Inauguration Day

 

Image result for trump naziThe funeral pyre was lit, not to mourn the lives of those presidents who devoted their lives to serving this country, but to mourn the future. The sun refused to break through that unremitting wall of grey that lurked behind the clouds, something menacing and reverent, as if a storm sat beyond the wall of mortal vision. Life sat in wonder, as the pyres became the only light. Nothing good would come of it. The darkness eased back with a brief glimmer of light, if only to shine from within ourselves, as we must forsake that wall of grey in the sky. It seems immortal, but what can one truly say about immortality? For all we’ve known of the modern era, there is no such thing. Everything passes. Everything has its time, before it goes the way of the dinosaurs.

They brought out two sacrificial virgins, which had been laced with angel dust to make them more submissive. Their minds had been molded from days of sensation, being blessed with everything their hearts might desire. They were given food and drink, sexual depravity, riches for their families that they would never see in this lifetime, all for the show… all for the inauguration.

Grand Wizard Kali Ma brought up the male sacrifice first. They stood him facing the crowd, so they could admire the swift precision of Kali Ma’s knife, as he slit his throat. It was a clean cut, I have to give him that, but my appreciation for this ominous ‘death cult’ that seems to run our country has dwindled beneath a cynical amusement. It all becomes quite boring after a while… I mean… how many times can we really watch a beautiful virgin die before it all becomes… monotonous?

The female sacrifice broke almost immediately after watching her male counterpart. She drifted steadily into the sea of bodies, but was brought back by a few men wearing SS fatigues. They threw her to the ground, denying the obvious urge to rape and plunder, knowing that the ritual of this day was more important than their petty desires. Grand Wizard Kali Ma fell upon her and drove his dagger into her heart. He ripped it out and presented it to her. She took it in her hands for a few seconds, which seemed so impossible, as if her body reached an untouchable state that waited between life and death. It lasted only a few seconds, before the heart fell out of her hands. Grand Wizard Kali Ma was lucky to have caught it before it hit the ground. If it had, the ritual would be ruined and the fate of our nation in peril.

Blood had to be spilled along the red carpet, for which our new overlord would walk. They sprinkled it, as if throwing rice at a wedding. It covered the faces of those in the front row, who looked with vengeful, atavistic senses, lurking, menacing desires to rape and murder. The day… no… the years of struggle to get their master elected, along with all their prayers to their dark and venerable gods had finally paid off. Now was the time to come out of the darkness, because the darkness had shown itself in full. So it goes, as the moon enters a cycle of darkness, which might seem eternal. So it goes, that everything has a need to be returned.

Although we all know the eagle represents the freedom and grace of our nation, it couldn’t be so with this inaugural day. They chose instead a chicken that had been locked up for weeks in a Tyson processing center. Its beak had been cut off, legs broken, body emaciated from disrepair. It was thrown out onto the stage, where it cried out in obvious pain. We don’t speak the language of the chicken, but pain is the one universal tongue that we can all decipher. If only I was a good enough writer to describe the horror and pain in its eyes. It played the most beautiful symphony of cataclysm and death, something that the great gods of old, from Babylon, Sumeria… even deeper, back to days when man prayed to sticks fashioned to represent his ignorance and greed, his hunger to stay alive.

Then… came the blissful moment of revelation, as our new overlord took the stage. He mocked the chicken, as he saw it trembling before him and then stepped on its head. It was his first act as our messiah and it was one of vengeful mercy. He approached the podium and said some things, all of which I could not hear. I heard something far greater, which I thought was coming from the crowd, but was instead coming from the earth. A rift tore itself open and unleashed an unfathomable army of dark monstrosities that claimed to only want to change our healthcare. They promised to give it back, as they ripped out the tongues of all of those who questioned their intentions. They marched into our world and slaughtered everyone in their path. It was truly a terrible day for democracy.

Lost in the shuffle was our new overlord, who had scurried away so fast nobody had a good idea as to where he went. Nobody cared, for as the rift opened, it could not be undone. The army that entered our world could not be denied. This inauguration day had opened something, a can of worms, if you will, that could not be put back. Everything changed. From this day, everything as we know it will be forever changed. It seems terrible right now. The future might hold something different, but it always ends the same. A rift opens. An army of aliens kills us all. Rinse… repeat.

