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.