Don't Be A Uniter, For God's Sake

My mother is a Trump voter. Our house will
remain divided until she repents.

"Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth?
No, I tell you, but rather division!"

Jesus, Luke 12:51

So we hear all this talk about unity these days - as expected - as we're at each other's throats more and more as we descend into the graveyard greed provides. We hear the same lamers argument how we all need to get along and blah, blah, blah. That's fine and good and about as meaningful and impactful as a fart in space. Tell me, oh wise ones, how does one "get along with" an arsonist? And to anyone dumb enough to try and answer that I'm going to visit your house with a gas can and a match so you give me a uniting hug after we watch your family burn alive right before your very eyes.

So spare me your moral tutelage. Yes, everyone knows we're not supposed to sin, idiot. Try addressing the issue at hand. As Jesus said, life is not about going along, it's about standing for something. And people who stand for something, divide. That's a good thing. When I ask, "Who wants to burn down my house and who doesn't?" I divide people into two groups. One we can live with and one we cannot. Nobody has the guts to do that, though, because a vast majority of the people are for burning it down. But those asking me to live with arsonists are as bad as the arsonists themselves.

Divisiveness has gotten a bad name because currently only those bent on evil are willing to divide. "Prisoners should be treated like the animals they are!" People will call that a divisive statement because it is. Then comes the dreaded call for unity. Unity in this case means we unite behind savagery! Speak for yourself, pricktard. This also is a divisive statement: "Prisoners should be treated like the human beings they are!" But then you hear the previous "uniters" complain of radical statements, offending people, etc, etc. So you see, they're really full of shit when push comes to shove.

And believe you me, before we're done with this slow-motion catastrophe in the making, everyone will be forced to make a stand one way or the other. And silence will save not a soul.

Jesus told them another parable:
“The kingdom of heaven is like a liberal man who sowed good seed in his field. But while everyone was sleeping, a Trump supporter came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and went away laughing. When the wheat sprouted and formed heads, then the weeds also appeared.

“The owner’s servants came to him and said, ‘Sir, didn’t you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from?’

“‘An enemy of the people did this,’ he replied.

“The servants asked him, ‘Do you want us to go and pull them up?’

“‘No,’ he answered, ‘because while you are pulling the weeds, you may uproot the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest. At that time I will tell the harvesters: First collect the weeds and Trumptards and tie them in bundles to be burned; then gather the wheat and bring it into my barn.’”

So will it be for everyone.

I Wants Ta Shoot Me Sum Niggers

"I wants ta shoot me sum niggers." Fred then pretended to have a second thought as if he'd had a first. "Actualike, I's like to shoot me all dem niggers!"

"Sir! Sir!" A left-wing young man in a proper suit but not so proper as to be improper but proper enough to be respectable while at the same time hip enough to appeal to youthful voters while still garnering the praise of the older generation in power came running down the street in dire need of correction. "Sir, I must tell you you cannot say that word!"

"What ewe on about, boy? I can sez me any werd I wants!"

"Sir, the fate of the nation depends on it. Your politics must be correct! So please stop saying that word."

"Ya mean 'shoots'? Heck, ben saying that all me life. Ben doin' it two!"

"Oh, no, sir. I am not here to chastise gun ownership in any way nor am I here to threaten your gun rights or to take your guns or revile gun owners in a manner insensitive to your sensibilities. I'm referring to the other word you said."

"Well, heck, that all ya wants I can say 'hang'. I wants me to hang all the niggers! Fine wit me I never see 'nother live won rest of me life! You's right, kid, hanging more fun than shootin' anywayz."

"I'm sorry with the greatest of apologies and mean no disrespect to your ideology or spiritual beliefs, but I must point out you're showing an insensitivity to the heritage of slavery suffered by the segment of the population to which you are referring and the preferred term to be used is 'African-American'."

"Shit, sun, I knows them niggers is from Africa! Like you's tellin' me sumpthin."

"Sir, I'm not meaning to imply any ignorance on your part as I'm sure you're well-educated and quite sublime in your own way, but the correct phrasing is "I want to shoot some African-Americans" if we are to have civil discourse in this country of ours."

"Ewe wants me to talk like sum pansee librul! That jess ain't Americana!"

"I can say this, sir: I'm authorized to give you this genuine bottle of moonshine in a gesture of gritty pragmatism and a fearless facing of reality as it is."

"I's fresh outta moonshine! And iffen I gits it free I'll sez shit wot ewe wants anytime. So hear goes: 'I wants tuh shoots me all dem African-Americans deader then a doornail.' How's dat suit ya?"

"Thank you, sir! And God bless you! Only through polite and civil discourse can we reach common ground and resolve our differences. There's simply too much anger for things to continue the way they are."

"Tell me about it! Cant say nuttin nowadayz without crazee folks gettin' all upsets and yellin' and callin' ya names!"

"I agree, sir. The name calling must stop. It does not help a cause to point out your genocidal tendencies in an impolite manner."

"Well, good! If you's gonna get dem leftees to calm da hell down when I's talkin' 'bout shootin' folks ewe dang rite we gonna git along better. Dat way we can have dem civil talks ewe talkin' about and be rite proper and correct jess like ya sez - rite up to tha point I puts a bullit in there head!"

Teacher's Pet(ulance)

So I was invited to speak to a high school class about writing, having had my writing studied by students around the world as part of their curriculum. Of course, my words are not welcome everywhere but neither are the words of Jesus so what does that mean. Like anyone, I go where I'm accepted and shake the dust off my sandals of places I'm not.

With that in mind I began:

I walked up to the blackboard and wrote: OWN YOUR WORDS

"Only you are responsible for what you write. Don't say the teacher made you do it, or your parents, or friends, or whomever. We are each held accountable for our words regardless of why we say them." Sounds trite, I know. But I looked them in the eye with conviction so they knew something real was coming.

"Sure, your teacher gives you your final grade and there are consequences for that. But that is not the end-all and be-all. Not by a long shot. Words shape the world, they bind or destroy as we see fit. How many of you today can instantly recall words that stung so badly they made you want to kill?"

I gave a moment to let that sink in - for me. I spotted others I could see having an uncomfortable moment too - from my spoken words.

"In class, you're graded as a technician. Is your grammar correct? Sentence structure, punctuation, consistent tense and voice. Content? Not so much. Why? Because content can be a mirror and that is a place we fear to tread. But the reality should be just the opposite. Content first, rules learned later. That's how art is born."

I scanned the room for fertile minds and found a few. I could tell these few had not been spoken to in this manner before. I spoke to them telepathically. Yes, dreams are not a sin. Life is a treasure rejected by the world. Do what you want - as God intended.

"Pleasing others when you create while denying yourself is a tragedy and a waste. That's not giving. We want to see what you have to give!" Predictably uncomfortable fidgeting followed. "You want to be a hero? Be a real hero and show yourself. That's a superpower for the ages, greater than any CGI illusion, it takes real guts. Once you taste that feeling you'll never go back."

I was dividing the room, of course. I could spot those dedicated to remaining in the dark. Not that hard, recalling my own convictions on that. But every soul in that room was parched for truth, aching for honest words so rarely spoken in class. School was a jail to me and prisoners make bad students.

"Has there ever been a paper written in class studied by history? I'm not a scholar so it's possible there may be but it's certainly not in the general consciousness like, say, 'Alice In Wonderland' [had to squeeze my all time favorite book in]. Who here wouldn't like to be quoted for eternity? 'Off with their heads!' 'Down the rabbit hole.' 'Curiouser and curiouser.' 'Curiouser' is not even a word! Lewis Carroll would have flunked!"

The release of laughter was much needed at that point.

"So pass or fail as you see fit. But remember this: a moment of genius can strike anyone at any time. You don't have to be professional writer. Sometimes it helps not to be because then you're not trying. But if you don't let it out, if it never sees the light of day, the moment passes forever. If you're afraid of the grade you'll get, what your parents will say, of how your friends will react - then all I can say is that you'll make a fine politician someday."

OK, that one was over their head but I couldn't resist the inside joke.

"But if you dare to step out - if you dare to be free - then you'll be true to yourself. Love makes history. It's what we all want. Connect with your words, ask questions later. Take your moment in the sun. Corny as it sounds, it's out there waiting for everyone, whether we believe it or not."

Strelnikov's Last Moments Under The Sun (Updated)

"The private life is dead."

My pain is as blinding as the surrounding snow. I never thought such a horror possible. Never in a thousand years can I express this despair I feel. I am a statue of death.