The end.

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Song of the Hill People

Image result for sneakers over power line

Look like crows to me…

Stretching around Partition St and going for miles, passed Central Park and out to Herkimer St is what historians have labeled ‘Land of the Hill People’. Starting at Partition, the streets become narrow and slanted, as this half of the city is constructed on a hill… well, a mountain. In the early seventies, a group of nomads conquered this section of the city, known as the ‘Comanchi Hill Squatters’. They took the south side of Partition by force, invading the Stewarts and forcing out indigenous people that had lived there for generations. From there, they sped along the hill, gathering a brute army that slaughtered hundreds, before the city evacuated to the south. An army had to be called in to monitor the growing strength of this invasion, which amassed so swiftly it could hardly continue with such energy. Military experts could do nothing to save those within the area of Partition to Herkimer St, and thus the hill people either murdered those left behind, enslaved them or used them as a type of broodmare for their rotten genes. Since that fateful time, the hill people have become a staple of this fair city, with their genes being so inter-spliced amidst one another that their DNA can hardly be differentiated between one another. They’ve made this central point of our town their kingdom, which slants at an awkward right angle and forces all who park here to use their emergency brake.

There is a great hymn that these people have preserved over the years, sometimes editing to make their heroes sound that much greater to the ears of their children. It’s an important piece of their history, protecting it from invaders, as the Hill People are oft to do. They don’t take to outsiders with affection. They’ve always been xenophobic to a point where even their neighbors become enemies, if only for a while, before they’re friends again. History is their bond and theirs is full of myth and superstition. There’s this song that has escaped their secrecy, for which plenty have heard. I will share it now. This is the ‘Song of the Hill People’:

Many deeds have bested belly Bibby Bobby Maroo

Who tied together both his strings and gave the world his shoe

Not one to bother ever more to see between his sneakers

and belly slim amidst the mass of unrepentent tweekers

To cringe a toss so delicate betwixt his bloody fingers

That wrapped around those blackened cords with not a twinge of singer

And Billy Bobby broke it down to dance before his rivals

as they cringed with crimson rage and tossed their shoes in piles

For victory had been denied, because of Bobby Maroo

Who tossed, just one, but plenty more, his bloody, busted shoe.

Going through the land of the Hill People, one will see these decorations, shoes tied at the laces, strewn about the power-lines, as a show of respect to Bobby Maroo. Outsiders aren’t welcome for good reason. We can’t possibly understand the complexity of their culture. It would take anthropologists decades to infiltrate and understand the superstitions and religious hierarchies of the Hill People. This seems an impossibility, since the core belief among all Hill People is that if they can’t trust you they can have nothing to do with you. Still, one has to wonder what occurs at night, when they sing these songs, howling at the moon and honoring their dark gods.

Where The Buffalo Roam

Image result for buffalo

Photo of me, circa 1995. I enjoy hay most times, but there’s just something about grass… Oh give me a home… where the buffalo roam…

Over time, I’ve grown accustomed to my cynical interpretations of the world, although I will admit for honesty’s sake that I don’t think it’s the proper way to view the world. Being a cynic is the same as being an optimist, is the same as being a broken clock… you’re likely to be right at least twice in a day. Still, when you see the amount of stupidity and arrogance and brutality it’s just impossible not to cling to your ideals. Most of us need them for comfort. I see the future in blips that my mind tries to decipher. I see a little bit of what I remember from history classes. Repetition is the way of the world. You’ll see a glorious Fourth Reich emerge under the guise of the ‘American Dream’ and that’ll be the end of it. Rome prospered as a Republic. It floundered as an Empire. The era of the Christian empire… we refer to that these days as the ‘Dark Ages’. And, for all my cynicism, I can’t shake the bitter truth that’s chewing on my insides… you know, that vital point where the gut calls out to those who refuse to accept it.

