Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow

Manglinguisticks

I wake up with just enough time to wash the baba off my face and rush down the hills of City Terrace to ride the El Sol Shuttle down Eastern and into Atlantic, hoping that some of the regular commuters are already waiting, and not rushing like me, which will give me a bit more time.

A veterano down the block warming up his time-machine Cadillac Coupe Deville shouts out, "running late again man!"

"Nope, Just on time! Hook it up with a ride!"

"Chale!"


I raise my arm and gesture a wave that communicates both whatever and later. There's no reason to the wave. I could've gestured nothing at all and left it a Chale. It wouldn't matter. Either way, I don't stop for anything and continue the morning rush down the terrace just as the shuttle starts coming over the hill.

It's the same commuters most of the time, though mostly everyone keeps to themselves. The "Chipster" Chic-ana with her quirky hats and long nylons listening to her i-whatever. The Doña and her woven poly-mesh bags. The kid that likes anime and plasters it all over his shirts and backpack with buttons, and a few others that have become part of the El Sol canvas. We snake down Eastern, up Floral, right on Mednik, left on Cesar Chavez, right on Atlantic and into the motorpsycho vroom vroom! of the day's grind. The concerted silence illustrates the loneliness and unpleasantness of the commute that tugs and pulls you with every commuter that steps into and out of the public transport. 

I catch my breath, feeling as though I have just reached the surface from being tossed in a riptide wave and unable to reach the surface no matter how much I flail and swim.

As I approach my destination, the illuminated red sign above the driver dings and lights up the words:

STOP REQUESTED!

I have enough time (and enough capital) to buy a cup of "fair-trade" coffee, ethically and responsibly grown, from Starbucks. The NY Times shows another story about TERROR and the LA Times echoes the rally cry. I continue the rush to work, feeling good and hyped up while remaining calm and collected. It's a an-other day in the news; it's another day of manglinguisticks, but before I start work...

I reflect on the fact that it's a nice day despite the...

Sedation stations that teach domestication through pacification of disrupting narratives. (un)Sound waves of media digital radiowaves amplifying and broadcasting dizzy amnesia spells onto the spectators. Consumers consuming hypnotic stories that suggest that change cannot occur rapidly and must be achieved peacefully and gradually, i.e. "respectably." These stories that show masses facing systematic (and historical) displacement and neglect, and which suddenly must forfeit their right for drastic action while the opposite reserves their might (and right) to crush and decimate, if not grind into attrition, the razor sharp edge of cutting ideologies and practices that dispel the broad-net-cast over the sea like an electric mesh that shocks fish.

These stories that omit the invisible parties which come to light upon disruption of equilibrium due to indefinite chaos: random acts of violence. To manage such circumstances necessitates concerted effort and conductors with iron fists. The orchestra allots a part for everyone to play and partake in the grand scheme. No Jazz unless its structured Jazz.

And, Management of imagined future visions precludes the social transcendent realism of the present in this eternal march to the grave of the blind leading the blind.

Traditional handed down leftist/liberal protest methods become ingrained into the daily programming of predictable rigidity: opening and closing of...business as usual--back and forth and to and fro and banshee echoes from the land of dead into the living catalyze the live stock into temporal movement(s); buy your Che buttons and quote Emma Goldman and recite MLK, revive and pile high the corpses of the dead; this is the only real revolution--clockwork construction zones that ossify one's place in dead space.

Ding!

Your Appointment has arrived.

Ding! Ding Ding! Time's up! Ding! Ding Ding! Treat Time! Ding! Ding Ding! Good Job, go home. go sleep.

Ding!

It's morning and already the outside claws at my walls; I take a peek out my window. Down the street a jackhammer breaks into a off-beat syncopation: the conductor has gone mad and has caused cracks and scandals with his unauthorized and wildcat use of the pressured drill. Surely, the right powers will come down on him in due time.

I close the blinders and veer into another window: Status update--"it's noisy outside." A knock on my door brings annoyance; it's a young kid dressed in monochrome black handing out pamphlets promoting Eternal Fraternity. I say thank you, cut him short, and return to my laptop feeling a bit guilty. It's my day off. Please leave me alone today, but not really...Do you have a temporary fraternity pamphlet?

