Anyone thinking the storm has passed is not paying attention; near as i can tell there are a lot of people not paying attention - especially those with no storm in their laps, as yet · yet even those knee deep in muck or ash depending on the “fire or ice” in their particular universe are resorting to business as usual and leading with their chins hoping the “market” will recover, progressives secretly pulling for the herd immunity his highness the “stable genius, father to Barron _rump has glommed onto as a foil for further perfidy and mayhem the rubes just seem to gobble up. Makes one wish for the good old days when they just made movies about the “Rainmaker” instead of whole scale slaughter in the wake of “Sturgis Hog Day.” And again it comes down to what night star you are following, and whether or not that illumination is a star, or a stain on the emotional lens through which you perceive your particular corner of the universe.
Of late, i’m coming to the blindingly bright dawn of realization that i’m not the dewey-eyed romantic i over-compensated with using my emotionally starved childhood as foundation for making ignorant decisions about unavailable companions attributing qualities of character fashioned out of whole cloth to satisfy the slightest fantasy of acceptance not unlike growing up in my family of narcissistic predators - i jest, sort of. Any defect i attribute to them, is but a myopic amplification of my own hunger for respect and belonging twisted into some justification for feelings that are my own but that i’m just too fucking scared to deal with in between super Typhoon #9 and the possibly even greater #s 10 & 11 soon to follow - if not this year than next - lucky us ·
I used to be funny, but now i feel like the cartoon character in Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.” My floor is beginning to feel slimy from the crushed ants and the spilled beer from late-in-the-evening denial and the vinegar dripping from my ceiling in an organic attempt to abate the rain induced mold from capitalism’s ultimate product - neglect. Yet all in all, i’m sitting upright, have some wherewithal to do lord knows not what with, and my heart is light enough to crack “wise,” though again it is braggadocio of too much solitude coupled with too much conceit and not enough self awareness to render an accurate description however much i try. I accept, without the guidance of a loving companion or admission to a sangha that embraces freaks such as myself - there is not much left to me, but complaint; try as i might.
I routinely lose track of paragraphs much less trains of thought, i seem only able to discipline an unfortunate indoctrination about attributing to others feelings that are clearly mine own - how fucking embarrassing is that ¿? It would be cool if i remained stout and stalwart, but i’m barely able to navigate a slippery patio without mincing baby steps, and any chauvinistic response i might have had for the wannabe shrews in our midst is now reduced to sniping and simple avoidance of loud and aggressive people, for i have lost most delusions of a gentle ending to my violent life regardless of any sanctimonious efforts on my part to shore up the persona whose wrist i clutch because i fear it would slip out of a hand hold.
And still i try, because that is how i was raised, both mother and father had endured enough adversity in their lives to make every effort to fortify this misbegotten soul to a life of futility, however delusional that sanctuary has become as haven. I would rather have endured 20 lifetimes in which to achieve a single noble fantasy they entertained watching over the gangly loudmouth cyclops they alone had courage to own. They, my parents in the brave conceit of victors from a single war against the fascist incursion and flush with feelings of success as “the greatest generation” lived and live utterly oblivious to the betrayal and subterfuge enacted on their noble “dimes” by the agents for deceit and betrayal “voted” on daily in boardrooms of the barely conscious fascist overlords to achieve what Mein Furer _rumpf has stomped his foot about - this time · putsch by fit of pique, who knew ¿? save maybe those few who can remember the tantrums of Herr Adolf . .. ···
jts 29/10/2020
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
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