Prose/Poetry

A nameless journey begins at 6:30am, 34 degrees Fahrenheit, and I have work to do. I leave my home and my town (named after the youngest signer of the U.S. Constitution, I muse to myself) and strike out on the journey which stands in a crowd of identical journeys, notable in no way and unique only to itself as I stand in a crowd of faceless commuters and make my way to the place where I am expected.

A faceless radioman taunts me with promises of music but delivers only bits of information about things which do not concern me and have nothing to do with myself or the tasks that lay before me. He speaks, perhaps knowing that no ears are truly listening to him, but still he speaks since it is his job to do so.

Sixty-six miles per hour, some time later and my vehicle has finally warmed inside. It has snowed overnight, a light wispy snow that leaves no trace in the grass or on the roads but has turned to hidden ice on the bridges. Winter, it seems, has taken its last dying gasp to utter a word of defiance toward the complacent and sleep-numbed commuters who grumble about how long it is taking to turn warm this year. Winter has used this gasp well, because today it has claimed some small victories. Today the morbid lottery which daily is played to the tune of singing pistons has selected some unsuspecting contestants to win the ignominious jackpot, a day torn from the pages of their lives with a sound of exploding glass and rending metal.

Perhaps, I think to myself during a sip of coffee from a nondescript travel mug, perhaps it is more of an automotive autoclave, purifying the strong and destroying the weak or inattentive in its searing and unforgiving concrete heat. Perhaps not, I think, and perhaps even calling it a lottery is giving it too much meaning.

My journey is slowed as I pass the wreckage of eight vehicles, slowed not because they obstruct the road but because the river of commuters is drawn irresistibly to view the destruction and count the cars as I realise I have just done. My eyes rest on the figure of a man staring skyward, with the stare that is frozen on the face of every man who has looked into the eyes of death. Poor bastard, he’ll be missing some meetings today. I wonder to myself how many times he has passed a scene such as this and looked upon the gathering of objects that have transitioned from useful tools to insurance claims. I wonder how many times he thought to himself that he was glad it wasn’t him, or tried to think to himself that it would never be him. I chuckle to myself a bit as I ponder the fascination people have with destruction and death of others, and how they try to deny their own mortality in the same breath.

But all of this does not concern me; I have work to do. Work that I do not like or dislike, but simply must be done. The death of a man is no more significant to my path than the sip of coffee that transpired as I passed the spot where he expired and where soon will be a trite pile of plastic flowers in his name, as trivial and artificial as the man they represent. Life in a sip of coffee, a travel mug casket for a plastic flower demise.

Soon I pass an interchange between the interstate and a state highway that leads north to a town named ironically a word that means “polite” or “finished” and belies the state of the town itself and its denizens. It leads south to a town which is also ironically named, one whose name means “friendliness toward strangers” and whose residents are among the most xenophobic people in this xenophobic state. It amuses me that these two ironically named towns are divided by the road that leads away from this place, a vast freeway that begins its life with promise in Baltimore within view of the mighty ocean but dies a humble death near Sulphur Creek in Utah, in a place known only as Millard County. Somewhere between Xenophobia and Urbanelessness is the way out and the one desperate chance to escape the place where even God only comes to visit relatives. It seems that shallow life and meaningless death are the themes du jour, and I think the road is trying to teach me a lesson by the contrast of its two end points.

An illegal pedestrian breaks the monotony of corn rows, a wizened fool shuffling his way down the impossibly vast distance between signs of civilisation, and I wonder if he is noticing his surroundings any more than I have time to do. He has nothing but time and I have work to do, but I remember when I was a shiftless youth and would observe the most trivial things such as the uneven melting of frost on the ground in the morning. That was many years ago when there was time, but now I have work to do and time is a fading memory.

I slow my vehicle again as the road is blocked a second time. This time I wished that I had not looked to see what was the matter, for it was an accident caused by the ice again and involving a truck pulling a horse trailer. Cars and trucks become wrinkled and bent when they are wrecked, but horse trailers look as if some perverse deity had tossed a salad consisting of aluminum house siding and a grocer’s meat cooler. It is less a wreck than a debris field, and I joke to myself that I have not seen that much gore since the elections of 2000. As unusual and disturbing as this sight has been, it is gone with the next sip of coffee, as it does not concern me. Besides, I have work to do.

Minutes later, sixty-seven miles per hour and the road is clear. I pass through mile after mile of seemingly unchanging countryside, past houses which were simply abandoned in the middle of recently worked farmland, houses which were special to someone at some time. Only their gray and decaying walls can speak of the warmth of the families which called them home, the holiday gatherings that filled the house to the brim, and the laughter and tears that took place within it when it was not just a house but instead was a home. Desolate structure that still stands as if waiting to be inhabited again, I think, someone should tear it down or make it a home, but leaving it to rot is nothing short of cruelty and disrespect.