The magic feeling was gone like a comet in the sky never to return in a lifetime. Strelnikov rigidly watched the black flaky ashes scattering on the blistering white snow of where his home once stood in the bone-chilling wind of the lonely expanse of Russian countryside. He had nowhere else to go. In the distance a farmhouse, where the best he can hope for was to receive polite silence to the inevitable hatred he received wherever he went. Powerless and on the run, a man without a planet.

It strikes me, this horror. Is this the horror I visited on others? Oh God, do not let it be! Then I am a monster. A monster without redemption. Even my death cannot atone for what I've done, the blood spilled on my angry orders. Why did anyone listen to me in the first place?

His personal life was dead - as he once so famously declared - a proud victim of the 1917 devolution called revolution. But the world never moves forward without sacrificing its love, he believed. Nothing so useless as a useful idiot! Strelnikov stood helplessly in the binding cold, the wind his only companion. It seemed to him it mattered not to his future if he wandered the entire globe or stayed exactly where he was. Had someone approached him it would only increase his isolation.

I'll die if I keep standing in this cold, immobilized by fear. I can show my face to no one now that I know what I've done. They will see I've recognized my sins and lose all fear of me. Then the family members will avenge their dead by delighting in my demise.

Three years of madness. His crusade for justice had made him unjust. He ruthlessly crushed the flower of life wherever he found it. Who can trust him now? His steel grey eyes were remorseless in their betrayal, to unhesitatingly prove the hero he was. As hero of the devolution he felt alive, injected with the energy of history. Time, he believed, was on his side. Now time had run out too soon.

My world is a lie. I gave my life to a false god. There was no revolution. Just small men killing for power's illusion, same as the entirety of history. The world is a lie.

And yet he still felt obliged to be the same man, as someone feels compelled forward walking down a hill even if it's the wrong path to follow. He looked down at the ground and wondered why his feet didn't move. Were they still his? Were he back in his train still ruling the province and being the spider controlling the web would he feel just as sad and empty? Strelnikov had gone against his true wishes, declaring them enemy of the state. What does it mean to go back to them now?

But I must ask myself: To whom is the truth denied? I shut my eyes and blamed the sky for being a lie. What kind of beast slanders the truth, shredding hope? I drank from a cup without love. How can I still have a future?

He could post a commanding proclamation in every village as before, only this time stating he regretted what he had done. But he'd be mercilessly mocked, asking who is he to strike such a statement. Strelnikov is not human, they would say. Strelnikov has no human feeling. And maybe they are right. His heart was still hard. Why proclaim otherwise even if it were the correct words to post. This confused him greatly on the right thing to do. Before, as arbiter of his own morality, he never need consider anything but himself. If only he had grasped what it would have meant to so many victims to see the great and feared Strelnikov admit his mistake even as an empty gesture.

I can't go on like this. I can't not go on like this. No way out.

Then the shot rang out.

This one I made. So much pain for all.

Aftershocks

Few years ago I was in a car wreck. Nothing medical but serious auto damage. Then, much to my consternation, I had a nervous time driving after that. How did I know it wasn't going to happen again? Didn't expect a pickup to jump the curb last time, so how can you know you're safe? No matter what I did I couldn't stop the paranoia. Eventually it faded but I remember that helpless feeling.

That feeling has returned - in spades.

What brought me to my felony charge was a completely reckless and irrational moment of self-destruction. What guarantee do I have it won't happen again? Will I become wholly delusional and think because I dodged one bullet I can dodge them all? That's the kind of shit running through my head.

I can't tell you how not fun that is and disturbing.

I almost FUBAR'd my life. Or maybe what I was trying to say with that insane act is that I already believe my life is FUBAR. Damn, the crap that goes through my mind in nonstop chatter. Been having flashbacks to the impersonal police station and the interrogation room straight out of a Turkish nightmare. I've actually been able to recall a few scenes where I rewrite with a couple of smart ass responses. That's a good sign - but only a glimmer.

One thing has occurred to me since then and now that it has I'm noticing it everywhere: it's so much easier to defend a lie than the truth. I was stumbling all over myself. But when I rewind the scene and think of selling a lie, it's like a big relief comes over me and I feel free to say anything and do it with the utmost conviction. You know, it's like practicing to be a conservative.

All these confidant liars I see on TV, I completely understand them now. I used to wonder why they speak things so patently and obviously false. It's because you feel safer doing that. And if you can sucker someone into debating your lies instead of the actual truth, you win! Such a feeling of power. No one's going to vote for some idiot stumbling through the truth. That makes you like the one guy on the police force not on the take: you just make yourself a target.

I live in fear of myself. I need something that works for me instead of always working against me - which is all I know. I have no clue how to achieve that. It's true I've led a very dishonest life and it cost me every opportunity that came along. Of course, every crime is a means of self-expression. I haven't been a legal criminal in my life - but it's certainly been a criminal life. Maybe that's what drove the irrational impulse.

"Remember the feel of the police station." That one spine shivering thought keeps me in line now. But will it fade over time? Will I write revisionist history that it wasn't so bad? I can barely even stand to listen to music. I just want to sit in the corner with my head in my hands chanting "My God!" over and over. The people I see walking around, they know nothing of my troubles. Dear God don't force me to make small talk.

Part of me is grateful this happened, this sobering contact with reality. I live too much in my head, shaping the world as I wish it to be. Those cops didn't give a solitary fuck what was in my head or my oh-so-important philosophy. Jesus! Clearly, what I did was not the answer even with all the internal and external pressures acting on me. But if I just keep on keeping on, won't I end up at the edge of the cliff again - or over it?

Night is coming and I'm afraid. I keep hearing that girl who publicly humiliated me. "Go beat your...fear," she slayed with a smile. Last time I try that. Maybe I should just get ready to die.

Felony Arrest Warrant

i suppose it's possible to feel worse. instead of the usual sinking feeling in my stomach my whole life is sinking. suicide is definitely on the menu. i can't handle being in a cage. in case anyone hasn't noticed yet, i don't trust you people.
Suddenly the news, the sports, the weather don't mean jack shit. Nothing I cared about before means anything, it all gets thrown out the window. My house is on fire and I'm in it. I finally crossed the line I'd been edging up to for all these years. idiot.
i've heard it's best to come clean when they interview you. it won't be easy but i decided to take that path. no point compounding my troubles. still, admitting to a bunch of self-righteous hypocrites what an idiot i am is bitter medicine.
"I wanted to believe there's another way out. It pushed me over the edge." I was actually realizing things as I spoke. "I wasn't making it, I was drowning. My whole life was an act. You just thought you knew me."
it's true: my ad lib lines were well rehearsed. now i'm going down. i knew the guy who arrested me for years. he never knew i harbored criminal intent. i thought...i don't know what i thought, was playing with fire.
what's there to talk about? this building, these smells, these people, they make me ill. i make me ill. was completely irrational. caught coming out my house fixing to go on the run just like i'd seen so many others get captured. i did the same dumb trite things. i'd always fed myself the line i was more clever.
i know what they do to felons in this society. people mostly hate themselves and this is their big chance to screw somebody and look down on them. no time for an attitude, though. if i find someone who extends a helping hand, you better take it, asshole. that's something new to me, letting go of my anger.
will this experience make me a better person down the line? part of me suspects yes. but that's like a light over the horizon i can't see. i'm holding on to that thought as a silver lining, that i'm not a complete fuck up. i'm not telling anyone that's in my head. don't want to contribute to the laughter. still, it seems persistently real.
but there's no hiding my shame and disgust. this is why everyone looks so shitty in their mug shots: the self-loathing. it ain't no game and my path has changed forever. who can forgive me? I can see it will have to start with me. i'm just a piece of meat to be processed. just had to do it, didn't you?

fading to black now. don't know if anyone will see me on the other side. even if i do make it out to the other side, not sure even i want to see me. how can i trust that guy? i just had to show my ass.

UPDATE: They dropped the charges. There certainly wasn't a lack of remorse on my part. They saw it in my face and my body. Maybe that played a part. I was too scared to ask too many questions why. It was just a paper crime, maybe that played a part. That and no criminal history. Maybe Jim, who arrested me, put in a good word. I'll ask another day.

I can tell you the air is sweeter the sun is cleaner. Hard to get worked up over what is now clearly bullshit that I'd obsessed over before. This boy got some housecleaning to do. I've birthed a new outlook. Being drug through the shit was actually good for me, after all. My secret optimism was right! (But yeah, I bitched a lot along the way.) Guess I needed to be taken down a notch or two. This is all I want to talk for now.

