on the potential of being bipolar

After months of strange and seemingly irrational mood-swings, I decided to take it upon myself to research bipolar disorder as it's been known to run in my family. After taking some non-descript online quiz offered by a psychological center in some far off corner of the United States and being informed that I seem to fit the bill.. at least at this point in my life.. for moderate to severe symptoms of the disorder, I decided I’d do a bit of descriptive research and see what said symptoms imply. 

Almost immediately I was struck by how generally this ‘disorder’ was described; episodes of intense elation or, conversely, of rock-bottom depression… but what really piqued my skepticism was the description of the ‘hypomanic episode,’ described as “a mild to moderate level of elevated mood, characterized by optimism, pressure of speech and activity, and decreased need for sleep. Generally, hypomania does not inhibit functioning as mania does.” Reading on further: “What might be called a "hypomanic event", if not accompanied by depressive episodes, is often not deemed as problematic, unless the mood changes are uncontrollable, volatile or mercurial. If left untreated, an episode of hypomania can last anywhere from a few days to several years.” 

How, by any measure, could someone even venture to describe several years of general emotional well-being as the result of some mental offset? All emotions are being pathologized in the modern world to the point that an effect is made of creating said mental disorders through a ‘nacebo effect’ (the opposite of the ‘placebo’). The fact that years upon years of happiness can be described as a tame insanity is near-irrefutable proof of this. Perhaps my issues are simply the result of a subconscious belief in the authority of the Western psychologist. No matter how far I try to claw from their influence, it seems ingrained in my head as a matter of course. As I try to escape, I am further flushed into their categories as a safe-haven to protect myself and others from responsibility and, as such, mental sovereignty.

P.O. Box 222

Patter sat as silent as an iron girder.

Noisy when he moved.

His laptop clicked and clacked away as he swathed his fingers upon the keyboard.
He was an extension of the mainframe as far as the ambiance to be heard from the next room was concerned. His sister was fast asleep.

She was always sleeping.

The last time he had spoken to her was 3 years ago when she had awoken to make them both breakfast; smiling, speaking of how great 'last night' was.. the board games.. visiting grandparents.. ah, what a Christmas eve!

But that had been 4 years prior. When she fell asleep that night, Patter assumed her dead.

He would check on her every half-day to make sure she wasn't rotting.

And she was never, ever rotting.

She was breathing.

In his determination to remain by his sisters side, he had enveloped himself in the 2 dimensions of the computer screen to the point that reality.. the 3rd dimension.. became a surreal trip with a strange depth to it he was no longer used too. It was a trigger for panic attacks, so he would only brave the 3rd dimension in search of food, water, and coffee.

He often fell asleep at his desk.

Patter had always been a fan of travelling or at the very least the idea of travelling.. seeing it as a romantic endeavor beyond the hallow point of a single geographic locale.
He often dreamed of walking the length of the Amalfi Coast in Italy.. visiting adonis street vendors in Positano or admiring the quaint picturesque of tiny Roman scooters parked on the sweet cobbled beige of Sorrento.. but the third dimension had become a frightening and surreal place for him to reside.. and besides, The Screen was always grander and more crystalline than the stuffy business of packing bags and flying from one side of the planet to another in an aluminum coffin suspended in the exalted puff of God's annulled cigarette.

It was closing in on 4 AM now. The distant star of the street light down the road peaking its way through his slightly-ajar blackout curtains caused his heart to skip a beat, so he was quick to shuffle to his feet and set the curtain right so the outside world would remain the 'outside' world.

Over the course of the last 3 years, Patter had become intensely infatuated with political geography.
Sometimes he wished he had friends or his sister would wake from her slumber simply to quiz him on world capitals so he could brazenly show what he knew.

He assumed his sister would be up for breakfast within the next 8 to 12 months, and from his online study of the cosmos he figured that wasn't too long in the big scheme of things.

In fact, it was probably .0001% to the power of 10 of a quarter of a blink on God's part.

Perhaps it was less.

Within half an hour, Patter could feel himself fading. His head began to lull forward until, eventually, he blacked into sleep, neck craned in an awkward jam.

- - -

His dreams were a strange collage of fire and brimstone.

Hellish in the most stereotypical of ways.