I pass the tread of a blown-out truck tire at sixty-eight miles per hour and it occurs to me that the circle or wheel is a symbol of eternity, and that this broken tread stands as a symbol of eternity lost. It undoubtedly saw countless thousands of revolutions on its journey to where it is now, but finally the task became too much and it broke under the pressure. It lies there, a steel-belted symbol of the fall from Eden and into daily existence, a vulcanised reminder that nothing lasts forever. Rendered useless in an instant, no longer able to do its work and cast aside without regard, it waits for its removal along with other roadside debris.

I tap my cruise control up to sixty-nine miles per hour, four miles over the limit but not fast enough to get stopped on my journey to where I need to be. I think about the road ahead, about how I will pass exits that speak of small towns which I will never see, filled with people who will filter out to the interstate on their way to the concentrations of money that the cities represent. The city of my destination lies still ahead, a city named after an Italian explorer who managed to discover a bit of land that was populated before he set forth on his journey but, unfortunately for them, belonged to the wrong ethnic group at the time. He was a man who is remembered because he did his work, ethics be damned.

I press a radio button to silence another radioman telling me more things that I do not need to know, and when I look up I realise that another car is entering my lane as the driver speaks to his secretary on a cellular telephone. I brake and swerve to avoid him, only to realise that I am on one of the many secretive patches of ice that winter has given us this morning and that my steering is nearly useless. I slide off of the road, still steering in a vain attempt to get back onto the asphalt so that I do not lose time to this inconvenience. As the last of my wheels roll onto the grass with my speed still in excess of fifty miles per hour, I know that this will likely mean a delay in my commute and could possibly even spill my coffee. I don’t have time for this; I have work to do.

I have always lived against the odds. If there was a shadow of a doubt, I was standing in its shade. If there was a ghost of a chance, I had called the seance. It was grimly amusing to me, then, that my path took me between guardrails in the median which were designed to prevent the very sort of thing that was about to happen. I rammed a sign telling me that this was one of two creeks with the same name in the area (although one was called “big” and one was called “little”), and I felt weightless as the vehicle fell down ten feet or so into water. The cold water quickly rose as I realised I was pinned inside the vehicle, and I held the breath I had drawn just seconds ago. I could still see the words “Scenic River” on the green sign that I had struck and which was now twisted into the front of my vehicle, and it occurred to me that I knew not if it was scenic. I knew only that it was cold, since I usually pass it without notice on my way to do the work that I have to do. I could see that the water filled my car to just inside the open rear hatch, and that I was only three feet or so beneath the surface. It was enough, I thought to myself, and this will definitely make me miss my obligations today.

A sudden sense of peace and calmness washed over my mind, and I probably would have seen my life flash before my eyes if I had in fact had a life and not a series of obligations, appointments, and roles to fill. I could still hear the traffic from the road above, people who were going to meet their obligations today and who had work to do.

Suddenly I laughed. I laughed at myself and the joke that my life had been. I laughed all the lost laughter of my lifetime in a few seconds, laughter for which there had never been time, making no sound after my air was gone but laughing still. I laughed because this time it was me. I laughed because I was still thinking trivial thoughts about my life insurance and how somebody was going to have to clear my calendar so nobody waits for me in meetings. I wept as I laughed, my tears and blood mixing with the cold water of a Midwest spring morning as it all became clear to me at once, irrevocably too late.

My mind struggles to recall the words to Handke’s “Lied vom Kindsein” as now they seem to have been a warning that I did not heed, and I laugh as they fill my last thoughts.

I laugh because at last I have no more work to do, and until the darkness takes me I am free.

(In reference to the song “Bartender”, by Rehab)

A man travels east, arrives at a trailer park at 6am, spends a few moments observing his shit in the yard and forcing open the entry door, then leaves heading west at 35 miles per hour in a piece of shit Nova:

1) How far did he travel so that he had time to crash the piece of shit Nova and walk to a bar that is still open and serving when he arrives?

2) What time of year and latitude must the bar be located so that it is still dark when he arrives but sunrise occurs within the space of time it takes the man to consume an alcoholic beverage?

3) Where is he in the world, if a bar is still serving after 6am when he arrives?

4) If a man’s shit is thrown out into the yard in a trailer park and nobody is there to observe it, is his girlfriend still high on some pills?

5) Are there actually an unusual percentage of bartenders named Moe, or is this simply the Observer-Expectancy effect of observation bias?