I nuke some oatmeal and coffee for breakfast. I head out for a walk down City Terrace to rush the El Sol shuttle again. There's a farmers market on Friday's in Boyle Heights that has a curandero stand. His space is normally empty and he has all kinds of herbs, stones, and waxes for "healing" purposes. To be honest, I don't know why I go see him; I don't buy anything. Maybe I haven't found the right item. Maybe I'm too messed up from psycho-logical operations of regular programming to see the wisdom in this crazy fools ways. Maybe I'll just ghost hunt on the shuttle today. Maybe I'll just buy something. Maybe that'll make it all go away. Maybe i'll jusy maybe all day. there's the line--here comes the purple shuttle.

Doin' the Clockwork Cockroach

"Yes yes yes, there it was. Youth must go, ah yes. But youth is only being in a way like it might be an animal. No, it is not just being an animal so much as being like one of these malenky toys you viddy being sold in the streets, like little chellovecks made out of tin and with a spring inside and then a winding handle on the outside and you wind it up grrr grrr grrr and off it itties, like walking, O my brothers. But it itties in a straight line and bangs straight into things bang bang and it cannot help what it is doing. Being young is like being like one of these malenky machines.
My son, my son. When I had my son I would explain all that to him when he was starry enough to like understand. But then I knew he would not understand or would not want to understand at all and would do all the veshches I had done, yes perhaps even killing some poor starry forella surrounded with mewing kots and koshkas, and I would not be able to really stop him. And nor would he be able to stop his own son, brothers. And so it would itty on to like the end of the world, round and round and round, like some bolshy gigantic like chelloveck, like old Bog Himself (by courtesy of Korova Milkbar) turning and turning and turning a vonny grahzny orange in his gigantic rookers."

"This one's a doctor / This one's a lawyer / This one's a cash fiend / Taking your money [...] One year / Twenty years / Forty years / Fifty years / Down the road in your life / You'll look in the mirror / And say, 'My parents are still alive'"


Work Cited:
Burgess, A., A Clockwork Orange (1962)

Mezcafe with a little spam.

The second cup of Cafe con Leche with the shot of mexcalli threw my sense of orientation into a cohesive misalignment. The world tends to make more sense after a bit of Mezcal and Coffee and Milk. Well, it probably doesn't either way, but the concoction makes it seem so nevertheless. Ancient voodoo Aztechnomagic. nomagic. noaztech.

Illusions help dispel the layers of black majix: for a moment I become a megalomaniac and recount the counter-narratives that have been crushed by the canons of a foreign warship which decimate a people and re-structures their lands for them, or rather, for themselves. Puro desmadre. A history of desmadre.

My mind, and thus reality, is constantly shattered by narrative of destruction: Yesterday, I shamelessly crushed a cockroach with the worn down elastic rubber sole of my red Doc Martens! Death by Footwear Inc! I looked quite fashionable doing it too! wacha! I'm huaracheando now, gotta set those rubber boots aside. Fashion is violence.

And all this popoyotl hits the fan, or rather affects the mind, when the mezcal runs its course. I start to connect dots and make sense of senselessness: here and there, everywhere, all over, this place and that space, and every which way...everywhere and nowhere in ahuiclandia.

The yottabytes of information that has been kept alive through the blood in my grandpa's veins (and his grandpa's grandpa) brewed into a ceramic cup. One must have gratitude for the "ancestors" and all that cal, to quote Burgess.

"Tu abuelo...hm! no hombre!" my aunt would tell me, "sin duda, desayuno seguro con cafe y tequila".

Pura Borrachera, I used to think to myself (I mean, who else would I think to? you?). Mexicans and their drinking! Mexicans and their fiestas, quincianeras. Their "rancheras" and "corridos." oh yeah, Mexicans and their Guadalupe Hidalgo, and their Tijerinas and Joaquins and Chavez. And their lynchings. And their miseducation.

This old man, however, he plays none. He controls the drink. He would probably be a powerful sorcerer in another time. The man still lives. 79. still drinking his tequila and coffee. He visits, but I think it's bad for his nerves. I'm not sure if anyone notes this;  in the land of the free, he drinks more, and the metal bird racks his nervous system. He needs to stay in his tierra. I'm surprised this latent shaman of an old man can yet handle the shifts and travels and parties and foods that surround him when he comes; the relatives flood him with constant meet and greets. The strange thing is that he is moved about and hardly mingles while everyone else gets into the mitotes. The old man can likely testify to a history of Desmadre.

Where was I? oh yeah,
The second cup of mezCafe and milk that brings it all together...I mean, I think it does. No wait...it's really the vodka that brings it together. Whisky will sometimes do it, but tequila and mezcal will just get you drunk. Then again, the other two might do it as well.