He saw an image of himself entering his sisters room.
Leaning forward, he takes her pulse. It's steady.

Steady.

Steady.

Stop.

Shocked, Patter leaps up, screaming manically; screaming at the wall. Screaming at the floor.
Screaming at a stock image of Satan marching through the door to laugh straight to his face.

"And that," Satan spat between chuckles, "is a show!"

Patter swung madly at Satan's nose.
His every punch threw itself through his holographic mist and the devils laughter became louder and louder and louder until tears began to stream down his cheeks and his head warped into a magnificent balloon of hateful spite and.. pop.. 

He was gone.

Patter collapsed to the floor. He gave himself a few moments to simply breathe.. heave.. heave..

Eventually, he clamored back to his feet and limped dejectedly over to his sisters static body.

He took her pulse in one last desperate gasp and..

Steady. 

A cold chill of relief dripped through his body. She was alive.

"And that," a deep, stone voice bellows from behind him.

Patter swings himself around and sees a stock image of God gliding through the door..

"is a show."

pop

Sentence over.. the image snatches away into thin air.

"P.. Patter?" 
A whisper barely distinguishable from the cold breeze wafting through the room flows from the lips of his sleeping sister.

Patter turns to her.

"Matilda?"

"P.. Patter.. you need to leave this place.."

"What do you mean?"

"You need to leave this place and brave the 3rd dimension.. follow your dreams.."

A stock sentiment.

"What dreams, Matilda? I can't leave you."

"Your dreams of travelling.. please, Patter.. I won't be up for breakfast for another 12 months. You have time.. you have time to see the world"

"There is nothing for me in the 3rd dimension but a heavy heart and death."

"Think of the sights, Patter! Think of the smells!"

"What sights? Matilda.. please.."

"The great Golden Gate bridge of San Francisco.. the influenza syringe of the Space Needle.. the wide open tundras of Siberia.. the crowded squares of Beijing.."

"Matilda.."

"The statues of Lenin crawled with ivy.. the great painted skies of St. Paul's Cathedral.. the beaches of Normandy.."

Patter ceased interrupting. He slouched himself awkwardly next to her bed and listened patiently.

"The quaint picturesque of tiny Roman scooters parked on the sweet cobbled beige of Sorrento.. the smell of fresh strawberry shampoo in a French girls hair.. the soft blanket of snow atop the distant Himalaya.."

for what felt like days, Matilda continued to speak of what Patter would see.. of what Patter would taste.. of what Patter would touch.. of what Patter would smell.. and eventually..

Patter nodded awake.

- - -

His room was hollow and dark.

His eyes adjusted uncomfortably to the blackness around him and, like some psychedelic vision, depth perception invaded his sight and he tumbled his way off the floor to find his computer.

The only light was the blink of his laptop's sleep indicator.. and looking from the blinking light towards the bed he never slept in, he began to wonder how he had ended up on the floor.

Something hot and sticky clung to the soles of his feet. He clicked the space-bar and, reassured by the bright light of a booting screen, he leaned down and felt the hardwood below him.

It was his sweat.

Like a pool of blood spilled from a jab of fear, Patter uncomfortably stepped away from the mess he'd made  and back into the seat at his desk.

His fingers once again began to swath themselves upon the keyboard as he tried to forget the dream he'd just had.

And then he remembered his sister.

Bolting upwards from his seat, he knocked the chair to the ground as he dove for the light-switch near the entrance to his room. It flashed on like a bolt of lightening, causing Patter to waiver a moment in shock as the door slammed itself against the wall and he dragged himself into the hallway.

Hitting the hallway light was another strike of death to the eye. He clamored again as he quite literally ripped Matilda's door from its hinges and into the wall behind him.

For some reason, things began to shake and slow as he fought an invisible current, dragging himself forwards towards his sprawled sisters body.

He was like a child, dragging his feet.

Like a child, like a child, like a child.

The current was too powerful. He collapsed forward clasping his chest on the floor.

Winded, Patter began using his arms to propel himself onward.

He staggered to make grip with the dirty mattress and once he did, he hauled himself upwards and immediately grasped his sisters wrist to check her pulse.

No pulse.

