God? Why do you punish those who give? Why are the weeds rewarded as the flowers?
I have a song in my heart I cannot sing. The notes will not leave the safety of my throat. For this the liars call me a liar and the destroyers call me a destroyer, and I am unable to retort. I am painted by their brush then mocked in daily scorn for the image they create. But we know the truth, don't we, God? Both of us are silent.
Both the atheist and theist are right. There's a God on heaven but only as much God as we let in here - and that is almost none. Those who practice love are the first to perish. You say one day when the time is right they will be avenged. But You also say to live for today. I would love to live for today: that means the end of the world.
It is written You were angry and displeased when Jesus died. Well, welcome to the world. Have you ever been homeless, to live in constant fear? Have you ever been injured on the job as a desperate immigrant only to be thrown out in the street broken and unable to fend for yourself? Do you know what it's like to be crucified and not have it mean anything? Everyone gets the shaft here. Somehow I suspect that was not the plan.
I don't know what to do with my aimless life. I'm all out of guesses and directions to take. I simply sit here under the sun as a life form despised by the universe. You claim you want me to live, God, but do nothing about it. These assholes here don't want me to live and they damn sure do something about that. More every fucking day.
I have no energy left for the pretend answers they feed me. Fade to black. God always wins. We always lose. If only God were a dreamer.
