Rant and Prosetry (On Dimensions & Storm Clouds)


2D of 5D 

Dimensions. What do people mean when they talk about “dimensions”? Other dimensions? I know it’s connected to physical, geometrical spaces, up/down, forward/back, but it also has another physical place sort of sense like with the Atom or something really weird like dark matter. That’s the one that bugs me, can there be so called other “planes of existence”? There’s a heavy hand of rationalism, playing both ways here, skepticism denies untestable phenomena, but through the scientific method, proves and creates things that undermine rationality, say quantum computing, nuclear weapons. 

I stood in the field,

Warship cloud brigades to the left and right 

Directly in front of me, miles in the distance 

Was a column of grey

Indecipherable 

Only a rumble, rippling in its middle

Feel it like that, just the sound, 

A threat half known, so enjoyed 

Position here? Ant or Magus 

I worked more at watering, 

Get lost,

Realize it’s right above me now,

Black and purple, and I’m 

Terrified. Turn my back, keep watering,

Pray, but don’t go inside. 


All That Is 

On Dreams

THE DREAM OF SAINT JOHN DAMASCENE

The_dream_of_Saint_John_Damascene_Wellcome_L0041636

At my most sober, center, and worked, I start having the strangest, most detailed, oriented dreams. When things start going lucid, I’m always stuck in a physical space, a movie theater, a mall, sometimes an unfamiliar city, or suburbia. I think my own inherent suspicion and anxiety make it go bad, sour, but there also seems to be something there, watching me, security, the man in black. As a child its a shapeshifting empty, black hole monster, It. With maturity it manifests in real world concerns, personal relationships, physical and emotional harm to self and other. It tries to scare ya.

The movie theater, mall setting is the most common. That’s what really gets to me. Being in a room with all those other people. I start thinking, you want to say that they’re just a figment of your imagination, that its just filler-people pulled from your memory, but in the dream it doesn’t feel that way. They feel real, they react real, slow, life-like, dreamy. What happens with me is I will become suspicious of the authenticity of the whole endeavor, and my subjugation in it. This seems to “wake me” up in the dream, and that provokes a force to come play cop on the whole thing, scare you awake. Scare you awake. Think about it. When you dream there’s a thing in there that wants to wake you up….What?

I’d like to fight it. Knuckles and bones, teeth. I don’t know what that means about me. I can accept maybe its a symptom of my own broken, depressive, scared self. I can imagine others free from this creature, entity. But to what degree? What could you do if you were free in that space? Does it have to be this way?

There’s usually a shake-down with the Shadow Monster. Breath on your neck. Recently they had a futuristic, neon blue probe body scanning systems, armed guards in glossy stormtrooper black. Empty your pockets. But then the vertigo, the flee, the scene has to change. Usually it ends with running, then some subtle torture until you wake up. But what about the moments it bleeds over into reality? What then?

Snippets 105

Bureau_of_Land_Management_horses

 

All the Pretty Horses-Cormac McCarthy

I caint laugh. I think my jaw’s broke.
There aint nothin wrong with you.
Shit, said Rawlins.
John Grady grinned. You see that big old boy standin yonder that’s been watchin us?
I see the son of a bitch.
See him lookin over here?
I see him.
What do you think I’m fixin to do?
I got no idea in this world.
I’m goin to get up from here and walk over there and bust him in the mouth.
The hell you are.
You watch me.
What for?
Just to save him the trip. (183)

On Farming, Nabokov, Internet, Culture, Knowledge, Writing

Last night I stayed up late watching farming motivation, tomato porn videos on YouTube. The guys was showing how you can greatly increase pollination of the tomato plant by fingering, slapping, shaking the plant, and around the fruiting special bits. Tomatoes carry both the males and the females stuff, so by vibrating the former you impregnate the later. I had noticed last night some drying blossoms on my own, think the heat and lack of water zapped them. Video made me realize maybe they were not pollinated and that made them weaker too.