Shocked, Patter leaped up, screaming manically; screaming at the wall. Screaming at the floor.
Screaming at the..

there is a note crunched within her pale, dead fingers.

A rancid odor wafts through the room and Patter knows now she is rotting.

He pries at her stiff tenure and unfolds the crunched paper.

P.O. Box 222

an ode to hampered indifference

in the wind of a slight canyon

the water of a displaced ocean lost at land finds promise

as wax during a power-outage

and light empty in no sun-up or sun-down

winds itself onward into cavernous evil.

fools of the America

fools are a prince.

fools of the Europe

fools are a prince.

and why ask if in asking one receives?

had you asked in time for the last supper

you may have afforded a bite

as Christ and Peter ate you whole.

fools of the Australia

fools are a prince.

fools of the Asia

fools are a prince.

Patter began to shiver of fear and confusion as he read the small post-script his sister had written at the very bottom of the page.

The quaint picturesque of tiny Roman scooters parked on the sweet cobbled beige of Sorrento

dream of a certain

pitter-Patter.

He looked to his sister once more and began to weep uncontrollably. He sunk to the ground beside her bed.. until eventually..

Patter nodded awake.

- - -

Patter's neck cracked as he jaunted into consciousness at his desk. Before he could help it, his chair fell backwards and his head bounced violently off the floor.

Writhing in pain and retreating into the fetal position, Patter regained his sense of space and time and hoisted himself slowly back to his feet, still gently caressing the back of his head as if to massage it into the shape of a skull. 

All of a sudden, a primal rage began to pulse through his caffeine-constricted veins unsure of whether or not he was simply dreaming away and awake and in his anger, swinging his fists in the air as if still to punch the holographic mist of the laughing stock devil and, before he realized exactly what he was doing, his knuckles drove straight into the glassy gaze of his computer screen. 

The laptop LED began to bleed a bruised purple as the glass shattered in a fantastic array of electric blue and the computer itself jerked backwards, flipping itself to the ground as if Patter had broken a human spine. 

Patter heaved 3 anguished sighs.

3.5.  

At that moment he knew it was time to leave the crystalline perfection of The Screen behind.

- - -

Heart racing and head aching, Patter stammered slowly down the one-way street beyond his home. 

Everything was glowing with a conceited realism he couldn't digest.

The star of the streetlight at the end of his road became brighter and brighter and brighter until suddenly, as he got close enough, it's light began to fade into oncoming darkness and through the threatening pink of the dawn sky, he understood the star had been dead for as long as he had lived and all he had ever really seen was the light of an older generation.

A light under which his father may have kissed his first love, or his grandmother may have walked past as she strolled with a teenage grandfather, coyly dispersing herself into nervous giggles as grandpa made obvious reference to copulation in his suave 30's accent. 

The light he had fearfully observed as a beacon of 3rd dimensional existence was not his existence and in the approaching chill of predawn, Patter recited the lines.. "in the wind of a slight canyon, the water of a displaced ocean lost at land, finds promise as wax during a power-outage, and light empty in no sun-up or sun-down, winds itself onward into cavernous evil."

and then he whispered to the quickening breeze, hoping the words would laxly drift their way home..

"Matilda."

As his steps progressed like a piano concerto deeper and deeper into the light-bulb of the unknown, the street began to fade into decay and disrepair until eventually, it was nothing but a cracked desert below his feet.

It wasn't a burn, or a freeze.. just a warm chill that worked its way through his sleeves.

He stopped for a moment to gaze backwards towards home, and laughed insanity when he saw that, not only did the street disappear, but his home no longer seemed to exist.

It was simply nowhere.

He stopped laughing abruptly, like a *STOP* placed in the middle of a long run-on sentence, and all that surrounded him was a moving silence and winded dust.

Blissfully obtuse.
The horizon was freezing in the distance. His perception screamed in fear with every single step, but he managed to cuddle the anxiety like an accident child he was obliged to love.

Wiping the sweat from the palms of his hands like discarded bleeding, he rummaged through his small black backpack and pulled out an old, broken Samsung pay-and-talk he had received for his 13th birthday. The delicate wiggle of broken prose and scratched screen sunk into the further deserted backdrop beyond.

