Schicklgruber

My dad has told me, on multiple occasions, that it's possible to gain the same feelings drugs give you in sobriety. 

I always smile and nod politely while I think about how terrifying it'd be to start tripping on acid when you know for a fact that you never consumed any. 

It's absolutely ridiculous to think you can gain the same psychological states you can in using while maintaining sobriety. 

To be fair, I know that none of what I just said is what he really meant. What he did mean is that the peace, the contentedness, the conquest of fear and misfortune and death found temporarily within any form of substance abuse is, indeed, possible to achieve in a life of sobriety.    

But come on, dad. Some people really do want to take that express route to dulling themselves, hallucinating, easing the pain, loving without bounds, and understanding their meaning in this very strange existence. 

Honestly, as someone famous or at least quote-worthy based on a statement once said: I'd rather die 10 years too early than 10 minutes too late. Any contrary intuition would assume MySpace still exists, or Hunter S. Thompson died peacefully of natural causes in a hospital. 

Think about it. If Hitler had died in 1923, not only would life be better for the citizens of, at least, the Western Countries... but most particularly Europe and the European Jewish population. 

But it'd also have been better for him in the end. 

I mean, who likes being injected with a triple mix of heroin, methamphetamine, and rat poison while trapped in a claustrophobic underground dungeon with those who quite literally hate you in their bones closing in on all sides? 

All I'm saying, folks, is that Hitler was a better artist than politician. Artists don't generally kill each other over concerns of one or more gaining greater fame and, thus, influence in the art world. 


* * *

There's another funny story about Hitler which would most certainly have changed the trajectory of his entire life. His father was born out of wedlock, and no one was ever able to discover who Adolf's paternal grandfather was, meaning this said paternal grandfather could have been a Jew. Hitler was never able to pass his own 'racial purity' tests based on his own strict doctrine. 

As well, his father's name at birth was Alois Schicklgruber. If Alois hadn't married this Austrian gal named Anna and then used her to convince the Austrian authorities that Anna's cousin, Klara, was also Alois' first cousin once removed, he'd have never adopted the last name of Hitler.

Just imagine it.

"Hail Schicklgruber!" 

Ukraine, if defeated, will not be Putin's only target.

    Moldova, particularly, is home to a technically existing and yet unrecognized breakaway Marxist-Leninist 'country' known as Transnistria, and this would be Putin's next target to absorb. Thus, his next ambition would likely be taking the rest of Moldova in the process after quickly securing the Transnistrian capital. Russian forces would then push towards Estonia in such a way as to at least bridge the Russian exclave of Kaliningrad with Russia proper, annexing lands they claim are essential to the protection of said land bridge regardless of the rights and desires of the three NATO-protected sovereign Baltic nations, which will now inevitably live under the the Russian tricolor hammer and sickle, paralyzing Moldova even further as a strict and monitored police state which would obviously come under direct Russian military occupation as to ensure "compliance."

[THIS ARTICLE WILL BE GIVEN FURTHER CONTENT & CONTEXT AS TIME ALLOWS, CURRENT EVENTS DICTATE, AND UNIQUE BUT HIGHLY REALISTIC INSIGHT INTO THE POTENTIAL STRATEGIES OF EITHER SIDE APPEAR IN THE MIND OF YOURS TRULY, THE AUTHOR.]

Elon Musk and Richard Branson need to get their priorities straight.

 

IN RESPONSE TO ELON MUSK'S BULLSHIT POEM, WHICH READS AS FOLLOWS:

@elonmusk on Twitter, posted July 12th, 2021

those who attack space

maybe don’t realize that

space represents hope

for so many people

MY RESPONSE:

I don't look to space as our ultimate hope. If they can somehow make a place as desolate, boring, and voided as Mars into some sort of deeply functioning colony with a working economy, why couldn't they just do the same for Earth when global warming reaches its ultimate threshold? Why isn't that their ultimate and immediate priority, while outer space adventurism is cast as a close second but ONLY insofar as budgets and capital allow?

I mean, hopefully it won't come to such a worst-case-conclusion scenario such as this, but wouldn't that be

1- A sensible and social as well as economic feasibility given that Earth has been hosting humanity since the very dawn of our existence? Is that not a clear one million points in its favor?

2-A way to guarantee no finite natural resources are used and wantonly wasted in this preparation for the wealthiest of humankind to escape the planet with in order to build their new off-world colonies, stations, and societies? What exactly happens to the rest of us?

3-A way of understanding that space travel and colonization should NEVER be a short-term goal expressing something of a cynically class-based 'escape plan'?

Look. If we can plan to build cities on Mars, we could build domed cities underwater, in deserts, atop a multiplicity of powerful stilts which reach to the sea floor as to resurrect new and environmentally friendly cities whose ground-based predecessors are presumed to be eventually lost with the constant rise in sea levels (eg: think of something along the lines of a future "New Vancouver").

I'd also like to note that Musk's poetry skills are absolutely horrendous, and this is a pretty terrible excuse for any poet, save perhaps for 8 to 16 year old's who are still learning the ropes.

It's been over a year since I've written anything new to sparkle-up my blog, and a lot has happened (as per usual) in the meantime, all of which I could list exhaustively but imagine you as the reader may not be quite as worried about or naturally infatuated with as I am. That is, unless I'm translating it all into spontaneous prose.

So, here we go.

A Horizontal Spiral into Personal Exegesis 

25 years into life on this planet. A quarter of a goddamn century. I've attended more friend's funerals than weddings, a sad typicality of the generation I arose in beautiful concert with.

This strange fact reminds me of the opening lines from Allen Ginsberg's Howl:

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, 

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix." 