I’v found my part of the stream and it’s having a cooling effect, or a redirecting of my energy from writing/reading to the farm. Not to say I’ve haven’t been doing either. It’s always there, crawling around, waiting. My JD Salinger binge had me noticeably nihilistic, the Camus stretch ruined me, and then the The Feud by Alex Beam about the friendship and subsequent “fight” between writer Nabokov and Literati Edmund Wilson got my haunches up and has sent me spiraling down the black hole of conspiracy world (Dave Chappelle, Kanye, Johnny Deep, may all be MKULTRA victims and clones). Despite Mr Beam’s and everyone else’s explicit statement not to see any of Nabokov’s work, Lolita and beyond, as confessional or biographical, I couldn’t see otherwise.

I know Tolkien was like that, didn’t like any real world parallels pointed out. I get the psychological need to distance ourselves from the thing. It ruins it for some, like the Wizard of Oz, doesn’t allow them to slip into into suspended disbelief. The real question, is there any other mode? Everything seems made up these days. Don’t know exactly why. Has to be the TV and internet, we live in little electronic bubbles of our choosing, inherently artificial, the so-called external reality has begun to mirrors this process. It all begins to break down at a point, like CNN current meme debacle, old traditional barriers start to dissolve.

I read the news, and about the world, like it is regular installments of my favorite Sci-Fi series. I’m using the internet through tethering my phone. And there’s only one spot that works in the house.. The upstairs window facing north. So the bedroom has become the office. It was nice to have the full desktop back, the youtube, all of it. Senior year of High School,  I made this ceramic block with the word “Knowledge” on it. It’s always been sort of a totem for me, a symbol of first principles.  I set my phone on that, pointed out the window, and it works well enough. And I don’t know while getting reintegrated, I realize  current events are just insane, nightmarish, other-worldly. You try to settle yourself down, cut the anxiety with a bit of reason. And if you shut it off and maybe went and wandered a field, or river, or something you could find ways to forget it, but you sort of don’t want to. You want to see where the story is going. How it will all play out. Stories and book are like that. Trying to write “popular” fictions gets me in a similar way. Conjuring up twisted characters and thick drama, set a tone for the spirit and day, which can sometimes feel negative and costly. I don’t like hurting people, fiction or otherwise, which doesn’t necessarily make for great fiction. It could, but you got to work harder for it, I think. Stop being a pussy, is what the shadow self jeers with.

The field almost feels easier. Just different, I guess. Farm work taxes the body, but nourishes the spirit, art work taxes both, and leads the body to lethargy and the spirit to turn manic. I’ve set up an academic hour in the evenings six to seven oclock, then out to the field for two hours to weed, mulch, and water. Balance. Knowledge.

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Random Prosetry 

Creation of the World

Go ahead, you can’t hurt it much.
Tenderest phrase I ever heard.
Your memories are dry, brittle things.
A compost pile of self.
Emotions are the needed water, invigorating life, the microbes
Underneath, amoebas to complex structures,
Reinvested in other life forms
Half finished Frankensteins.
Devoid of moisture, fire is the threat to inorganic matter,
A purging mythic Phoenix, more potent, nutrient dense Mater, future building blocks of the Other. 
Born of old men, half baked narratives of a fifty year old alcoholic Sci-Fi writer, loose leafs on the slush pile.

Thought about PKD, the other night. All alone, with a full house asleep, dying to talk to somebody.

He said he felt Rome, experienced it one day, reality flipped, and it was millennia ago in Rome, and then he came back. I tried to conjure that as I sat in bed. I might have felt it for a second, an ocean marinated wind blowing through weathered wheat stock, but the Borg-head of current self rolled on the theater curtain, destroying the illusion. The technological entity of the future, already born, reinvigorated, forever.

Forget the old, its technetronic back teeth chatter. We can built whatever world we want. I see it squid like in the subconscious, dangling a long, notched vertebrae. 

My friend brought it up at dinner on Sunday. The black web of the future, great unknown, the future of true novelty; we have no clue what’s coming next! We try to rationalize, sure everyone throughout history feels like that. In a way, that’s worse though. That everyone has felt this way, adrift, without harbor, quantum sea monsters rattling against the bottom of the boat…

On Father’s Day 

Perfect night to perfect day. Seventies, clear, clouds like warships marching through the sky. Dad came out, went in on a rant about the curse of the family name, showed a big gash in his head, which he got after a pack of unconscientious gals at the coffee shop got him all riled up and he bumped his head on his car getting in. I don’t like when he says that, that we got bad luck, bad mojo, seems a self-fulfilling prophecy to me. 