6) At what temperature does everything you love burn as you watch, when it is incinerated using kerosene as an accelerant?

7) Which is more likely, that the man hired a taxi, was driven by a friend, or simply walked to his home to arrive by 6am, since presumably he did not drive or he would have not needed to jack the keys to his girlfriend’s fucking car?

8) If he walked, where would he have to be in the world such that sunrise is after 6am and yet the climate is suitable to walking while intoxicated?

http://www.dailykos.com/story/2005/1/1/214659/5097

(The above link is a discussion of the U.S. flag being flown at half-mast for a full month for Ronald Wilson Reagan’s death, and roughly a week for the tsunami victims)

To make this easier to understand for myself and others, I have developed a handy conversion factor for the relative worth of white and brown lives.

First, take the distance in miles between the U.S. border and the tragedy in question, in this case approximately 12000, and divide it by 12, the number of Jesus’ disciples, to get 1000.

You then square this number to get a million and divide the number of actual casualties, which for the recent tsunami is approximately 155000. This gives us .155 months of flag-at-half-staff, or 4.65 days.

This conversion factor is measured in the unit “Reagans” and was based on the 30 days given to Ronald Reagan versus the five days given to the tsunami victims. Thus, the amount in Reagans is inversely proportionate to distance from the U.S. border with adjustments made for the colour of the victims i.e. Australians would rate higher than Japanese or Indonesians despite their greater distance from the U.S. border. For 155000 casualties to rate 1 Reagan, or a full month of lowered flags, it would have to occur within 5000 miles of the border and it would also help if the victims were either caucasian or economically useful.

Note that ordinary white citizens of the U.S. can and do die daily, often during heroic deeds, but even they do not rate 1/30 of a Reagan because they do not meet the criteria of being Republican AND excessively wealthy. Richard Nixon normally would have been afforded this honour, but he got reduced to .25 Reagans for being a member of a terrorist organisation…extra credit to anyone who knows which organisation.

Abraham Lincoln was a toymaker, inventor of Lincoln Logs, and aspiring politician whose original surname was Zapruder. He assumed the name “Lincoln” when he entered politics and wanted to name himself after the Lincoln pennies that were popular in his day, and even tried to make himself look like the man on the front of the coin by wearing a tophat and beard so that people would identify him with money and prosperity. The model for the coin was Buddy Ebsen dressed as Jed Clampett at his wedding, and Ebsen once threatened to sue Lincoln for infringement until a settlement was reached out-of court. One of Lincoln’s cronies, George Washington, was originally named George Michael and was the grandfather of the sex-wanting Wham frontman of the same name until he assumed the name and look of the Washington quarter dollar image.

Washington and Lincoln were implicated in the Kennedy assassination attempt when it was discovered that Washington had chopped down a cherry tree on the grassy knoll on Dealey Plaza that would have prevented any shots being fired from the bushes atop it, and enhanced photos reveal the presence of an apparent stovepipe hat from within the foliage. When questioned by a federal grand jury, Washington perjured himself on the stand, stating “I cannot tell a lie” and then proceeding to give testimony which has since been revealed as false. Other members of the “Loose Change Gang” as they called themselves, were Theodore “Teddy Bear” Roosevelt who took his name from the Roosevelt dime but was originally named Kaczynski, John “50 Cent” Kennedy, who took his name from the Kennedy half-dollar and was originally named Gotti (he was saved from the assassination attempt by a skin transplant that allowed him to reinvent himself as a popular rap artist), and the grand matron Susan B. Anthony, who took her name from the dollar coin but was originally named Quentin. Susan Anthony later went on to convert to Islam and assume the name “Suzy Q”, and was made a saint by Pope Ignorant XXV which led to the famous San Quentin prison being named after her. The Church later regretted making her a saint when information surfaced regarding her torrid affair with Lincoln and Washington simultaneously, the details of which are still partially classified.

The Loose Change Gang, or la Cambiamento Allentato Nostra (CAN) carved a bloody swath throughout world politics of their time and were instrumental in establishing the black market as an underground economy rivalling even the legitimate economies under which it conceals itself. They sold drugs with Prescott Bush from their stronghold in Columbus, Ohio which was built on Native American earthworks, and ran guns with Helen Keller and the “See No Evil” gang before eventually absorbing this gang into their own ranks. They had their fingers in many different pies, from Sara Lee to Little Debbie, and at one point almost every penny of profit had to pass through their bloodsoaked hands first, a fact that is commemorated even now with the term “red cent” and with completed business deals being called “in the CAN”.