Redundantly he pressed and held his finger on the 'end' key for several seconds, expecting what he knew would not occur.
When the phone refused the jolt to attention, he grappled through his pocket for something to write with. There was a bobby-pin floating in the mist of lint at the bottom of his bag. Gently grasping it by the sharp end, he slowly and surgically moved it into the light. Looking to his scratched screen, he began to chip away at it.

"I can't forget. I can't forget. I can't forget."

Like the morning mantra of a Buddhist sage, he chanted as he carved his words into the phone like a new-age Stonehenge notebook.

P
O

BOX

2 2 2

Whatever significance. Whatever it wanted.

A Hectic Life and Times (with your host, Kyran Paterson-King).

Aloha, blue planet.

It's been a very long time. So long, in fact, that I have moved out of my mothers house and into an apartment in the dead-center of the Powell River 'downtown core' with a couple friends of mine since I last graced the blogging world with my presence.

I've kind of fallen out of attempting to iterate everything in my life via the blogspot written word, so I'll really only tell you what I'm about to get up to and why I have decided to finally do a write-up now rather than prior or later.

I've got a bit of a cold, and technically, I should be sitting in my Criminology class seeing as I'll be missing three weeks due to my departure to Europe this approaching Tuesday!!!@@&$@$!!! but I've decided to get my most important chores for the day out of the way early before this cold saps all of my energy by 4 o'clock and I have to drag myself to my last 4 hour shift at work before I leave.

In this case, the chore I'm going to have done for today is the photocopying of important travel documents at the library just down the street from my apartment. Just so, you know, if someone robs me of my passport or it slips out on some train in Toulouse I won't be without a confirmed identity. And I won't have to wait a month or so until the Canadian Embassy is Paris can finally take the time out of its afternoon coffee and donuts to print me off a new one.

I am getting increasingly excited, but I'm really hoping that this cold subsides, at least for the most part, before I leave (so, preferably this weekend if you're listening Mother Nature).
The only thing (or, rather, person) I leave behind is my girlfriend who, regrettably, will not be accompanying me seeing as we met long after all these travel plans had already been well established. I'll be gone for 3 weeks, which isn't an obscene amount of time... but as I know from her week-long trip to Mexico last month... even 7 days is a long time when you're in love.

I feel very blessed to have a reason to look forward to coming back, however. 3 or 4 months ago, I would have seriously considered missing my flight out and beatnik scrounging my way through Europe until they finally decided to deport me. If she's reading this she can know that I'm coming back for her, and not for Powell River.

Anyways, I'm assuming you're all curious as to where exactly I'll be going in Europe. The rough and general itinerary is as follows:
On the morning on Monday, March 18th, I'll be picked up by my father, step-mother, and brother at my apartment at around 6 AM in the morning. We'll spend the morning driving down to Vancouver, where we'll be spending the afternoon before staying at a hotel overnight.
The next day, March 19th, will be similar. I'm assuming we'll spend it tying up any loose travel-ends, purchasing anything we neglected or remembered prior to leaving Powell River, and doing a bit of last-minute adventuring in the city before we catch our plane out at 8 PM.
It's an 8 hourish or so flight, so we'll be flying into Gatwick Airport in London around 11:45 AM on the 20th of March (Western European time). From there, we'll be getting picked up by family at the airport and brought to their hometown (and the town my father was born and raised in until the age of 12) of Canterbury, Kent.
We'll be setting up a sort of 'base-camp' there.

From here, it turns into a little bit of an improv where we're not quite sure where we're going to end up first.
We plan on spending at least a night or 2 in London, and renting a car to drive to Wales to visit some of my step-mothers family in the area and just generally partake in a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. We plan, also, if time permits, the drive from there to Liverpool (although this is a wildcard no ones completely sure of quite yet).

And I, between the 27th and 29th of March, will be leaving my family behind for a couple of weeks to catch a ferry from Dover to Bruges in Belgium to start my solo adventure on the mainland. From Bruges, I'll be catching a train to Paris, where I hope to see one of my favorite bands live, although we'll see how timing plays out.
From Paris, I'll be hopping across to Avignon for a couple of nights, and from Avignon I have to navigate the complicated procedure of finding my way to Barcelona.