Why can’t our genes be associated with victory, success, fortune? I smiled though and listen, even joke in a similar vain, accounting my own similar and recent bad luck, AC went out on Honda, needed new rooters and breaks on the truck. There’s no point, and its negative to fight it. Instead I hijack the genes on my own time, the story in my own mind. We have to accept the darker undertones of the tale, a bastard’s journey to kingship, return of the prodigal son. But what does Promise Land look like? I’ve been forced to consider. 

There’s irony in my Dad’s dark outlook, it’s the other side of over confidence. He was always pretty successful socially, friends, girlfriends. In his high school senior picture he looks like Super Man, Christopher Reeves incarnation. Tall, handsome, full head of hair, stylish white bell bottoms. The caption says he’s helping a younger student. He was class President, Captain of the football team, scholarship offers for wrestling. He idealized those times. His Mom and Dad divorced his senior year. I think this is what got him. Grandpa went a little wild, was an alcoholic. I’m convinced Grandma Gene,  Grandpa Pete’s mom, was a witch, a good one. She made little piles of rocks all through out her yard, stacked up at night under the moon and stars. I feel her in me when I stand in the field at dusk; we are happy, at home. 

Britney cooked huge steaks and veggie packs on the grill. Ran a notable grill, orangey grey charcoal stack. Grandpa played ring-leader with the gang. They teased and provoked, debating how the water balloons would be dished out after lunch. I feel and realize my clone like nature watching it all. How we are the same just slight variations in time and space, even my wife, and how we put up facade of separateness, but it doesn’t mean anything. My Mom had a falling out with her Mom, didn’t talk for years. But I realized later they probably thought about each other more cause of that, obsessively and neurotically probably. 

After lunch we had the water ballon fight and then jumped my rider mower, my Father’s Day miracle. I thought it was done, but we pushed it to my Dad’s car while the boys took turn steering. I could tell the old man had the itch to mow, he’s recently moved from his big yard, but he let me have at it, and went inside with the boys.

I checked in on them later, sat there in a row yucking it up and playing video games. There’s something here that transcends the tawdry, and cheap word “love”, but that’s what it is. It makes my cells ache, yearning to make it permanent, imprint it on the over-soul for eternity. But true success is only when you let go, praise and love, but don’t grasp. I finished my mowing. The farm is looking great. I’m happy like kid. Blessed on a perfect day, so lucky. 

Perfect Night in Des Moines 


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It was a perfect night tonight. The heat broke, has been ninety plus for almost two weeks. Won’t really rain, just spit. Left our little Eden and went to the big city Des Moines, for dinner with wife’s coworkers. There are those nights, summer nights, where everything thing seems clean, shiny, put together. Des Moines is quintessential fly-over country and I hope it stays that way for ever. I truly hesitate to even brag about it publicly, so as not to alert the unwashed masses of its awesomeness. One of the main reasons is per-capita, pound to pound, Des Moines is actually a world class food city. It fertile lands and deep agricultural roots, along with its geographic centerness has brought many influences and culturals to bare. 

This agricultural industry have created stronger economic health. This and things like the caucuses have made Iowa oddly relevant at times. I think Iowa, and probably that whole region is like the United States’ shire. There’s a good mix of political and ideological left and rightness, which at the current time and day strikes a unique and important balance. People are generally friendly, respectful, and none portentous, excluding the author, of course.

I like my wife’s gang at work. Their ornery and silly, and I’m sure they’ve banded together in the trenches of the modern health care system; these people have seen some shit. We ate at Bubbas downtown. They serve quality Southern style dishes, fried chicken and waffles, chicken fried steak, white cheddar grits, home jams, corn breads, mac and cheese, red beans and rice. They have an extensive booze selection. I had a Bubba julep, bourbon and mint and something called a Porch Sipper which was delicious, think it was bourbon, but had cucumbers, basil, mints and something sour in it. We shared and laughed. The server was charming and informative. Bubbas has a classy old school lounge and bar. And you know what, it shares a sizable class. Hell, right next store is a French-influenced restraunt Django, which look qaulity as well. There are more delicious and interesting things to eat in Des Moines then I can even try to get too. 