I woke up during a generation that wasn’t accustomed to such harsh realities. We knew the world around us from a twenty-inch television screen. We saw the horror appear between cartoons, when our fathers would flip the channels for a moment, and in this way we were exposed to the densely packed chicanery of the outside world. If anything separated us or made us unique when compared to the generations before it’s that our parents and various consignment of adults seemed to inspire the apathy that would cement our legacy. They wanted us to be less inspired. They wanted us to be comfortable, because they weren’t when they were at our age. We weren’t hippies, although we enjoyed the drug use. We weren’t our harsh conservative counterparts leading impetuous, vulgar crusades against any other forms of reality that might coincide with our belief structures. Simply put… we just were. We saw the worst of both worlds. We saw Columbine, when two teenage boys brought in assault rifles and made their school into a war-zone. We saw Bill Clinton and the amorality that accompanied him, although the macabre demeanor of the entire circus was something all the more vulgar, as those who persecuted him were outed as pederasts and conmen. This is the world that my generation knew. We heard the words of our doom and devastation, but none of it seemed so real as to shake us out of this spell, for which I have no words.

I’ll admit that all the dangers seemed far away. We were a generation that grew up playing as pirates and soldiers, while not knowing that children are age in worlds far away were playing these games for real. Child soldiers, child slaves, child abduction. There was no such thing as ‘a childhood’ in other worlds, where kids our same age were forced to grow up much too fast, while we were allowed to hold onto ours up to the age of… well… I’m thirty-one… so… I think I have a few more years.

If it was one issue… and only one… which is a stretch, as I’m sure you could pick several issues with how our society operates… I think that our culture developed some form of impenetrable, narcissistic wall around us. Our parents, along with various corporate sponsors and conservative, amoral senators, took special care in protecting their children, protecting us, although the harsh realities of the outside world still remained. We maintained a delicate, oblivious nature that continued into adulthood. That’s what I blame. Every generation has a struggle of self, something that would’ve been labeled a ‘spiritual dilemma’ in days of old. Our generation has no spirit. We have no struggle. This is the dilemma. We’ve never been challenged or at least, whenever we’ve been challenged, someone else comes to our aid in miraculous fashion.

The real price of our narcissism is a willingness to allow everything to fall apart, because we think it will illicit a response from a yet to be determined messiah. We’ll let the world fall apart, because we expect a winged figure, not an angel, but superman, batman, whoever, to put all our fears to rest. The problem with this belief is that the rest of the world isn’t in on the joke. Our parents let us believe in monsters for too long, while the rest of the world already knew. We have a lot of catching up to do, but I don’t see it happening. We’re far too cynical. Most likely, we’ll let it all fall apart, because the comfort of our situation has yet to be compromised.

Overcoming this era in our lives, when we’ve been set to such a moderate standard, for which the challenge was never necessary is, in itself, the greatest challenge of our generation. We have plenty of goals, we just have to accept them. We have far more goals than we do limits. We have far more opportunities than we’d like to admit. We have far more chances for greatness than we do possibilities to hide when the nightmare finally asserts control.

Rensselaer Little League

Image result for funny baseballDuality principle is allowed to work even when you don’t take the time to consider it. You don’t have to think about belonging, becoming, existing with the world around you. Every once in a while, the cosmos create a certain blending of delicate harmonies and the world functions as one. It doesn’t have to be made into anything spiritual. It’s just a perfect moment when time, place and opportunity unfold before your eyes to allow a certain unknown reality to unfold.

One of the worst things about revelation is that it can fold back into unreality in a moment’s notice. If you don’t understand it or take the time to think about it, the moment disperses and you’re left with nothing. You might maintain certain illusions about the moment and how it made you feel, but unless you examine and learn from it, you’ll never manifest it in your everyday life… unless luck allows for it, if only one last time.

When I was a kid, I remember having such a moment. It’s amazing and unforgettable, because it’s not just happening to you. It happens to everyone around you. They sense it in some way, but for some it doesn’t register as anything significant. It’s duality principle taking effect, although, it can happen in a flash, and often manifests in the form of chaos. Nobody notices that it’s an organized chaos. We just see the bomb going off, the aftermath, the devastation, but we never catch the essence of what occurred.