I hope to spend a good chunk of time in Barcelona.. at the least, 2 nights.. but my charter flight back to London departs on the evening of April 8th from Saragossa so regardless of when I arrive in Barcelona, I need to be near my departure location at the right time.

After leaving Barcelona for Saragossa, I catch my charter flight back to London, and from London I'll meet with my family and head back to Vancouver on the morning of April 9th.

And there you have it, folks. I'm late for class so I'll keep all y'all updated as best I can.

Preview of "Anarcho-Tantric Hedonism: Addendum" (Sect. 13: Essential Differentiation and the Intrinsic Sin of Global Homogeneity)

In the wake of a lack of new (or, rather, published content), I have decided to give you all a preview of what I've been working on as of late (neglecting a scholarship essay worth $3000 in the process). 

It's been 7 months since I wrote the first draft of Anarcho-Tantric Hedonism: A Treatise, and since, I've had plenty of new ideas stewing in my brain which are now finding expression in an upcoming Addendum treatise. 

Enjoy Section 13, my fellow counterculturalists:

The homeless man of the Pacific Northwest, in a climatological respect, is in worse straits than the homeless man residing in Los Angeles where, despite the occasional rainstorm, the climate is fair enough year-round to facilitate a satisfactory sustainment of the physical body. In respect to social forces and the rate of violent crime for a myriad of mingled and networked reasons, however, the homeless man of the Pacific Northwest is (speaking generally despite the thesis of this particular section) in a better place. In particular I make reference from perspective in my own life, imagining myself homeless on the streets of Powell River, where, despite being satisfactorily fed and clothed, the climate would permit little in the way of bearable living through the winter months. Los Angeles, in a statistical context due to the sheer amount of intermingled lives forced into social co-dependency, would be more likely to house psychopaths with an itch to kill and eyes likely to see the homeless as easier prey than the named and average middle-class white male residing at a physical address, easily located via ZIP codes and other documents of social reality.

The modern world, although on local levels making attempts to address such problems, is of an intrinsic inability to solve them due to its rootedness in conceptual generalization in all fields of thought and action. Coupled with this, globalization represents a trend of attempting to economically homogenize the planet as a whole despite organic circumstance and existentially essential differences which, unallowed to develop in themselves both on collective and individual levels, has lead to the deprivation of something requisite within each of us, represented on a collective level by the economic deprivation of sustainable existence for certain 'kinds' of people known in the dangerously general sense as the 'lower class.'

All of the above is an illustration for the sake of analogy; although truth is represented, the whole truth regarding such issues as homelessness is infinitely more complicated in all respects; from climate to food availability to psychology to appearances to social context in all forms, the world is networked in such a way as to make even my generalization for the sake of description nearly completely null and void, thus proving my point.

Nature in itself is made up of what is similar-but-different; not necessarily inevitable, but inevitable only in the sense that it is.

If we imagine the globe as a wheel representing the colour spectrum (fig. 1), we can clearly see what nature is in its different-sameness; each colour, although different than the next, fades into one another as it is. This isn't to assert that this occurrence was ever a philosophical inevitability, but regardless of such speculation, it is inevitable as it is what it is. From space, too, the same phenomenon can be witnessed. Although the paints added to the Earth by each of our individual personalities, cultural mind-models, political standings, and spiritual beliefs are an invisible paint only available at ground-level, they are still as consequential as the fading of deep jungle flora into desert, and the upwards jut of ocean into land. For the sake of expediency and economy-of-line, we will refer to this different-sameness as the 'natural fade.'

Fig. 1

The requirements of life in the desert are radically different than the requirements of life in the rainforest or the requirements of life in the Arctic. Modern nation-states are a chunky and inefficient expression of the natural fade which, instead of blue sliding into pink and slowly into purple, or Algerians fading into Libyans and slowly into Egyptians, opt for an arbitrary line at an arbitrary point designed and calculated with obsessively microcosmic accuracy.