...I don't even know what I had anymore...and whether it's corn (maize), wheat, agave, barley, grain, or potato potato, I need to get my spirits straight. To be honest (I mean, if you can really trust this narration of disorientation), the chingadera that tends to blunt me in the brain, or lack thereof, with desmadre would be the technosphere.

The netz provide an escape while casting a spell that forms a trance of my reality: I'm a laptop infojunky surfing the innerspace, and I'm a terrible surfer. I read nothing but fiction. There is a popular story going around right now about an unarmed black kid in America that sparked a potential revolution. The resulting (r)evolution of state versus the people in a clash that had never been. A story immediately expunged for containment of contamination in the nation: Federico's ghost yet sticks up the middle finger from another realm in an-other time and place.

Another one follows a former NSA operative through Moscow and his attempt to wake up people in the U.S., but since America likes to sleep, all efforts go into tracking this fellow funny man; it's quite a suspenseful story.

There's an ok one about a small country being bombed to rubbles; you really got to read in between the line in this story. 

All great fiction. And, my daze consists of figuring out who, or what, writes these stories. I've named him/her/it the Magnificent Scribe. Sometimes I stumble onto crumbs of encrypted clues that help me figure out the 1's and 0's behind the cloud and the (seemingly invisible) p1ace(s)pace(s) of the hidden codex blues. But that's a blog entry for another day. Earlier today, codename Xoaltecuhtli sent me an e-mail with the subject heading "I know what you've been reading." A bizarre e-mail, and I'm not sure why the aztec god of sleep would be interested in what I am reading, or whether Loki is really messing with me on this one. 


...


It's all spam. The world is a big ball of roundly canned spam, manufactured by fashion ink.: Huitzolopotchli decked out in celestial cybergear. HuitlzoloPocho the butcher, coming to spam your shit soon. Buy your buttons and "tune in and drop out" and all that jazz and all that fad. Cafe con Leche and a drop of Mezcalina to help you get things crooked, to help you clear away the cobwebs of smooth silk--thin and invisible to trained eyes--that often stiffens movements the more one tries to disentangle. Realigment through further disalignment coz the aligment is a black majix brought to you by fashion inc.  Check out this Roethke! Oh, you don't know Roethke? Eat this mezcafe with a little spam and explore the void. What's the matter? it's only empty space! Desmadre and Jodidas, and a little spam. 


Goodnight cyber-voyeur, goodnight.

Ommm~

I hear a faint hum in the middle of the night and wake up in search of this little noise that I think I'm hearing or that is possibly just inside my head. At this point I'm not really sure since my sleep patterns reflects a scatter plot that lacks any plot and is all scatter--hyphenated sleep followed by commas, brackets, obeli, ellipsis, asterims, and full stop periods.

Here is a close typographic resemblance:
--  zz,,,,.[      Z!]*    ÷   ...   ⁂. ©

In any case, the pattern (or lack thereof) keeps me from sleep, and I haven't had a good night's rest the whole week. This fact increases my distrust and uncertainty; how can I trust the things I am hearing, or imagining, when I haven't had a sound night of sleep in a week? I can't imagine (the fact of imagining anything at all astounds me: the only true reflection is that of a completely stupid fool taking his paranoia too seriously as though it mattered); this must be hell, no..., more accurately, an exaggeration.

mellow-drama: Te-le-vele-no-ve-L.A.

I go over to the fridge and for some ice cold water.

The fridge emits a noise itself as though it has a little lawnmower underneath; this is not the source. The fridge sound buzzes and sometimes clanks; it doesn't hum.

I go out to the deck and sip on the water to cool down in the hot summer night. I continue to hear the hum coming from behind me somewhere.

William Lee said once said that being paranoid is simply having the right information.
I'm not paranoid. 
I'm just lacking a bit of sleep.

These past few weeks have been difficult on my body; lack of nutrition has made me lose 10 pounds. I eat oatmeal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I sip on coffee to drink something other than water. I feel dizzy spells and grow faint, nearly passing out every now and then. My rent's due; the check comes and disappears, I then work a whole month toward performing my next magic trick. Dizzy spells. Magic trix. Hokus-Bogus-Pocus, lack of focus.

There it goes again: that vibrating sound. I finish the water and pour a glass of whine.

There was another shooting in the news today, but these things have become so routine that they have have entered a narrative of indifference because of being accustomed to everything that nothing really matters, or self-preservation.