Tell Them It's Coming!

It's coming. Coming as surely as the rising dawn. Unstoppable. Inevitable. Inescapable. What's coming, is sobriety. It's simply the science of life.

Mankind's perpetual drunkenness is coming to an end. The silly games and pointless killing and delusional hopes will fall away for all time. Thank dear God Jesus. We'll wonder why we even bothered.

The relief, the inhaling of breath, the surge of life is at this point beyond our current imagination (well, yours anyway). Guns will drop from our sides as lies drop from our hearts. Volcanic hatred will be replaced by volcanic hugs. Dreams will be sung from the mountaintops. We as a world will communally scream, "At long fucking last!"

No more: "I fart three times and dance to the left and that means God loves me." No more: "It's OK to shank you in the back because we OK'd it with our voodoo rules." No more turning tears to bullets.

Be ready. Be prepared. Ready or not, love is coming. Forget about the past. Nature has had Her say.

Goupil...On Instagram?

Declassified now by the government after his death, some amusing anecdotes were found in Goupil's life, one of which was an Instagram account where he openly talked of being an international assassin. Knowing he wouldn't be believed, this allowed him the freedom to express himself that other outlets could not provide.

Here is a sample of a typical posting where Goupil interacts with the general public. His forced isolation no doubt played a part in this odd behavior for a wanted criminal. Perhaps this proves the need to be human trumps all else.

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Only caught after part of last year’s Otsukimi moon viewing festival as I was lamenting fact I was on the run as wanted international assassin. But got all of this one. Was ridiculously hot and muggy. Writing haiku is part of tradition so I scribble this:

Dallas Autumn sweat,
Escaping boredom’s prison,
Chasing Fall’s last moon.

Commenter [Names redacted of the commenters]: Wow! Didn't know international assassins like Japanese festivals!

Goupil: It not festival that first attract me. It was dispersing crowd at night. Knew I be safe there, very hard to track. Had to track someone like that one time, was very difficult.

Commenter: Oh, Had you just killed someone??

Goupil: Nothing like that. Was alone and with pain, paranoid man. Seeking safe place. Always looking over shoulder, just running, not killing anymore.

Commenter: Why are they after you so bad, G?

Goupil: This will sound crazy with all this news that come out, but was Russia job that send everything downhill. Had to cover up connection between oligarch and American senator. Then found out I to be killed after!

Commenter: Dang! Hate it when that happens!

Goupil: Me too! Those Russians are devils! Never do business with them. Use mob seductress in bar to throw you off, make you easy kill. Take all my power to resist. She even haunt dreams later on.

Commenter: Sounds hawt!

Goupil: Not hawt when she plan to tie you up so men with guns can break in and shoot. I barely get out but nothing same after that. Too easy to get caught in France so America I come.

Commenter: Why go to France anyway?

Goupil: France is home. Actually, no place home now. This planet not for me.

Commenter: Are they still hard on your tail, Goupil?

Goupil: Not like before, no. Your idiot president save me. He turn all attention to him like eye of Sauron. This will stop one day but I think after not be like before. American FBI forever to be damaged. They see now they can be attacked but no one stand with them.

Commenter: Never thought of it like that but I see your point.

Goupil: If you being chased you think of it! But other things chasing me too.

Commenter: You mean other governments or Russian mob or...

Goupil: I mean things inside I cannot escape. Times feel short.

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Goupil suspected his demise was coming even if not at the hands of law enforcement officials. His later implosion and subsequent suicide proved his past could not be escaped.

Tama's Sitting Stone

In the year 1763 of the Western calendar on the ninth day of the tenth month, Tama was found by early morning villagers sitting on this stone and staring into the tree in front of him. He did not respond when accosted or questioned. He did not move when little children threw acorns at his head. Even an afternoon cloudburst could not sway him. He simply sat and stared.

During this time deep into the Edo era, Japan suffered political and technological stagnation due its chosen isolation and the central government's ceaseless quest for ever-increasing power over the provincial governors. It would be yet another hundred years before Japan would rejoin the world and the ruling samurai overthrown in a fit of rage and resentment. But in Tama's time there were no grand causes to die for or calls to greatness to advance the nation. In the far distant air of the capital city life was thick with political intrigues and self-absorbed interests.

By dusk, Tama was still frozen as a statue. Sometime in the darkness he left as he was not there the following morning. Later, it was found out his wife had died. (It was also later Tama realized a tree was in front of him as that was not the object of his interest.) A few months afterwards a haiku monk passed through the village and heard this story. He scribbled this poem before leaving.

Tama's sitting stone;

In the village, lightning strikes;

His world is his own

The Strelnikov Papers

"The battle within

Begins again -

And there I must begin."
February, 1919

"This is the time of glorious hate, when indecision has been cast away like yesterday's newspaper. I slyly silently mock those who still struggle. Their lives are open books to me as my eyes pierce their every encroaching fear and last remaining hopes. Praise be to the power of certainty! The lost and the confused and the stranded look to me longingly for direction. I appear as a spirit of divine authority: their greatest wish.

"I am Strelnikov, beacon of the revolution's light. I have been given the power of life and death as I bathe in the unaccountable rule of Man's deemed righteousness. I've turned my back on the selfish and indulgent endeavors of personal relations. Those are for inferior times. All around me I'm surrounded by the blazing white light of destiny's fight, filling me with purpose and awe. My guns are instruments of God and my will is directed by His purpose alone."

Strelnikov was at one with the vast expanse of the cold childless Russian sky above him, unleashed by the chaos of the October revolution, the same sky that spawned the endless white mirror of the sunlit snow reaching the horizon. The liberation of being death's master skyrocketed him to infamous fame among the countryside peasants. His soldiers worshiped his overpowering conviction, seduced by the same passions that torment every empty aching life. A soul like Strelnikov, who orders a village burned then sleeps like a child, is a man to die for.

Yet not someone for whom to live.

Like a baby struggling to find reason in refusing mother's milk, Strelnikov and his men twist their minds in dark pursuit of an impossible ideal. How to create life from death? Each valiantly decries his unworthiness of love - Strelnikov the most by far - and thus they fought and died so that others more "worthy" may live. This war - like every war - though called revolutionary and historic and world-changing was still like any other: it starts with self-deception.

The madman's train terrorized the Urals in search of pure love: love for the revolution, love for the state, love for Strelnikov - and to relentlessly stamp out love judged to be illicit as one would an emerging fire. Those in his domain feared a doom worse than death: to stand before Strelnikov's examining gaze which spotlights your soul before heaven itself. Better to die alone in the dark by his blind dog soldiers than to face his public crucifixion. In time, his name was not even dared to be whispered and life with him became an accepted common understanding as like the coming of the seasons. No matter how horrific, one must endure it.

But every evil has a shelf life. Once Strelnikov's masters had extracted what they wanted from him he was tossed aside like the peel of a squeezed orange. Alas, a loser like him must be hunted down to be denied and destroyed before any association is made (for his masters were even greater losers). He returned to his village to find nothing but black ashes blowing across the icy snow, another pointless sacrifice to the ambition of men. Strelnikov took in a breath but this time the cold inhaled him.

He had hoped his madness would deliver him to paradise as sobriety never had, that cheering crowds would thank him for his service; the selfless hero. His family had fled at the prospect of facing such a monster as one would an oncoming tornado. Strelnikov, hero of the devolution, was the most alone man in the world. Too late he realized his self-betrayal by the flowing plaudits from the self-appointed state, his knees dropping in despair into the hardened snow. No man may judge himself  - or another - unworthy of love; this the origin of war. He was a creature unwanted by every living being - including himself.

He who lives by the bullet dies by the anguished broken heart.

"The Wife", A Review

There are hints all the way through "The Wife". "Your story is a cliché." "You can do better." "A good start." "You need to go deeper." "I didn't buy your characters." In a film about writing, we hear these criticisms about pieces written by characters in the film. But since self-expression is the single greatest drive in human existence, the writer of this film gave away her own thoughts on her own writing.

"Your story is a cliché."
A woman ghost writes her husband's novels because in the dark ages of the 1960's no one is going to publish a novel by a girl. Cover up ensues while husband receives accolades but in the end she "can't do this anymore". Well, duh. Living a lie is hell for anyone. Doing a cliché story is OK if you do something original and insightful (honest) with it. If not, it comes off as a bad TV episode.