The forms that it takes can be the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. For me and for several of us who signed up… it occurred at the Rensselaer Little League. There aren’t as many ‘city-lines’ that divide us… which is to say, people from one part of town don’t hate those on another part of town. Our hatred is individualized. This is what gives it its power. A man can hate another man for any damn reason that he pleases. We’ve all heard horror stories about parents acting more like children during these games. It happened more than I care to remember during my time playing at the Rensselaer Little League. Parents didn’t seem to understand that this was a pointless endeavor. We played in a field that ended a cul de sac, with a crick just behind the outfield fences. Somehow, the parents thought we were playing at Yankee Stadium. They’d bicker among one another, argue with umpires or even manage to call-out other people’s children. Usually when the last thing happened, the parent of the child would get involved and a fight would have to be broken up.

I’m relatively certain that this ‘Parents Behaving Badly’ occurs enough that it could be made into its own reality show. I can’t even begin to try and understand what’s going on in their minds. The point is that instead of bringing us together for an enjoyable time, it was made into something that seemed to bring out the worst in people. It wasn’t every time, but once in a while, some underlying psychosis got the better of them all and just… POOF… our fun time was taken away. Baseball provides for many a scapegoat for the excitement one finds in life, capsulizing it to brief moments, where children steal home or hits his first home run. The Little League that hides within a cul de sac off of Partition provides a place for children of all walks of life to meet, to see that they have something in common with one another, while their parents maintain their cultural bias.

How duality principle presented itself to me can be explained by the clever adage, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’. The hatred in this town performed two amazing feats of mental gymnastics when the summer came on and a few of us made the ‘All-Star League’, which brought other teams to our field at the end of a cul de sac. The first amazing feat of our hatred was to bring us together. Our hatred became infectious, spreading throughout the parents and bringing them together in order to form a united front against the parents and children of the opposing teams. It wasn’t a good things. I know this, but it happened. You could see people who always hated one another working together to act like fools and bicker about how the other teams were getting all the good breaks, good calls, good things overall. In this respect, the second mental gymnastic that formed this day out of duality principle is that our people understood the necessity of a decent scapegoat. The parents and people who came to enjoy the game found something special in berating the outsiders that came to the end of our cul de sac. There was a real feeling that we lived in a place close to ‘Thunderdome’, where two teams enter and just one could leave. We never put together the reality… THEY were the ones that get to leave. It didn’t matter. We were full of a sense of pride for where we were, brought on by these foreign invaders with nicer uniforms. That never mattered. We didn’t want to be them. We wanted… well… who the hell knows.

Duality principle didn’t last too long in those trying times and god knows nobody learned anything from the moment that we had. I was too young to understand the significance and even now, several years down the road, all I can see is the blurry memories of losing a summer because baseball felt like the sport that would never end. The duality of it is this… we can walk around or bump into each other. We can bump into each other and pick each other up or knock ourselves out into space. We can crash and put each other together or pull one another apart. That’s what I learned in between watching parents act worse than kids and trying to figure out why the god damn summer league would never, ever end.

Embrace of Calliope

Image result for love jokeOur town isn’t known for much. It’s rare for us to get in the papers and when we do, it’s more likely for something terrible that will bring us great shame. After a while, you just sort of become numb to it. You laugh it off, not to laugh at yourself, but laugh at the regular humiliation of your people. It’s kinda like being a Cleveland Browns fan… for which I offer my deepest sympathies.

On the day in question, when we received our deepest veneration from the world, it took the death of two of our greatest patrons, Calliope the Immortal and Eseferon the Great. Their story was something that brought hope to the world, but their ending was what caught people’s attention. They died in each other’s arms. It was a beautiful moment, so much so that someone even took a picture and, someone even more morbid had it framed. It stood in our local library for a few days, before it appeared distasteful to some and had to be removed.

Now, what came as an even greater surprise and helped create a mythology about their love was that Eseferon the Great somewhat predicted their deaths. I don’t think he predicted it as much as hoped. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep forever in her arms. Eseferon the Great told the world that he had cancer, stricken limbs with rigor before his death, pulsing pains here and there, but, so it goes, when Calliope moved her hands over his body he felt nothing more. He claimed to have a sore on his neck, but when she touched it the pain dispersed. He believed himself to have something terrible lurking in his sides, but with a gentle caress she made the pain go away. He claimed that her touch held mystical powers. He claimed that when he was around her he felt no more pain.