I too sought this same angry fix, but removed myself from the clutter once death stalked the corners of my own addled streets. I too was destroyed by this madness, but given the gift of a second chance upon which to reform... and the guilt that stretches its legs so cavalierly, so callously, across the resting stool of my mind reminds me of this every day I do not practice sobriety as a dogma (just as I simultaneously recognize I should never accept it--or anything else--as dogma). 

It's been two strange years since Anton passed, and he still haunts me as the interpersonal ghost of the relationship we had together which, with his death, has become embodied as said ghost sans the need for either of our particular presence. Perhaps this felt phantom of our collective essence will continue to waft throughout our globular strangeness we call the Earth until all observation becomes impossible for lack of any remaining observers. I loved you once, and I will love you always, and thus will always love you until "always" becomes as relative as "once upon a time." 

"Early 17th century: from Greek exēgēsis, from exēgeisthai ‘interpret’, from ex- ‘out of’ + hēgeisthai ‘to guide, lead’."1.

I read myself and "it's" or "him's" reality like others read scripture itself.

I am neither hetero nor homosexual. I am bisexual, and many (even within the tight 'gay' community) do not understand this when I give an attempt towards a definition of a monogamous relationship, despite it's polyamorous-ness in its long-term oprative-ness, ability, and identity. 

A monogo(mish) identity. Something which proves it's loyalty and is only taken in as an operative contingent of oneself thereof. Couldn't be more favor in their flavor, so this is simply a translation of my multiplicity of romances in my monetary destitution (not that anyone has to pay me for anything lol). 

quick morning thoughts on the value of studying history

Significant and seminal moments define our experiences in reference to the rest of our lives and our understandings thereof, but the only people who ever really "make history" are, well, historians.

This is not to say "I'm a historian and you are not, thus bow to the might of my cultivated knowledge and know your place." It's to say we should all become historians in some way, shape, or form in our own lives through an unremitting study of the past (even if it's only your personal past) amalgamated and perpetually processing into an interpretation useful to leveraging ourselves past the visible spectrum of what our accumulated experiences and conditioning have taught us is sane, sober, realistic, and safe and into a wider space of possibility where one can draw on lessons fed from the aggregate nexus of all recorded human experience in its grasped entirety (or, all remembered / recorded personal experience if history as a larger subject really isn't your thing).

It's the act of creating meaning through adding your particular (mis)understanding to the greater dance of emergent meaning across space and time. To actively deny oneself such self-analysis and constant evaluation is akin to dancing in the dark with no music. You don't have to dance with others around you, and you can still dance in the dark, but tune into the music to guide your movements at the very least.

In this sense, history is the music, and your interpretation thereof is the dance. Find all the creative ways to move within the tempo the song provides, because our only genuine guides in life are coherent interpretative models which balance our sensations of "I" with our sensations of "everything (and everyone) else." There is no end to this process of general and self-inquiry, because the point is to join the dance. However, as has already been analogically demonstrated, even if you are alone, you never really dance alone so long as you move and gyrate to the music of another.

Thus, the point is to dance, but to something other than the exclusive beat of your own drum.

(If anything, learn to beat your own drum in a band cus I've heard percussionists are hard to come by these days).

The Strait of Georgia (prose poem)

The wind is a slack freeze billowing 

across the low structures of the ferry 

as it floats indelibly towards the coastal 

island landmass once known as Quadra 

and Vancouver's Island, now maintaining 

only the latter prefix as if either dub of 

the landscape was a 'fix' at all. There is a 

Canadian flag tangling with itself in the cold, 

wound around a metal cable wire on the top sun 

deck reserved for smokers avoiding the crisp air 

for the formaldehyde devil they already know. 

Waves ripple through the fabric flag above and 

the fabric water below, both tossed by the same 

heavenly forces forever wafting throughout the 

globe as if all the steam ever boiled never truly 

left the biosphere nor converted back into liquid 

but instead became yet another one of many 

unforeseen 

byproducts 

of our 

oh-so human 

participation 

in 

existence;

yet another 

one of many 

unforeseen 

consequences 

left to ring in 

our ears til we 

cease as observers, 

thus ceasing to 

observe.

“It is above as it is below” 

and 

“there is no difference between 

the observer and the observed.” 

Not my thoughts, nor I doubt 

anyone's thoughts 

in particular.

Snow dusts the caressed peaks, 

valleys, and crevices of the 

Pacific Coastal mountain range, 

each geological mound standing 

shoulder-to-shoulder looking 

across the withered liquid mounds 

in quicker motion atop the Georgia 

Strait below as if watching a child 

relative playing with new toys 

received on 

Christmas morning. 

I have no words 

adequate enough 

to express all this 

beauty. 

All I can do 

is help you 

read my mind 

and hope 

my 

wordless words 

equal 

poetic telepathy.

The wind is still a slack freeze as I exit the ferry. 

There's no one here but all of us, 

hello! 

the everything set before the mind (stream-of-consciousness prose poem)

If only there was a way 

to explode into an aperture 

of terminal ecstasy, massing 

an army too small for invasion 

at the borders of a conflagration 

far larger than our individual bodies 

crafted of flesh, bone, and water. Sort 

of like oatmeal rising with the addition 

of a liquid, expanding to become the last 

thought you'd imagine you'd ever hear 

spoken aloud in a busy thoroughfare strip 

mall lost in the sprawl of cityscape snowed 

over in light sprinkles like icing sugar across 

the soft top part of our holiday muffin. 

Location, 

location, location! 

Look at those palisades 

of rock, ice, and tree, 

evergreen (  maybe 

FOREVERgreen   )

Soak the fire! 

we're all about 

to spot a light 

at tunnel's

end.

Flashlights off. 

Eyes closed. 

And with your 

eyes closed, close 

your eyes 

tightly. 

-  -  -

Thank u 

for the 

chance 

to 

once

again

dream

big 

(again).