"You need to go deeper."
"I understand: feeling guilty." That line was not in the film - but should have been. I can't stand Christian Slater but when I read he played a contemptible character I gave him a pass and sure enough he was spot on and actually the least muddled of the characters. In the end, when The Wife decides she's going to permanently perpetuate the public cover-up after her husband's death, I'd given anything had the Slater character uttered that to add a much greater complexity both to him and the film as opposed to his just slinking away.

"I didn't buy your characters."
Pryce and Close gave it their all in their parts. But when he asks her, "Why did you marry me if I'm such a worthless fuck?" Her literal reply is, "I don't know." I don't know either why they were married. It starts off as a classic student crush on a teacher and that's all we get. We can infer she's seduced by the success she gets from re-writing her husband's work but we're not given that sense of seduction by the film.

"You can do better."
This is supposed to be a feminist film but the agenda gets in the way. Now, I do think there's a woeful lack of female voices out there in the art world and I am starved to hear them and there's great satisfaction when we do. And there's no doubt some men feel threatened in their place by a competent female voice. But if there's a conspiracy to keep women quiet it's done by the women themselves. It's always easier not to rock the boat and risk whatever deal you have. Being crucified for speaking the truth is most certainly not gender limited, though.

"A good start."
In a film about re-writing it's a film that needs re-writing. Don't be so safe! Show how decades of deceit rot a marriage. Or better yet, she stifles her own (better) words while her husband publishes mediocre novels. Then show us how that saps her soul in order to keep the safety of her marriage. The film asks questions - and that's a good start - but simply asking without answering is not enough.

In the end this is another case of what a film aspires to be vastly differing from what it is. I love, love, love the idea of the untold story of a silent wife coming to light but I did not get that here. The only reason we have the Close character say she's not a victim is because the film is based on the idea she is (but doesn't want to come off that way). One thing the film got right is stating that writing is agony. That it most certainly is - at least without Emily.

Apostle Creed

The professor asked which contemporaneous follower of Jesus wrote this:

"Being with Jesus is the most wonderful feeling in the world. All your defenses melt and the claws of the world drop from your heart. You lose that perpetual feeling of needing to explain. He knows. He understands. What a relief!

"You keep thinking it's too good to be true but the feeling never proves false. He is the embodiment of the land of milk and honey, forever nurturing. His presence is the center of the world. Hearts gravitate towards the shining love as if answering a long yearned for call. Nagging doubts run like roaches from his light.

"Even in his absence I am content having the knowledge he is somewhere on this earth. This feeling of trust he weaves brings forth a hope never before known. Thank the dear Lord we have been given this gift! You can see the dawning of a consciousness that we can live with each other not just at each other. It's the beginning of a new era and if things keep going the way they are (and I don't know why they wouldn't!) the whole world will be turned upside down.

"It's hard to think of what Mankind has done to deserve this. The Roman yoke is the nightmare of all nightmares. What a glorious moment it will be when the Roman overlords see the wisdom of the New Way and lay down their weapons evermore. Peace is like a flower. It cannot be mandated, it can only be allowed to grow. Yes, if we are to have a future, our friend and guide Jesus must be preserved at all costs."

The class called out the usual suspects in reply to the professor, going through the entire list of New Testament characters. But no one got it right. Only Andy, the class malcontent who sat in the back, had not offered a suggestion.

"Andy, would you care to hazard a guess."

"I know who it is: Judas Iscariot."

The class gasped and some even shot Andy an angry look of betrayal. "You are correct. Tell us how you know this, Andy. Is it because everyone else has been guessed?"

"No, it's because whoever wrote that was co-dependent, he doesn't do his own thinking. And co-dependents will betray you in the end every time. Believe me, I know - I've done it."

The Real Question

Every day the ditzy media is sent scrambling to "get out the facts to refute the lies". This is what keeps them on a perpetual leash. They know this but are bound to it nonetheless. Of course, anyone else the Trumptard Liars can corral into their pigpen they'll gladly take to join them in the mud. After all, worst thing for a moron is to be a moron all by yourself.

So when the arsonist-in-chief goes around setting fire after fire the liars are in hog heaven raping the truth. The lying crowd LOVES these questions:

• Is Russia our enemy?
• Is Trump evil?
• Is Trump trying to rig everything in his favor?
• Is Hillary a better person than The Donald?
• Is the President desperately incompetent?
• Are Republicans Satan worshipers?

The list goes on and on when it comes to "getting to the bottom of things" Trumptards never care to get to the bottom of. These cretins will insist on their answers regardless of truth or consequences. But there is one question they truly hate and avoid at all costs: "Does truth matter?"

If the media were to ask that question after every lie instead of wasting time debating open and known facts, defenders of the lie would find it a withering response. That's because it eventually leads to the question, "Why are you lying?" That, of course, is their greatest fear, facing the moment of final revelation - one that is coming anyway whether anyone admits it or not.

For those fools who answer the truth does not matter or that only "certain" truths matter and not the whole truth, they most certainly still need to answer for themselves. So if one does insist on talking points and engaging with the enema, one need simply to turn the tables and reply "Fake news!" to whatever answer they give.

• Is Putin your god?
• Is Trump a nigger?
• Does Trump masturbate to porn in the morning?
• Is Donald Hillary's bitch?
• Can the President spell "colusion"?
• Why do Republicans hate Jesus?

The Poetry Bomb

I sat at the table, eyes to the ceiling, concentrating on what I'd write next. When it came to me, I furiously scribbled down the word. Out of the corner of her eye, she was curiously incensed:

"What did you just write?"

I quickly yanked the paper out of sight in hasty guilt of her always dreaded and feared gaze, the curse of my liar's life.

"Nothing."

"WHAT DID YOU WRITE!"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

She lunged at but missed the paper. "You wrote about me again, didn't you, you fucker?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Why indeed!" she deftly parries.

"Who am I? What do you care what I write?"

"You're nobody. Now show me that paper before I bite your head off."

"Feels like you already are."

"I have not yet begun to bite."

"What does it matter what I write? You have your own life. You don't need me."

"Never mind about what I need. Now I want to see that paper!"

"Jesus! How could it be that important to you! Hell, if I thought anything I wrote meant anything to you I wouldn't have the nerve to write it in the first place."

"Don't give me that crap. You write what you want whenever you want."

My cat dander was up. "I know you've convinced yourself of that but I live and die by you."

"I've seen no evidence of that."

"You didn't look in my heart."

"You'd need one first."

"Thanks..."

She stepped back, realizing she'd hurt me. She wasn't mad she hurt me, only that she misjudged whether or not she could. Now I held the moral high ground but she was still infuriated at my holding out. If I were anything I'd give her everything. I don't want her finding out I'm really nothing. She reads that note and she'll have all the proof she needs. She reads it and she loses any possible interest in me. At least this way I still have her attention despite the storm of her withering anger.

"I'm not responsible for your life," she said, folding her arms.

"I know that." That one hurt to get out. I really did want her to somehow make up for my insecurities. "But if I can make you angry enough you won't have to worry about my needing you. How can I ask for your time?"

"You're impossible. I don't know why I waste my breath. What was I thinking befriending you?"

She was thinking she was hoping to find out something about herself, what I really thought. To me she's a dream come true, a rare understanding of life that can't be taught or told; a childhood friend I finally got to meet. She knew I was hiding my feelings and wanted to crush me for it. I was drowning in guilt. Courage failed me as before. I so dearly wished to confess! But then she'd never speak to me again and that I couldn't take.

I slowly and deliberately walked over to the roaring fireplace and threw in the note. I looked down as I could not face her as she spoke.

"I don't ever want to see you again."

The hurt look in her face I'll never forget as I furtively glanced upward. From that moment forward I cannot hate myself enough. She hasn't talked to me now ten years on. I'm still pained by those three fatal words I threw away:

Lettuce
Napkins
Cheese

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Later she wrote this poetry bomb - and I was really confused:

Kuzureyoru Imo Se no yama no naka nareba

sara ni Yoshino no kawa to dani miji

Haiku Ka

I plant a flower

In her prized side garden,

Will she water it?

Death among the living,

Unnoticed but not unseen;

Hidden rot within?

Stubborn summer day,

If the sun scorches my soul

Will winter blow cold?

Fighting Trump

Jung's theory of neurosis is based on a psyche that consists of tensions between various opposite attitudes in a self-regulating dynamic. The ego, being the center of consciousness, represents the coalescing attitude of consciousness. The ego's attitude is in tension with a complementary and balancing attitude in the unconscious.

In appropriate circumstances the unconscious attitude can directly oppose the ego's attitude and produce all manner of neuroses. These situations arise when the conscious attitude has been unable to recognize and effectively integrate issues important to the attitude of the unconscious.