This was something he said over and over again. For years, he’d admit to believing that she had something special that he couldn’t put his finger on, although it was her love that truly drove him to feel better. Calliope the Immortal I never saw a picture of in her younger days, although she maintained an undeniable beauty in her declining years. She appeared above the fatigue of death, doom and old age. People thought they were both crazy, because Calliope never had a job and all she ever seemed to do was walk around. It was something to see, however, as if we had a guardian angel roaming the streets without concern. It almost seemed as if we should also live without concern. She’d walk through our Riverfront Park and disappear under the bridge, only to return, same upright stance, same graceful walk, as if above water.

The coroners said there was nothing wrong with Eseferon, although he was always the hypochondriac, but I’m sure he’d assume his lack of distress on his loving partner. Calliope called them back. Her gift must’ve run out. Either way, I believe they knew their time was running out. She’d held him together for so long. What do you do when you have no time left? They returned to what brought them here in the first place. They did what they loved to do.

Sic

ether

A favorite watercolor painting of mine, “Hotei to the Light”.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”                                                                -Kurt Vonnegut

The one thing I’ve been asking myself since I started this blog is whether you people deserve the entire truth or a little bit with bullshit laced in or the pure, unadulterated lie that I’ve come to believe. I still don’t know the answer. I’ve given up trying to predict people’s movements and patterns. I’ve tried. I’m sure there’s some formation that comes from it all, but human behavior, even explained for an eight year old to understand, still manages to baffle me to no end. I’d hate to say that I hate humanity, because that’s the truth, at least how I’ve come to believe it. That answer is at least the truth I tell myself. The real truth is that I hate what we pretend to be. We’re scared children acting like we’re not still afraid of the dark. We’re witch doctors looking for miracle cures in chicken entrails, claiming to possess the meaning of life. We’re shepherds, each in our own right, leading other shepherds, while none of us know where we’re going. I’ve long-since given up trying to understand the fear, the terror, the unremitting danger lurking in our hearts. The more you look the less you see. That’s the fear. We’re petrified that if we look deep enough into the human soul we’ll realize that, in all the emptiness of the cosmos, as it is within our own hearts… simply put, there’s nothing there.

A Mild Case of Pedophilia


On Broadway in Albany, there’s this perfect spot for photos in front of our Capital Building. It’s down hill from the building, but the angle of the street is so perfect to frame a person and the building. The building sits so perfectly atop the hill it’s almost picturesque, as if maybe someone planned it. People seem infatuated with getting their photos right, when in reality you can’t take a bad photo. I love watching them pose in front of it or standing there trying to frame the angles of light, capturing space-time, before they lose the moment.

It’s the perfect spot for a photo or for other occurrences that are even more profound and life-altering. On this day, two women with four of their children framed their perfect photo. They shoved their children together in front of the Capital Building, until a nice fella walked up and asked if he could take a photo. Note: he didn’t say, “can I help?” He asked to take a photo. The women said ‘sure’ and even thanked the man, who then proceeded to snap photos of their kids… Anyway, the women stood horrified, watching as the man snapped a few photos of their kids and then politely thanked them. After that, he was gone… like a demon’s whisper. I held back laughter, as I also felt the more plausible disgust, so I went with that. The man walked out of sight, out of mind. People came up to the women and asked if that guy just did… what he did. It was all a memory by now, as the women gathered their children and walked off. They never did get their photo…

The Baby Pool of East Saharan Africa


Alas, our poor summer is reaching its end! Loathsome fall will have its day, but for the moment, the sun can play!

When the desperation of the summer months hits hardest, the animals flock to the watering holes, where they can socialize and relax without the fear of dehydration. It becomes a social ground, where the wild buffalo can ingratiate themselves with giraffes and boars. The wide array of diverse creatures bring their children to enjoy the weather. They frolic and make friends well into the summer months, before the inevitable comes and they’re forced back to school. When the months follow toward the end of summer is when you get the sense of impending danger. The chances of an attack become even more, as predators get desperate and plot their attacks, before Fall hits and covers their tracks.

The watering hole loses its luster. The animals notice the water dissipating with every passing day. They realize that the water is going, because so many have come together. Those that they’ve learned to appreciate they come to despise. It’s all about who’s to blame, instead of who could help. It does a number on the group, effectively destroying it in the name of instinct and survival.