This obsessive microcosmic accuracy represents an antithesis to the natural fade in which it is not top down or bottom up, but a mutuality between the two with neither taking exclusive reign. It is the compartmentalization of preexisting generalizations into smaller generalizations based on certain areas in certain spaces at certain times. The globalization of economy, although by implication leading to an overall reduction in terribly catastrophic world warfare due to economic interdependence (for example: the Golden Arches theory of Conflict Prevention states that no two countries with a McDonald's have fought a war with one another since the introduction of the franchise into each respective nation), has led to an all-pervasive generality which threatens to homogenize the entirety of the world as if attempting to erase every colour from the spectrum and expand it all into a solid red (which, by analogy, may very well occur in blood as individuals, races, and cultures of all different colours, in both physical as well as spiritual terms, are violently squeezed out of existence as they are not red enough to appease the oppressive artists painting in stiff brush).

What is being illustrated throughout this section is one of two things: the essential differences of populations and as such, cultures, economies, laws, and customs, as well as the way in which these differences are not static or binary blocks of area or thought, but connected and interdependent fades into one another in the same way that a lake flows through a river, down a waterfall, and into the greater scheme of global ocean.

Prior to the age of satellite imagery and the internet, ones experience and point of view within the world were understandably limited and fragmentary, thus leading many to draw lines around what they knew and saw in order to properly orient themselves and give grounding to their consciousness on all levels. This illusory fragmentation, represented in the form of a 'worldview' walled-off from a dauntingly greater terra incognita, stuck around despite the advent of global and somewhat universal awareness, just as often expanding its borders as manning the walls and preparing to fight the now encroaching 'everything-else' outside.

In this day and age, it is often encouraged that one expand their borders and worldviews beyond their traditional outposts. It is unlikely, in modern generations, to find walls built in defence (as their parents and grandparents had done before). Instead, many employ the haranguing and lonely border guard of scientific objectivism to question all immigrants and tourists into their developed sense of reality, denying entry to any who cannot properly satisfy its interrogation.

Although this is a step forward from previous states of mind, it still exists within binary borders which do not completely accept the existence of the natural fade. In fact, it is simply as was stated above; microcosmically reduced generalizations in a blocked and neatly ordered spectrum all revolving around an objective centre (fig. 2).

 Fig. 2

Granted, there is an element of fade, but it is not a progressive flow, and is instead a logical continuity, almost a chain of causality between colours. Some borders are blurred, which in analogy could represent the slow and inevitable disintegration of humanity into proper unity over time, however others stand clear and concise against their neighbours as if there is a relation, but the water in their particular cup cannot be trusted to the ocean. 

passionate thoughts on the bus to work.

Life is what we make it. And through collective decision.. both conscious and unconscious.. humans have made life a tragedy.
A daily grind in the name of 'progress' and symbolic monetary subsistence/ hording.
Does the Safeway employee look absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of a days work?
No. Perhaps he will flinchingly say that he is thankful 'to at least have a job,' but only perhaps 1 in 100 would say, 'yes, I'm honestly glad to be here.'

If money were no object, how much of the current job market would exist?
I could see nobody wanting to work in fast-food (as it was no longer a necessary last resort in the name of subsistence), thus causing the industry to plummet into the mud and disappear forever. The same thing would happen to 3rd world shoe shops, 7/11's, and large grocery stores. All there would be is mom and pop shops established and propagated by the truly passionate of the field, no longer salted with armies of secretly resentful wage-slaves submitting to the fact that they have no way out, and thus will probably abandon their dreams due to the incredible amount of resistance standing in their pre-defeated way.

If the world did not subsist and exist.. at least not entirely.. upon the foundation of money-the-moping-middle-man, society would still be running. And not only running.. it would be a passionate circle of true love where you could look to every shop and artists studio and know it rose from a love of life and that particular profession.. a gentle, burning passion.. and not from the near-death experience of having nothing but $20 in a chequing account while trying to establish ones ideal life.

It would be a loving circle, one that reinforced a true success and pursuit of ones passions and dreams, as opposed to the vicious circle we live in today, where it just keeps degenerating.. falling, falling, falling.. until the human spirit is beat to a loveless pulp save for those who bow down and co-opt and look for their niche in the current system, giving up plenty of their ideals and dreams in the process in the name of a comfortable familial subsistence.

Fuck us. Fuck all of us for our 'rational, reasonable' existences.


Our irrational human passions should be of a much higher stature than any scientific worldview.

Follow those irrational passions, you near-dead sleepy head.

I'm not sure if the angel just smiled, or flipped me the bird.