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Amelie was furious and aghast watching the conservative snowflake commentating on TV.

"What's wrong with you people?" complained the blue-eyed blonde female from her high definition glory. "Why can't everyone be white! Sure, I understand not everyone can be white: we do need maids, lawn mowers and other servants. But I'm talking about people who count. People in charge need to be white. This country was made by whites, for whites, and to the benefit of whites. That's the way it's always been and the way it always has to be!"

The President was quick to chime in with total agreement and his cultist followers were whipped into a wild frenzy of hate and blame. "Immigrants make my life suck!" "I can't never be happy if everyone ain't white!" "Color means criminal!" Like a psychotic pyromaniac, the President laughed at the raging wildfires he helped stoke across the country. If he couldn't have the world the way he wanted, he was going to burn it down.

Cruelty had lost its shame, openly conducted with greater boldness each passing day. Yet there were still those determined to fight the good fight - such as Amelie. She was actively part of campaigning for those who would bring justice in her eyes. The pictures of crying children tortured on orders of the President pained her heart into despair. Hope was dying before her eyes.

Morons tried to counter the President's politics with facts, logic, and reason - overlooking that politics is not based on facts, logic, and reason. But Amelie realized that without truth there can be no future. She was horrified by those who gleefully claim they are saving lives by destroying them. They are all too eager to follow the evil of their leader and swallow every word he said not because they thought he spoke the truth but because they knew his words to be lies - lies that would infuriate the very people they hate.

The anti-truthers had never known such power before. If not stopped, nothing would be left of the country and the human damage incalculable. It would mean tragedy on a scale never seen before. Amelie could not let that happen. Not on her watch. She felt her life depended on it. And these monsters who wreaked this havoc of unrepentant destruction and chaos she could not understand. They were clearly beyond reason.

Amelie tore herself away from her outrage long enough to answer her doorbell. A fellow warrior had come over and the two women greeted each other with a hug. Conversation quickly turned to the latest outrages and insanity being committed in the name of the people.

"What confounds me the most," complained Amelie, "is how anyone can be so delusional. His supporters live in a complete fantasy world and just don't give a damn about what happens to anyone else. It's like a nightmare that never ends. They have absolutely no regard for what is or isn't true. They just make up whatever story they want!"

Her friend was about to reply when she noticed a wadded paper in the trash can. It looked suspiciously familiar.

"Did you get another note from the creep?" Amelie refused to respond. As her friend reached down to fish out the paper Amelie made a lurch forward to stop her but then resigned herself to doing nothing. The note read:

Amelie, I know what I've done is unforgivable and there's no living with me, but I will never be whole without you. I walk as a half-person, fractured by your absence. I cannot survive like this. How could you think otherwise?

The friend sighed knowing the fight she was in for. "You're going to have to face him. You'll never be able to move on until you do. Do you really want to die alone in a Jewish nursing home?"

"Leave me alone. I don't want to hear it."

"You have to hear it! It's been years now. He's dying and it bothers you. I'm not telling you how to resolve it, just that you need to."

"I don't care. I'm not talking or responding to him in any form or fashion and that's final."

"And after he's dead? Then what?"

"He's not dying! He's just saying that!"

"But what if it's true?"

"I don't care what is or is not true! I'm not changing that it's it! Don't you say another word! I'm sticking to my story no matter what."

"Spoken like a true Trumptard..."


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He hears and does not hear; he sees, yet is blind; he knows and is ignorant.

Your Time Is Gonna Come

First they came for the Poor, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not Poor.

Then they came for the Immigrants, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not an Immigrant.

Then they came for the Reporters, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Reporter.

Then they came for the Liberals, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not Liberal.

Then they came for me — and there was no one left to speak for me.

Can we truly say we defeated Germany if we become Germany?

Burning Down The House

She stared into the fireplace with a look of dead tears, frozen by the sight of a pool of endless flames. The dimension of time had vanished. There was no "then", "now", or "ever". Irreversible. A thousand lifetimes and a thousand lifetimes after that wouldn't change a thing. The world has lost its meaning.

Her friend had let herself in the front door of the elite San Francisco mansion. She entered the room unannounced. "You have a fire going?"

No reply.

"Wait, what is it you're burning in there? Those are papers! Why would you burn so many papers?"

No reply.

Her friend sat down having ascertained the seriousness of the situation. This was a death of some sort. The friend sat in fellow silence. Until, finally:

"It's my manuscript..."

"Manuscript? Manuscript of what? I never knew."

The flames crackled, feeding off the permanence of their devouring deed. Her friend didn't like the knot crawling into her stomach.

"I don't get it. Why burn it? Why didn't you ever let me see it? What was it about?"

What did any of that matter now? Those are questions for when times existed. Why doesn't God take her life now? The possibility of meaning is gone.

Her friend settled into the luxury sofa. She felt her questions had been indiscreet but curiosity had gotten the better of her. A book! Who knew? Somehow, the act of watching it burn filled her with a wild desire to read the blackening words, to reach out and grab life from the fire. A camera crew should be here.

Hope is a cruel word. It keeps the toil of impossibility alive long after the certainty of demise. Appearances are for deceiving. Love stays out reach, always calling out, like a drowning victim. The manuscript writer faced the void of her love being a lie. Nothing left to do but eat, sleep, and wait to die.

"It was nothing," she claimed. "A dream you dream alone is just a dream. The illusion is gone."

Her friend watched her free-falling right before her eyes. The mask of success being slowly ripped away, hers was a stolen life and the thief could steal no more. Yes, she had all the signs of success but never success itself.

Her friend felt trite in saying, "But you have everything. This gorgeous house, your wonderful family. You've been married 25 years! Anyone would love to have all that."

It no longer mattered what other people believed of her. What does a thief really own? He has to give it back in the end. Then his true life is exposed.

The friend beside her began to understand. This wasn't a case of trying to cheer someone up. It was a case of a lost dream, a lost life. Money was a dream until her true dream was dead. Now all her prized possessions were mocking her. By seeking praise she lost it. The chickens had come home to roost. pecking her apart.

Her friend struggled for words. What do you say to someone whose life is irredeemably lost? To try and comfort her would be an insult. She'd been secretly living off this writing dream for years apparently, an entire secret life. But now was the time to speak truth to friendship.

"Sometimes the greater danger is in doing nothing."

Do nothing, say nothing, be nothing. Those were cornerstones of her "success". Yes, that behavior is fatal for others - but not for someone whose dream is still alive. The only future now is self-destruction. No more pretending. Just get out.

"It's not me. It's God. God never wanted me to have anything I wanted. So I suffered through the things I didn't want just like a good person should do. Do you know this marriage would have ended years ago had I just done what I wanted? How responsible is it to suppress affairs? I tried to kid myself that I was something more. But how can I be? How can that book have been anything coming from someone hiding in her marriage her whole life? Better to burn it before anyone finds the damning evidence of my self-betrayal."

Suddenly, she was homeless. This house did not belong to her. It belongs to her dream. And that dream was literally a pile of ashes. She was once on the inside, now she's on the outside, doomed to forever wander in empty isolation peering only into the homes of others. She started to scream.

Her friend was helpless. She wanted to say "It will get better" but couldn't muster the hollow words out of her mouth. The screaming turned into full blown hysterics. Inconsolable.

"I'm dying! I'm dying!"

The friend tried to grab her, to give reassurance but the flailing of the arms and legs was too violent. Should she call 911? How far does this go? The agitated woman slipped off the couch onto the floor, the situation spiraling out of control.

911 was called.

As her friend sat on the couch waiting for the paramedics to arrive, she too had a slight epiphany. "I'll be damned. Dreams really are not optional."

Places In The Oasis

"You're never going to win the Mayor's race, you know."

Al was hearing this from everyone. Suddenly, everybody was an expert in politics - and everybody who claimed to be enlightening him did so with a smirk.

"You're just too extreme," lectured Al's executioner. "People have to move to the center. You need to unite people, both the polluters and environmentalists. It makes the polluters feel dumb when you say the environment matters. Stop calling them stupid! Don't you want to win?"

"Don't you want water? How is that an extreme position? You can't take a position based on what sells best. It actually has to tie to reality. Otherwise, why bother? You die anyway."

"Well, the reality is you're never going to win! Stay out there with your fringe element and see what happens!"

Al was unmoved. "I'm not changing my stance one whit."

"That's because it's witless to begin with! Go ahead and lose! See if I care!"

The would-be guru stormed off in a huff. Al thought to himself what he always thought in these situations: "Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is still the truth."