Never since their heyday has such a melding of politics and crime been seen, although admirable attempts have been made by the likes of Richard “Milhouse” Nixon (a politicriminal who took the sinister nickname of an adorable but dark character from The Simpsons), Hillary “Newt” Gingrich (a hermaphrodite sarcastically named after a Monty Python sketch involving a witch-hunt and married to ex-president Clinton), and Silvio “Il Duce” Berlusconi.

An unexpected side-effect of the activities of these politicriminals was that they consolidated power under a multi-gang collective called “Force, Extortion, Death” or “The FED” for short, and this basic organisation remains to this day although it has ostensibly “gone legit” as the parlance goes and deals primarily in currency controlling these days. This has helped to improve the standard of living of every nation which fell under its sinister shadow, and subsequent attempts at dismantling the power structure have proven to be detrimental to society and thus abandoned.

We, the politicriminal element, are asking for the support of all registered voters this year as we once again continue our fine tradition by electing a junior member of our proud establishment. We are asking for your votes this year to elect George “Dial W for War” Bush, a veteran of our oil racket as well as our institutionalised murder racket in both domestic and foreign executions and a descendent of some of our more distinguished former members. Please vote early and vote often, and remember that we were the first politicriminal gang to give the voters a kickback for their votes.

We did it once, lets do it again… I know we CAN.

There is a nation whose very existence is owed to a foreign population taking land by force, employing tactics ranging from bioterrorism to harmful and false treaties, whose proud and longtime original residents are now crowded into ghettoes in the worst parts of the nation, and that is just the ones that have managed to survive. The Geneva Convention was blatantly ignored for one reason or other, and the invading forces believed that it was their divine right to take the land either because their deity gave it to them, or because the people living on the land originally were followers of the wrong religion, or simply because if they could take the land then they were meant to take the land in a manifestation of political darwinism.

Settlements were established by the occupying forces in order to demographically secure the land for themselves, and enough time has gone by that they now consider themselves rightful owners and native to the land they had stolen, as most or all of them have been born in the occupied territory.

Further, once the land was secured the other nations of the world conspired to help them, by sending people to the new area to further secure it and prevent an uprising that would restore the original order.

No attempt has been made, nor will any attempt ever be made, to restore the birthright of the original owners of the land and resources, partly because of the perceived divine right of the interlopers and partly because of the conspicuous lack of surviving victims.

Now for the quiz:

To which nation am I referring?

A) Israel
B) Britain
C) United States
D) Canada
E) Tibet
F) Cuba
G) Hawaii
H) None of the above, that never happens.
I) All of the above, and more.

Goth
Goth is (among other things) an ordinal term.

Ordinal terms
Ordinal terms are words like ‘first’, ‘second’, ‘third’, ‘fourth’, ‘last’, and so on. Notice that often the number with which they are associated is corrupted or missing in favour of a latin root (in the instance of ‘second’, etc) or a corrupted version of the original Old English term (in the instance of ‘first’ and ‘third’, etc). After three they tend to be just the number with an appended -nd -th -st since most uses of ordinal terms are concerned with only the first three positions. Races, pageants, and other competitions where a group is graded and given relative ranking are the primary uses of ordinal terms. Some competitions even have extra terms for these places such as ‘winner’/’runner up’/’second runner up’ or ‘win’/’show’/’place’, since the difference in reward for these places is great.

Distilled
Essentially, ordinal terms are applied to a person or thing by a person or group who is considered to be in authority. They are not applied by the person or thing itself, rather the person or thing is submitting itself to be graded. After all, what individual would say that they are second or third at something if they could control the ordering criteria?

Extrapolation
Following the pattern put forth previously, i suggest that ‘Goth’ is a term not unlike ‘ninth’, a contraction of two other words (such as ‘nine’ + ‘th’) and an ordinal term. In the case of Goth, the terms are ‘God’ and ‘th’.

Conclusion
Goth is thus an interesting term, because it is at the same time an ordinal term and the antithesis of all ordinal terms (a quantum property!). It follows the pattern of ordinal terms but is not derived from a number or relative position. It is a term which is applied by an entity to itself when it refuses to be evaluated according to the rules of another entity (an entity could be anything from a high school science teacher to society as a whole). It is the ‘Go(d)th’ place because it exists in the same time and place as an entity of which it can never be an integral part. People can commune with their Godhead only indirectly, through meditation or other means, since direct communion would mean destruction of one or more involved parties. Those in the ‘Goth’ place can commune only indirectly with the society of those who would be ordered, through an art form or by attempting to enlighten the listed masses, to elevate them to a self-ruling, self-empowered, self-God state…

…the Goth state.