With the group in tatters, it comes to the predators to weed out the weak. Predators circle around the perimeter of chain-link, being sure to keep an eye on the prey for which they would steal away from this place, while making their sight imperceptible. The point is not to know. No one can know; they all have to think they’re the next victim. It helps to ensure that the group never becomes one ever again. Fear has a way of making you into what it wants, if you let it. Everyone sees him, no matter how clever or deceptive he believes himself to be.

They know he’ll strike, but when he does it’s as unpredictable as lightning. When he fades off into the bushes, it’s like lightning fading into the clouds. Nobody realizes that he’s done it, until a young child has been taken. They all look around, wondering what evil has been perpetrated. Only one family has suffered this time. There’s nothing they can do about it. Loss is loss. The group comes together to honor their loss. They pay tribute, bringing what little they have of the harvest. They provide shelter and warmth. They keep this group together, because there’s so little comfort in this world.

As for the cycle, so it goes…

ShitHouse Scripture

Image result for bathroom graffiti artThe world is littered… polluted with untold beauty. Society is full of morose, psychotic… compassionate people. These are the people who hide… lurk within the crevices… in plain sight. The sociopath. It’s levels far below that of a man who kills thirty or forty people with a sniper rifle. Still, it’s a level of antisocial behavior that we’ve yet to comprehend. We see it. We write it off as another wacko and we go about our day. It’s there for our thorough examination, yet the more you sit and question the further down the rabbit hole you go. Understanding the mind of a person who does this… just wondering why can leave you drained. Why does someone… draw this? There is no reason. There is no statement. It just is. That’s all we know. The artist could’ve had some meaning behind his creation, but he never blessed us with the answers. It’s the same with life: God never gave anyone a manual. Our understanding comes to nothing.

I’ve come to the conclusion that art doesn’t belong in any gallery. It doesn’t belong in the Louvre or the Met. It belongs in the streets and, of course… in the public restrooms. You can’t confine it. Art isn’t about restrictions. Art is happening everywhere and at every moment… even when you’re dropping a deuce! Now, I know what you’re thinking. Yes, there is always the imminent threat of marauders overthrowing everything we’ve worked

to create and burning all that we deem beautiful. It’s happened before, like with the Image result for bathroom graffiti artburning of the great library in Alexandria. The works that weren’t destroyed were stolen, priceless artifacts lost to time all because someone really enjoyed Homer’s Lost Tales. It’s our natural impulse to steal what is beautiful; to want it for ourselves, but we have to learn to ignore this vulgar ideology. We have to appreciate art for what it is; an everyday struggle to see what is inherently beautiful in the mundane.

In such a world, art seems almost defenseless. It’s a matter of perception. How many textbooks have you opened to a girl with her mouth opened wide… and a dick just waiting by her ears? And did you know there’s graffiti on the pyramids? We haven’t been able to get through any ‘Age of Man’ without leaving our stamp, our pollution, leaving just a hint that we were here. Hagia Sophia, one of the greatest achievements of the Byzantine Empire was ‘tagged’ by some marauder whose name is still there… TO THIS DAY! Good for him… I mean… his artwork lasted longer than the empire!

Shopping for art is another big waste of time. Art is everywhere and you’ve wasted your money. You can be walking along and just out of some divine miracle be struck by creativity. You just find the nearest bathroom stall and ‘POOF’ there it is, nestled safely within the secure confines of a bathroom stall at my local library. I found something not quite as profound as the drawing at the top-left, but it still made me question the laws that regulate reality. What is sacred, when anyone in the world can draw… whatever this is (I think it’s a masterpiece) and leave it to rot on the walls of a room that people hope to flee from in a matter of minutes.

How could the Vincent Van Gogh of our time leave this masterpiece? Doesn’t he feel anything for his creation, or is it more sacred to leave your work for the world to enjoy. Is the artist forever doomed to let his creation go, as the bird with his broken wing is meant to fly away, even if you nurture it, this bird is born free and owes you nothing. Makin’ me think… Well, played… shithouse Vincent Van Gogh… well played.