But he was still confused. His opponents were so sure, speaking completely without self-doubt, so matter-of-fact in their approach it made it hard for him to understand how they could be that way if he were, in fact, correct. Al also knew that to be right meant death for every man, woman, and child living in the oasis.

***

It had once been paradise until the Banana Men came to power. No longer were the bananas to be shared and evenly distributed but they must be "earned". "People are horrible, selfish and lazy. This is the only way to prevent that. In blackmail we trust!"

But it turns out those who instituted these new rules in the name of morality were in reality the "horrible, selfish, lazy people" of whom they so loudly chastised. They giggled in their treachery and deceit, gathering up all the bananas to themselves, forcing the worst tasks on those with the fewest bananas while also driving them into the worst parts of the oasis to live.

Stupid is as stupid does. People saw how the Banana Men led lazy and luxurious lives and sought to emulate them, suicidally turning their backs on the egalitarian ways that had sustained them before. A sense of guilt and self-loathing crept in, mistakenly leading them to praise "our new moral system" as a way to compensate in their perverted minds. But that only cemented a growing sense of despair.

But in order to keep the banana system going and growing to reach ever greater heights, the trees were laced with growth enhancement chemicals which then drained into the water, slowly poisoning it. Al made it his platform that this behavior had to stop at once. In vapid response, he was called an anarchist, a traitor, and a destroyer of civilization.

"Al is an alarmist. Sure, we should be doing better of taking care of the oasis. But getting rid of the banana system is not the answer! Griping about it is enough."

Al came in dead last in the voting. Exit voters complained he was "boring", "a buffoon who doesn't understand greed," and "out of touch with reality." No one wanted the party to end and the idea Nature herself would end the party was to provoke a murderous outrage among the oasis dwellers. Their lies were more precious than their lives.

Al's tormentor returned to gloat after the election. "Not so smart now, are ya? Hahaha! Last place! How embarrassing. Everyone's laughing at you. How's life in your fantasy world where you're right and everyone else is wrong?"

"You have put the devil in charge."

"Then praise be to the devil for the devil has come to rule. Show me a man who defies him and I'll show you a fool!"

"Are all your replies going to be in verse? You idiot, the devil will betray you! Tell me how that benefits you."

"Our betrayer is our savior! The devil fights for us! You do not! He doesn't go around criticizing everything like you do. He makes us feel good and says we're doing great, Mr. Negativity. It just shocks and amazes me on what goes through your head on possibly thinking you can win."

"Back at ya. Speaking well of evil doesn't make evil turn out well. I just wish I didn't have to live at the mercy of mindless maniacs and murderous monsters who ruin everything for everyone else."

"You're the monster! You're the maniac! You are the one who wants to ruin everything. If you had more bananas you'd be talking different, yes sir. So don't give me all this high and mighty bullshit. You're no better than anyone else. I'm outta here. I don't have to stand here and be insulted."

"This isn't about me," quietly replied Al to no one.

***

Over time as the wrongness of their path became more and more apparent, the oasis dwellers began to turn on one another in anxious blame. The presence of Al became unbearable and he was lynched in the name of all their woes. Each leader in succession was angrier than the one before as the death rate from the poisonous water skyrocketed. Even the poisoned dead were blamed for "being weak and not favored by God." This continued until there were none.

Years later the oasis was discovered by a caravan. They were astounded to find a people who had voluntarily poisoned their only water supply. "These were a possessed people!" And as such, were despised for all time.

Tending The Dead, Part II

I had seen the error of my ways.

"In life, if you are not growing then you are dying. It's either one or the other with no in between. And I ask you: is there ever a reason why we cannot grow? Never, I say! Never!"

My audience erupted with great applause. I was the new "it" politician, the flavor of the month - hoping to last much longer. I had a firm grasp of the situation and spoke my mind. My diagnosis was spot on and my solutions inarguable.

"We must let go of the past and embrace the future. If not, we'll be led down the garden path to doom. Our hopes and dreams will die, leaving us only to tend the dead."

I knew of what I spoke. My garden is dead. Who am I to speak of life? But no one seemed to notice and I got the love and approval I craved - coin of the realm to us politicos. I had read once that politics is what happens when you stop running your own life and start trying to run everyone else's. I knew it was wrong but I couldn't stop myself. When the applause stopped I was thrown back into the pit of unbearable emptiness. That I could not stand.

"Life stands before us with open arms. Are we to embrace it or fall to our forever ruin? This is not a joke or a game. This is life and death. Love is the future and love is all there is!"

Another applause line. It's true that only love exists and what we see in our daily lives is the insanity of blocking it or perverting its course. But like a tree that blocks water or diverts it away, that can only happen for a time then never again. The dead flowers in my garden can testify to that.

I fear this political journey will not end well. The only way I can keep it alive is with ever greater ambition. After I reach the top I'm finished. On this perverted path I travel I decry every sin I commit, the morality of self-hate. That does well on the campaign.

But what happens when I see those who actually do what I espouse? I hate them. I'm filled with a raging burning envy. They must die! Afterwards, in sobriety, I wonder what kind of monster I really am.

Salvation. Where can it be found? This thought is my constant companion. What do I want? I want to come clean. I wish to tell every believer I'm a fraud whose garden is dead. That my heart is broken. That I betrayed my soul and should keep my ever-loving mouth shut. But if I do that I'll never get elected - and I've already publicly declared myself good.

Everything is the opposite of what is, isn't it? The dead declare the need for life and the living need declare nothing. What law can I pass that will save me? What election can I win that proves I'm a good man? People look at the world around them and say something must done. No doubt. But that something is to heal yourself. To find a way to like yourself after you've let everything you love die.

Ambroz Of The Street Speaks

Ambroz is an impromptu speaker of the street. Unlike a "proper" preacher, he speaks only when moved to do so. This makes his words carry more weight - even with his Czechoslovakian accent. Of course, what matters most is that he knows he's rightly fucked living on the streets. He has no delusions of the world working and his speaking inspires hope that you won't hear anywhere else.

"I don't care what you say in your proverbs. Don't want to hear it! America, all hypocrite money. You see nothing else. You think it make you holy but only make dirty. This I know. This I see. Tell me I'm wrong!"

"Anger in hearts. Very much anger. You say outsiders do you wrong. But insiders do you wrong! Keep to say good things about things you do wrong? This can never work ever. Only make angrier. Tell me I'm wrong!"

"Can't make heart from computer. You say yes but I say no! Worship technology like a religion. But this I tell you: no matter anything else, good hearts make a future, bad hearts make no future. No way around this. Tell me I'm wrong!"

"All your guns won't save you. Make all you want! Make all bombs you want. More you thinking that make you safe more danger you in. Tell me I'm wrong!"

"I can see you pretending. So much pretending! Why think no one can see? Is our Maker fooled? Never! Get your fake friends to pat you on back. Mean nothing! Mean only you die alone. Revelation come to all. Tell me I'm wrong!"

"What is a man without love? He is lost. I hear speaking men on TV. If they had love, no speak the way they do. In truth, their arguments are on why they should be loved. Love me, love me, love me! That only thing these lonely men say. Listen, and you will know. Tell me I'm wrong!"

Tending The Dead

"Dude, them flowers is dead!"

"Mind your own business," I denied, stooped over in the garden that is in every person's life.

"What you wasting your time for?"

"I'm not wasting my time. I've got special fertilizer and nutrients on the way."

"Dude, fertilizer is what you be shoveling!"

"I'm not listening to your negative attitude. Being negative is what got them killed in the first place. Now I've learned my lesson."

"Don't seem to me your learned nothing at all."

"You don't understand. These were once the most beautiful flowers in the world. Beauty the likes of you cannot comprehend."

"Maybe so. But you just be dreaming now."

"I've always been a dreamer."

"OK, you keep on lying to yerself then and see where it gets ya. Makes no matter to me. Just figured you'd have somethin' more important to do with your life."

"Just don't get it, do you, you fucking moron. Do I have to connect the dots for you? Of course I'm tending the dead. Because I obviously did not tend the living."

He's Not A Victim

In order to have hope for a future we must be reasonable and rational. If we are without reason and irrational then there can be no hope. You can't vote your way out of that or pill your way out of that or religion your way out of that. It's simply an inescapable law of Nature. God won't help anyone who thinks otherwise.

But the longing for hope can be overwhelmed by fear and so when we see a monster about whom we can do nothing, we start ascribing human qualities to it so we can then go back into a state of hope - albeit a false hope. So I ask you today to jettison your fear and false hopes and face the beast for what it is: something with which we cannot live.