Driving around admiring the city, the patios were packed with people, smiling, with their friends, enjoying their Saturday night. Hope. Potential. Food is so much more than just a basic need. I was ranting about this to Brit after I came in from farm chores last night. How I didn’t want to be in Nature, but Of Nature. Part of it, not an explorer penetrating it, controlling it. How I feel a symbiotic relationship with my plants, wedding and watering them, how I nourish them and they nourish me, and how kids and families were like this; you nourish them, they nourish you. Talked about this video I saw about kids in India pulling a giant python out of the river for fun, playing with it, and how we still jump at garter snakes. How it’s better to relax about bugs and critters. Accept the swarm around you, pulsating with life. 

We got home and the skies took to play. Summer storms yearning to rain, but empty, dry. The lightening in the distance, striking a portrait at will. Chay comes to get me from bed, says the grey lights out his open window are freaking him out. Light slices the canvas, highlighting bulking, thickly painted clouds. An ocean of fireflies undulate in front yard of the house, dancing in the electric atmosphere. Fireflies. Never knew there could be so many fireflies….

On Trump and His Detractors (sorry for the cursing Grandma) 

Political Brainwashing

Let me preface my comments by noting I remain a resolute member of the No-Vote party. I didn’t vote Trump, and wouldn’t vote for Trump if an election was tomorrow. Although, I must admit the Anti-Trump hysteria has almost changed that. Point is that these comments come from the periphery. I would like to start with the Trump detractors. I woke up this mornings to the news about the shooting on Capitol Hill. I wish I could say this came as a shock, but it didn’t. The amount of anti-Trump propaganda that has been spewed out on every mainstream news channel and platform is insane. They went from never criticizing their darling Obama (his first term got my last vote) to an endless stream of ridicule and hate directed towards Trump. They ignored record drone attacks, ignored continued and expanded wars in the Middle East, ignored the lack of focus on real issues faced by the country, like the outrageous levels of violence in Chicago, the Flint water crisis, etc. 

Granted, Obama didn’t start an illegal war which led to a million dead Iraqis, and for that I will admit at the end of his presidency, I would say he did an all-right job. All that said, to make the point, I am non-partisan. No, more than that, I’m anti-partisan….nah, no point in that, fuck that academic mindset. Let me cut the cheddar, get to the point. Anti-Trump detractors should be fucking ashamed! They are the most gullible, pack of useful idiots the world has ever seen. They went and backed a degenerate career politician, whose hands were drenched in Libyan and Haitian blood, who backed and stood by her sexual predator husband, who violated countless laws. What difference does it make? You scream in your shrill social justice warrior voice. The difference is that’s what got Trump elected. This is your fault Democrats, for being so sheepish, so easily manipulated, so uninformed, y’all made Trump.

And instead of taking your licks and cleaning up your act, you all now attempt to undermine the legitimacy and authority of this President. My younger tortured self would have taken a sick pleasure in that, just crabs in a bucket, but my more mature parental self is shocked and disgusted.

Everything you hate in Trump is more pronounced and obvious in the candidate you would have chosen. Hate him cause he’s rich? First off it’s disgustingly envious, but moreover, Clinton is rich as all hell, and made her money through cronyism, and playing politics. Claims he’s anti-Muslim? Clinton supported policies and wars which wrecked and murdered innocent Muslims and their more moderate countries. Says he’s anti-women? Clinton got child rapist Thomas Taylor a deal, protected her predator husband, and demonized his female victims. Moreover, any true feminist would be disgusted by the fact Clinton tried to use her gender as a reason as to why she should be elected (or not) instead of the validity and strength of her positions. 

But that’s my point, it’s not about Truth, it’s about how Trump makes you feel. About how the propaganda makes you feel. It’s mind control. No, I know, you’re way to clever for that. Right. Bottom line, y’all are all fucked up. And if you continue to back corrupted lifer politicians, you will keep losing. You can’t imagine my elation that Wednesday when I woke and saw that monster had lost. It was a sign that there was still some moral backbone in this country. That yeah we were fucked, but we weren’t that fucked. And none of y’all stopped to seriously consider the rigged polls, the propaganda, no, you just kept right on mindlessly talking your shit. The Russia shit, the racist shit, the misogynistic shit, and it’s done nothing! Besides polarizing the country and making you all look like a bunch of sore loser babies. 