My belief, this one took either many different trips to the shitter by the same artist, or a concession of many artists working in tandem. Shit after shit, hour by hour… they came to a masterpiece that they could forever be proud of, and God bless them for their sacrifice. Usually when I have a large enough poop that I have the time to draw such an intricate painting I have not the patience, but such is what separates the artist from the peasant. The drawing that has brought this masterpiece to my attention, was not in the same vein, but it was special nevertheless. It was a drawing in pen of the female body, but drawn with the clumsiness of a child who had yet to see one. He had a crude interpretation of what it was, this elusive female figure, making the breasts ‘ginormous’ and the rest of her thin enough that the girl would topple over if she was real. She had no feet, which made me feel bad, since she could never run away from this hell, but she had clown hands, which are hands that are much too massive for any decent human being. They seemed to be inflating by the minute, and I had a brief hope that the poor girl would explode. Luckily, when I came back to take a picture some horrible barbarian had painted over it.

The proof is within my warped mind… anyway, there was a deep incision where her legs joined together; it wasn’t where the vagina should be, but further up, perhaps around the section that should have been her belly button. It was the mighty eye of Ra, like the eye of an octopus… the vagina is a terrifying creature, as elusive as the mighty Kutulu beast. What was worse, the poor girl was made to smile through this entire endeavor, forever forced to watch adolescents poop and mock her deformities.

Construction deadlines are unreliable… I’ll need to speak to the foreman.

The restroom is the nexus where all art is made. The real geniuses are hiding out, pooping in dark alleys… they are the dark knights! Imagine a man who was forced to hold on to such negativity. Holding onto such a painful story, such powerful art could tear a man to pieces… even though it would depend on what he ate, or how much time he might have. His art might kill him in the end… better to have a place like the shitter to let it go. People need a place to just let things go; some people find an outlet in sex, or drugs, or respectable creativity, but who’s to say which is right? If a man can hold something sacred, something that keeps him from creating a terrible Kutulu monster and destroying the world, then that is the greatest gift to the world. He has found an outlet, his gift to the world is finding his niche, of making his way through life without being driven insane.

Tears

Image result for hoteiBack in high school, I forgot how I laughed. I remembered how to, but how I laughed… I couldn’t do it. I remember very clearly one day just realizing I wasn’t laughing the same. It hit me with such surprise. I remember thinking, ‘holy shit! This isn’t how I laugh’, but I had no way of figuring out my old laugh.

I don’t remember being too depressed at the time. I mean sure, I was depressed, because it was high school, but it was that simple ‘high school depression’. You just hate being there. You’re bored and that feels like depression. It gets worse the older you get, trust me. No, this was something more severe… perhaps dementia. Any answers, I will gladly consider.

I couldn’t bring it up to people at the time. It didn’t seem like a big deal. Now, looking back, I realized how fucked up it is… just losing this integral part of your personality. Your laugh and laughter can define you. People can acknowledge it over time, like ‘yes, I know he was there, because we all laughed at the same thing’… not anymore. I felt bland. I felt like I became lost in the crowd of other people’s laughter. I had to adapt. I assumed other people’s sounds and laughed as they did. Now, as I look back, I realize I never got the joke.

This was before the time when everything was on Youtube… I have no way of finding out how it sounded. I could ask people, but if they showed me it just wouldn’t sound the same. I had to adapt. For a while, I didn’t laugh. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried not laughing, especially when it’s all you want to do, but it actually hurts. You physically and spiritually feel pain. I felt a pain in my stomach from holding in laughter and this necessary expression of joy rotted inside me. That wouldn’t work, so I decided to steal other people’s laughs. I mimicked a good laugh and stuck with it. I have it to this day, but it’s not the same.

I’m not sure what to do? How do I get fixed? Have I gone insane? Somebody help? Has this ever happened to any of you?

I’ve assumed to this point that I have an acute form of dementia. How such a vital bit of information could be lost is beyond me. I don’t think it happened over the span of a day. Just… one day… I forgot. Help out. I provided a picture of Hotei, a happy, fat bastard who always laughs, because it would seem right that the struggle to be happy like him means figuring out how to laugh. I lost part of myself. Part of the struggle is finding it. I wonder if Hotei ever had to mimic other people’s laughter. Imagine blending into a crowd because you’re not sure how you need to sound. Hotei can’t blend in… he’s too fat and happy. When you blend in you forget yourself. Somewhere along the line I forgot myself.