The beauty of identity politics is that is throws all facts out the window. Make up whatever you want just so long as it justifies me. Sure, I know you're lying, but who cares? It makes me feel good, that's all that matters. Make people feel good and they'll vote for you. Fiction becomes reality (for a time).

The fiction that's been gaining the most steam over the last few years is that the victimizers are the victim and the victims are the victimizer. "How dare all you unarmed darkies get in the way of my bullet and then have the gall to die on me later just to make me look bad! You black bullies!" I could go on but the refrains are endless. Like a gold rush of yore, everyone's climbing all over each other to claim the victim moniker.

So it stands to reason that in this perverse equation, the biggest victimizer claims to be the biggest victim. But our Victimizer-in-Chief is not a victim. Those who support him support him to the degree they believe he is a victim. You hear the halftards say all the time, "Yeah, he does bad things but people are being mean to him." And the full Trumptards justify his deranged behavior fully, granting wholesale absolution. That's how identity politics works in its treachery.

Those without hope love to destroy hope for others. That is the true war we're seeing today. Regardless of what anyone else may choose, the goal is always to preserve the hope within oneself. Do that, and you will defeat the world.

Goupil Papers: I Am The Monster

I'm writing from the high point of hiking trail. No one approach me from here I cannot view. Car half mile away in neighborhood nearby, not in parking lot easy to spot. Cell phone in Faraday bag like always. I'm looking for something. I'm looking for me.

There is something I been afraid to do. In gradual way I been getting closer and now, in my safe spot, I let it happen. For just a moment I stop hating myself. What most strange about this is it feels right thing to do. How can this be? After many terrible things I do, lives I destroyed, I should always be hating myself. Is right thing to do, no? If anyone find out I'm not hating myself, what would they do? What would they say?

So I have to be all alone to let this thing happen. Voice inside me say "Yes!" when I do this. Does the Maker not know what I've done? I have huge urge to let it keep going, to surrender to this feeling and path. But how can I trust it? How can I be deserving of forgiveness and life?? It makes no sense! To never forgive myself is my only hope, yes? Inside me is war.

This liberation also give me something else. I see something I not see before. I stepped through looking glass like I never dare before. That's when I see me through other's eyes. They just see my actions, what I do. They don't hear what I tell myself when I pull the trigger. I feel pity for me, victim of the world, still running from rough docks of my long lost France. I know what you see now: You see a monster.

You are right.

The ones who saw me, who let out death scream when they see what coming, see I have no feeling. I was robot on a mission, angry at life. If my life have no value, no life does. If my dreams mean nothing, no dreams do. But you did not see it that way, did you? You see monster in your midst, a black beast, taking away light and life. This more terrible than I ever fear. I am nightmare. No wonder I destroy all relationships that good.

Maybe this be price for that moment of peace, to see what I was really was. My head say nothing I do can bring people back, that I punish myself for no reason. But if not punishing myself is right thing to do then why tsunami of guilt drowning me when I stop? If punishing myself wrong thing to do shouldn't I feel guilt then??

Yes, I was the monster assassin. I don't know how to live with it. I will probably implode and die in a fit of rage [Editor's note: He does]. I see this now. I didn't see it then. Not ever want to. What would I have done if I had?

But this scare me most of all: Why I so madly stubborn refuse to believe I can have anything good.

Goupil Papers: One Hit Wonder

[Found among the papers of international assassin Goupil after his death by self-inflicted wound.]

Some men not known to history but their historic deeds are. We only know names of assassins we catch. But I wish to chronicle these men who share my profession. I do this even though I feel I have no profession - at least, I don't see assassin as my identity. My identity lost along the way. It start when I leave France then only to find I was running from who I was ever after. As of this writing, I'm still not found.

This story is from 70's era. In this world, hard to know what true but I write this for me and me alone. Maybe this because I feel I Goupil will slip from this earth without being known. The path before me is hidden. I fear what that mean. As this story shows, we live on razor's edge.

Trujillo was regular hit man. Mob guys use him but he not one of them. For special kills mob need outsiders. Trujillo liked being on the outside but he still has pressure of what expected. His target was federal judge. Do that and they will shake the trees to find you until something fall out. Someone somewhere know something. So he didn't want to do this hit but once asked you have to say yes or you become loose end.

Trujillo has panic but gets idea walking New York streets. He sees hobos in park, anonymous men with anonymous lives. They could do anything and no one ever know. Yes, gendarme hate them for being poor but that a good thing. These men don't count. But Trujillo no want to live like bums. So he get idea: get hobo to do killing!

Sound crazy stupid at first but if you think you can see. Hobo does kill, kill hobo, what is left to point to you? Yes, you must be desperate to try that. Setting up another guy cross my mind once or twice. But many things must fall in place for that to work, seem to me. Trujillo starts hanging around park, being a face. He finds a guy. Only God know his name now. Trujillo never tell anyone.

Time was very short. Trujillo plan quick kill in apartment parking garage. Would look like mugger and hobo's body would confuse police. Ten thousand American promised to the hobo. Back then that could change a life, that much. Buy car, start over someplace else. Hobo could get life from death. Trujillo know something else: Bum is homo. Even before killing, this is man who keep secret to himself. Probably shunned by family, living shadow life, perfect.

But Trujillo forget who he is. Assassins always outsider nobodies. We are part of nothing. Hard to remember that as watching families go by knowing that can never be you. It like falling in the air not knowing if you land. You want to be somebody too. I'm sure idiot Trujillo was thinking he finally find bigger loser than him. Gay loser bum everyone scorn and disavow. I can see this appeal. Trujillo play role of authority, the one in charge of person to be throwaway.

But homo hobo still a person. Yes, he spend lifetime learning to hide in shadows and lie. But by staying alive he step outside what others speak of him. If not, he eat a bullet. He become cunning creature answering only to himself. You see, that's psychological advantage assassin has: easy to read others when they follow rules and you do not. But hobo follow even less rules than Trujillo.

So when time come to shoot judge, hobo shoot Trujillo instead. But judge spot him doing this so judge gets it too. That hella mystery for police when bullet from Trujillo gun not match bullet in judge! Later on many years, rat tell cops mob hire Trujillo. Papers never print bullet not match so they know rat telling the truth. No one left to explain third person, though. Hobo take the money and run.

Wish I could say what happened in the end. No one even know how this story come to be told, maybe Trujillo have partner. Story just "known." Hobo killer have makings of great assassin. But I do not think he go that way. I think he go cross country, buy a house and visit parks at night. He discover world not holy and pure as it say and he not worthless like they say. He probably become respectable executive - but always smiling to himself.

But Trujillo is lesson for me. If cop reading this go fuck yourself. I don't want to die by cop hand. I don't think they any better than me. Politicians worse killers of all! Their feet leave ground and they do anything never have to touch down again. Stupid peoples can't see through them mean they just as bad. I had to face these things and it is heavy load. But I always know I'm bad man too, never better than them. And never good enough for one I want.

Napalm Don And Chemical Kim K-I-S-S-I-N-G

SINGAPORE (AP) Two evil perverts met today in what many fools say they believe will lead to lasting peace and goodwill on Earth. "It's better to have evil perverts talking than not talking," claimed one columnist who placed hope in speaking well of evil. Others are not so sure.

The two men found they had much in common. "I truly admire your traitorous treatment of the inferior Puerto Ricans. Making them drink poisoned water was hilarious," guffawed Chemical Kim. Napalm Don admired his companion's open hostility to his enemies by placing them directly into death camps. "I sure do know a bunch of crazy Democrats and lying reporters I'd like to see tortured to death!"

The two maladjusted miscreants warmed to each other in intimate moments of shared desires and deeds, trying to one up the other. "I steal babies right from their arms and then 'lose' them so they can't be found! Am I draining the swamp or what?" boasted Napalm Don. His cohort did one better bragging of causing mass starvation so extreme "people leave their babies out in the open hoping someone will take them who can feed them!" Each congratulated the other on his "disruptive" nature and mutual hatred of mankind.

Both agreed "democracy is for losers" and shared a gentle kiss on the lips to seal the deal. Papers were signed declaring peace will come to the world by making it safe for evil. "We are united in this shared endeavor so that all bad men may come together as one. Praise us for the peace we bring!"

Quietly

Quietly I stepped into her room and quietly I closed the door. She was fast asleep in the night, trusting the world.

What a fool!

She had a gun and a security system and a thousand mental guards - but none of that made her safe from the enemy within.