On Trump. Dude is in way over his head. He imagined that he would have the backing of the establishment once he was elected. The truth is the powers that be, as usual, were playing both sides. Ether candidate would have brought their future to fruition. Their goal is to destroy this country. Why? Profit and power. And y’all are played like a fiddle, like the fucking boobies that you are. You sit around, middle sections growing thick, brain growing thin, and like monkeys in the zoo hurl your shit. That what’s Trump needs to understand. It’s beyond reason. He gets that, I might be switching parties. 

Get Out of the Yellow Submarine 

Jordan Peele Writer/Director of Get Out

Woke up my peepers was broke. The Voodoo got me; I spected it would. I tried to keep it off, set up Stoney Blue Heart, remembered the Two Prayers.

Borrowed Jason Peele’s Get Out from my brother. He told me he couldn’t wait to hear what I had to say about it. I shook my head, told him it wasn’t good, already had the intel this was an active program. Knew it must  have  gotten to me, when I woke up with reader eye, which is like when you try to see one of those hidden 3D pictures, but  instead you get an involuntary vague grey outline of the thing, that kicks my focus out of whack. 

But here I am, still typing out the blurry words. I decided to take a minute for Art, watch the Beatles Yellow Submarine. Hopefully to wash off the joo-joo off from the nite before. It starts with the song in the main credits. It’s in another language, haunting words; I looked it up, found this interesting explanation: 

One of the many things from Get Out that will stay with you is the music. Donald Glover’s “Redbone” is played, and there’s a creepy sequence with “Run Rabbit Run” by Flanagan and Allen, but the song that I can’t get out of my head is actually part of the film’s original score. It plays during the main credits and at the end of the film, and it’s called “Sikiliza Kwa Wahenga.” 

Writer/director Jordan Peele talked about the song in a recent interview with GQ:
“It’s Swahili, actually. It’s such a cool track. I was into this idea of distinctly black voices and black musical references, so it’s got some African influences, and some bluesy things going on, but in a scary way, which you never really hear. African-American music tends to have, at the very least, a glimmer of hope to it — sometimes full-fledged hope. I wanted Michael Abels, who did the score, to create something that felt like it lived in this absence of hope but still had [black roots]. And I said to him, ‘You have to avoid voodoo sounds, too.’

The words are issuing a warning to Chris. The whole idea of the movie is ‘Get out!’ — it’s what we’re screaming at the character on-screen. They go, ‘Brother, brother,’ in English, and then something to the effect of, ‘Watch your back. Something’s coming, and it ain’t good.'”  Source

“Have to avoid voodoo sounds too” Thats the kicker, isn’t it? Hate to break it to Peele, ah never mind. I know he gets it. Get Out is about doubling, two. Watch it with that in mind. How many times two things, or its multiple, is given focus. And the pillars, Joachim and Boaz, two, how they frame each stage and development of the film. Movies and life are all about what’s going on in the empty space, the background. How things are arraigned and presented. 

Get Out is about mind control and is mind control. Doubling, subject and object, these are processes which take place between the film and the audience as well. There are shots from the characters point of view, which subconsciously encourage us to see things from their perspective. Sorry my eyes are blurring, need a minute of the Fab Four. 

I look at all the lonely people… Trauma is the first step in mind control. Ignite the fight or flights response, distort the higher function, cut off escape, offer alternative cessation of discomfort, put the tea on. There’s this critical scene in all horror movies, the sort of we’re not in Kansas anymore moment, where the rabbit realizes they’ve been caught in the trap. It’s actually a moment of relief for the audience. It’s a breather before the big show. In Get Out this moment occurs when he tries to leave and is stuffed in the basement, with the old TV! 

Would you believe me if I told you I was being followed by a yellow submarine? I wouldn’t. 

I can’t even properly explain Get Out. It’s a program, a racial division program. I’m gonna do some research on writers and background of the film. Also, I will do more research on other people’s response to it. I bet you will find an interesting difference, in different races response to it. Obviously. I think most white people will express horror and surprise and black people will be less surprised, and more, shall I say cautious/conscientious? towards it. Everyone should be taking a deep seat in the existential sweat lodge. So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late…