In the end, a democratic society tip-toes upon the very precipice of a light, flimsy branch against all laws of physics and gravity, constantly snapping to fall to a concrete bone-bust slow-death below.

The concept of a Head of State stands as the subconscious manifestation of Judaeo-Christian monotheism.. only one can lead. Not two. Not three. Not five, nor five million.

Just a single, fallible, ego-float wanna-be messianic man-deity with a superiority complex either pre-imbued or created during a term of office and, in the rare instance when this superiority complex does not appear due to a shred of political and humanistic humility, the very idea that a President, Prime Minister, King, Queen, Sultan, or state figurehead is required acts as the symbolic reminder of its implicit existence within consensual reality itself.

And it seems strange that anyone, including myself, decide to use the term 'consensual' when it is only 'consensual' in a roundabout psychoanalytic it's-your-fault-because-you-do-nothing-about-it sort of way, again harking back to another subconscious manifestation of the Judaeo-Christian cultural mind-model: the 'guilt complex.'

The guilt complex in itself developed through the concept of 'original sin' and the essential darkness and redundant stupidity of Earthly man. It is the reason many still feel irrationally ashamed of themselves after a session of self-stimulated orgasm, and why we awkwardly kick the ground and say 'thank you' to industry for the 'privilege' of ultimately enslaving ourselves to the monetary treadmill against our will.*

There is no such thing as a 'human nature' beyond the natural 'involuntaries' of consumption of food, consumption of water, sleep, exercise, and sex. Man is not inherently guilty, selfish, imperialistic, nor competitive. Each historical era, characterized by a 'historical horizon' in which the cultural mode of the mass of the race has been programmed slowly over the course of preceding eras is what is observed to be 'human nature' by the intellectuals of every time. The mistake these individuals make.. the mistake that the giant Sigmund Freud made.. was to take his observation of the humanity of his time as the humanity of all time.. past, present, and future.. adding his opinion as a dominant ingredient to the mix, thus assisting in the perpetuation of what caused him so much pessimistic angst, as those observed as selfish and outwardly imperialistic were now validated by a theory given the stamp of authority, unburdening them of a potential guilt to the contrary.

Although much can be seen in common throughout the course of human history between the men of 'then' and the men of 'now,' this observation is only made in relation to the common thread of what makes one human. The fact remains that there was a time when people truly believed a King to be divinely ordained, and there is still a place where the female is subconsciously manifested as 'less' in the minds of the both sexes due to the overwhelming pressure of ones cultural mode of existence.

It is not 'human nature' that makes someone who they are on the subconscious level.. it is culture.

The human nature of today is overwhelmingly one of manipulation, egotism, competition, anxiety, and a pursuit of a happiness represented as material and monetary wealth. This is not the same nature of island nativity or contemporary agrarian societies of the third world.

The bottom line is that what is known as human nature is manufactured, and if it is only now beginning to be seen throughout all cultures, countries, and clans it is because of the blatant imposition of free market economics coupled with Western scientific objectivism (to which the arrogant theories of psychoanalysis are now a part).

On an individual level, one is able to 'manufacture' aspects of their own individual reality. This is snuffed and/or defined within an archetype by the manufactured reality of ones overarching cultural mode of mind.
The cultural mind, however, is not an inevitable state and is 'democratic' by its very nature. It is nothing more than the result of billions of voices speaking into the void since the dawn of human awareness, and one can add to the mold as competently as any intellectual giant has throughout history.

The game is only as rigged as you let it become.


*The bare fact that it truly is against our will is masked beneath the societal smorgasbord of career opportunity; were one to attempt to explain that they did not wish to have a job in the first place, the reply would invariably be one of two things: 1: 'you did not have to work [at this particular career],' or, 2: 'well then, you can go starve to death in the streets..' unaware that the only thing starving the homeless is the fact that we not only collectively disagree with their freedom, but also rob them of practical self-sustainment by appropriating every single nook and cranny of the means of bodily (as well as spiritual) sustainment and growth, thus causing them to claw at our feet begging for our scraps. Modern society, if it were truly free, could potentially exist in its current form, but would not appropriate and monetize the organic materials which are the birthright of each and every living creature on any planet gardened with life.    

Life in 2012

visual poetry, I suppose