What a fool!

She needs to be educated to what reality is. She lives in a false paradise, an illusion of her own making. This ignorance can't go on forever. She has to be made aware. Everyone has to become aware.

The end has come. Her lies must die. She must see the light and be forever enlightened.

My lies must die too.

I put my hands around her neck.

Soon she'll know! Wake up! Wake up!

She awakens. Her eyes grow wide with fear and confusion. Ha! Ha! She wonders how this can be happening. She thought she had it all figured out.

You were blind to your own evil!

I'm too strong. She tries to rip my hands away but I have too much of a head start. Despair begins to flood her eyes.

Yes! Yes! Welcome to my nightmare! Feel it! Know it! Live it!

But she can't fully know until she sees death. It's the only way. The light is fading. She's running out of oxygen. Weaker are her death throes. All fighting is futile. Only in that one final moment does she understand.

If only I could live in that moment forever!

At work I quietly sit down at my desk, steaming cup of coffee next to me speaking of normalcy.

I hate this place! I hate acting like I'm not dying, that everything is fine.

No one notices a thing. Well, hardly notices. "You look refreshed this morning. Have an extra good night's sleep?"

"It was killer," the Office Strangler quietly replies. I get a thumbs up as I silently start my daily drowning.

--------------------------------------------------------

Two thousand miles away another man is dreaming of whom he can kill. Not just one, but as many as possible. He too must bring his nightmare to light, the endless agony of the lie.

I have the power to kill!

Those around him worship his evil power, thinking that makes them safe. When news of the Office Strangler comes to light they readily pounce as moral avengers, earning praise from their future victims.

Not everybody counts - thank God!

He has the power to kill and uses it, cutting off aid to a wrecked island in desperate need. He hears the reports and rejoices while strangling a nightly pillow: people forced to drink poisoned water, watching their children die before their eyes, trapped in a nightmare they cannot escape.

If only I could be there to see it with my own eyes!

The Oval Office Strangler eats his morning pop tart in glee watching future victims on TV defend his evil deeds, bringing aid and comfort to the killer, collecting souls on a daily basis, rejoicing as they  shipwreck their lives like his.

Quietly spreads the plague of death. Occasional voices express outrage and alarm but they are quietly dismissed as deranged lunatics by the deranged lunatics. Each day the angel of death quietly grips hearts and minds with silence as its sword. A scared populace knows where this leads but think it's best to keep quiet lest they be accused of treason to the demon.

An entire planet screaming in silence, believing there is no other way.

Why I Shot My Classmates

I don't understand why everyone keeps asking why. It's simple really. There are many reasons and it's always the same.

1. We live in an honest and true world. It's a place of support that values every human life. Money means nothing compared to the welfare of one single person. The world grows more human by the day! They say the world does not have to be perfect for us to survive. So there's nothing to ask of this world it isn't already doing.

2. My future is bright and unlimited. I can do whatever I want. I'll never be trapped in a dead end situation stripping all meaning from life. I am not drowning in raging frustration because I get all the love I need and want. I need never lie to have acceptance. With things this good, I want to live forever!

3. Our God is a good and caring God, looking out for every life. No one receives injustice in his lifetime. God fixes everything. God can do anything so that means I can have no possible problems. I need never feel cut off with God. I'm never abandoned, rejected, or alone. I'm always perfectly fine and to be anything else is unthinkable.

Now tell me, does anyone care to dispute those reasons? Why, I never hear them disputed, not even for a second! Day and night I hear them repeated over and over with everyone nodding his head in assurance. Who am I to doubt the wisdom of so many heroes?? I must keep any disagreement stuffed deep inside or the righteous will shout me down. I learn right and wrong from your anger.

But I'll tell you one thing, if those reasons above are not true, then can you tell me why the fuck I shouldn't shoot anyone?

When one person sins, we all sin.

He Asked Why

I heard a radio guy, Ed Wallace, who likes to talk about the economy and such ask why we don't build roads and other infrastructure like we used to. He quite rightly pointed out that those ancient endeavors paved the way for a rising economy for all. He considers the way we used to function as investing in our future and that's what took us to the top of the economic heap.

I don't disagree with any of that.

Then he said this. "And I don't understand for the life of me why we don't do that anymore." Ed's a smart guy and may or may not understand because the truth is too awful to face. For the simple reason is we don't invest for the future anymore is because we don't believe we have a future. Period.

Most of us are scrambling to get by. A much smaller slice is comfortably bribed and willing to look the other way as long as their lifestyle is not threatened. But those at the very top - who are free to see things the way they are - are the decision makers of how we proceed. They don't have to lie to themselves about what's going on. They realize that greedy people have no future. They realize that in any conspiracy it's the ones who betray it who go down.

So they see no way out but destruction. Why the fuck build roads for that?? Just take what you can get before it's all gone. You can see words to that effect in the emails sent right before the economic collapse of 2008. The world is just the same thing only on a larger scale. We are in our death throes. And for the record, no one who feels he has a future shoots up his school, either.

You can also hear the panic in their voices when they say, "Don't worry! It's been like this before!" Ever see a healthy person OD? Like any addict, as time goes on we forfeit pieces of our lives, we go through a downturn and suffer horribly. This is a warning sign, not a sign to keep on the same road as long as you didn't die! There's not much left to us at this point.

We don't have to live the way we do. We could trust to Nature and throw away all the artificial voodoo of our so-called systems of responsibility. We can give up our wicked ways voluntarily and move away from a greed based society or go through such horrific times we're forever cured of this insanity. And believe you me, the true and final horror has not yet begun to show itself. What we experince now is only the prelude.

Remember this when the angel of doom comes to visit you: let go of the past and embrace the future, because there certainly is one even if not as we currently choose to envision it.

Twisting The Wind

"That fucking fascist!"

"Yeah! Just who the hell does he think he is?"

"Telling us how we should think and act. Fuck that!"

"He'll be telling us how to wipe our asses next!"

"Fucking know-it-all! He's got no right to talk about us like that."

"Too right! 'Do this and do that or bad things will happen to you.'"

"That's fucking blackmail, that is!"

"All I want to do is live my life in peace. That guy is a real troublemaker, stirring up shit."

"Like everyone is supposed to all the sudden fucking change how we live. That's just plain nuts! Not going to happen!"

"He's a conformity king!"

"Exactly fucking right! Handing out mandates that would destroy our way of life. Outrageous!"

"Well, this freedom fighter won't be kept down!"

"I'll fuck up anyone who tries to take my freedom!"

"This is what's wrong with radicals. Nothing's ever good enough for the likes of them. Just want to throw out everything!"

"All I know is I ain't no fucking slave. A man's gotta be a man and stand up for what he believes in. I've worked too hard in my life just to give it all up."

"I'm fighting to the end. I don't care what it costs me down the line. That's just the kind of man I am."

"That fucking loudmouth got no use for anyone what isn't just like he is. Fricking snob."

"I can't stand those egalitarian elitists. Somebody's going to have to shut that dude up."

"Exactly! He's got no fucking idea what's going to happen to him if he keeps on like he is."

"Just can't save some people."

"I'm not even going to waste my time. I don't care what that Jesus dude says, I don't care about anyone but myself."

"Herod/Pilate in 0020! I'll forever fight for the freedom to fuck people!"

Hell

I'm chained in the far end of an old, dirty, dimly lit Asian bathroom with rivers of piss on the floor. Rows of stinky toilets and never wiped urinals on the wall. The men are angry when they use them, speaking a language I can't understand. If I speak they immediately lose control and savagely beat my face as if I'm the source of all their problems and woes with my round eyes and white skin. So I do not speak.

It never ends. I do not even know what's on the outside. I just know the smells and sounds, day after day, draining me into insanity. I must pretend, always pretend, like at a home. Making me pretend is success for them. I cannot cry out. There's no one to hear if I did. What is said on the outside? What do they think of this place? I have no say in it. No say at all. No hope of saying.

I pray for death every day, every hour, every minute. Me or they must die. They refuse to see that. Always pushing, taking, shoving. In their minds madmen have won and life goes on, civilization an illusion to bear. They know what that means but cannot say. If they do, they get savagely beaten in the face. In anger they see profit.

I can't sleep. Breathe too deep the smell and filth invade you inside. Must stay awake, keep short breaths. So tired. More tired than any man alive. I say this can't be my life but it is. Somehow they've agreed I should be in these chains. Futile to argue against them even if I knew the language. Night and day are the same, always the terror blackness. Just on and on. On and on. My mind is gone.