This narrative occurs at work, and the magic tricks, or illusions, expose the reality of a circumstance that draws me nearer to the source of the humming noise. Somebody behind the curtain pulls the invisible strings that highlight the sideshows, and we applaud and shout hooray! Above our heads someone shines a light and we are handed a script. Everyone totally focused on the magic tricks.

The AC at work hums above our heads while we collectively configure splintered sentences.

The languid movements of my performances at work illustrate my feeble attempt to break the spell that hypnotizes...to break the depression that hysterically mocks and attempts to invade my body and soul like a virus looking for a clean and healthy host (or so I think)...to break away from the constant battering of mind and spirit in dealing with all types of energies every thirty minutes. After a while it's best to shut down and run on cruise-control until I arrive at my destination: taking you on a tour, my dear voyeur.

At night when I do not sleep, I read the Bible. I suppose that I'm trying to understand the Word and utilize the frequencies that can be emitted by the Word in order to heal. This is perhaps another magic trick illusion. Illusion layered upon illusion: ommm~

INCA.NTATIONL.AMEN.TATION: OM~

This past week, I was reading about the hippocampus, the pineal gland, the cerebrum, and the cherubim. The term cherubim comes from the Assyrian word Kiribu, from Karåbu, "to be near."

I am attempting, perhaps subconsciously, to "be near" or to at least re-cognize G-d through the brain's plumbing. The reconfiguration stems from a deep desire to want to believe in something more than the destructive forces of uniforms, metals, and punch-cards. But this attempt merely reflects a further derangement of my already disordered nervous system, and the weaving of dots and plot points fabricate into my own theory of faith.

Indeed, the obsession illustrates my derangement, yet I tend to persist in these spaces that yield no benefit whatsoever. I consistently tell myself that I should pursue practical things, and become someone, like a teacher, a garbageman, a priest, an anarchist, a human...or something like that. But those things often feel foreign, and there's nothing that makes me squirm more than a poorly, indifferently executed performance (much like this writing thing, I'm trying, but I'm not really good at it: the prose lacks cohesion; the wording turns all of it...into comedy, not the good kind, the type that makes you uncomfortable, these pieces of text lack plot and structure, and all of it reflects baboon buffonery ornery boober or a babo...so, whatever)
  It seems that I am addicted to filling the creeping dullness of routine with paranoia, which often reflects the sanity I chip away at (indeed, I at least have some sanity to begin with) in contrast to the useless, pointless knowledge that holds me with just enough buoyancy. But perhaps I secretly desire to sink and suffocate, yet I can not achieve that, still bubbling and gurgling in the intestines like a fart that eventually floats, liberating itself, and contaminating the oxygen with a foul smell, for it declares it's (neglected) presence, and brings to light the refuse in, amid, and throughout the historical neglect, reminding of the few hiccups here an there and disturbing the order in civility and properties.

Perhaps that's where the sound is coming from?

A Fool

It tended to be cold out most of the days, like the breeze one feels from opening a freezer--that sudden gust of condensing vapor: the instant, brief hint of fog.

frigid aire


No one was home, and there wasn't muchpasteto eat. He toasted some wheat bread and warmed some coffee. He sat on the warmly lit kitchen table. Dimming the light, he took a minute to look down at supper for that evening. Clasping his hands together over the dish of warm bread, he prayed, even though he wasn't very religious. He prayed to nothing, for nothing, grateful for nothing, for the nada in and of everything. He supposed it funny to be hunched over those crumbs, but it just felt right. He lit a candle and dimmed the light some more. 

Sometimes right lighting can make all the difference. 

He repeated many thanks, but most of them were directionless.

A loud knocking woke him from concentration. Tok, tok, tok! he went over to open the door. It was an old friend. 

“yo-yo, what’s up?”

“Hey!...Come in"

“Nada nada limonada..just trying to eat. Want some coffee or something?”

“Come in, close the door”
They both ate toast and drank coffee.

They talked a little about a recent LACMA exhibit: the Olmec heads—a bunch of concrete heads on display all over the museum. He recalled it being a nasty thing. He talked about how they must have been an innovative people to be able to fashion all that rock into shape, but his friend thought it a shame that the history testified to a dark past. His friend said heads are severed through policy nowadays. He stopped paying attention and wandered off in thought when his friend got into nostalgic and political words. He didn’t want to hear any of it; It was tinkling brass and phraseology to him--a speechifier and too much pomp.

“Listen, I’m going out”
“Where to?”
“I’m going to meet Hope by Dockweiler”
“oh...bad timing eh? ok, well, I came over to see what you were up to. Hey, what are they doing to the streets over there?”

Outside, the jackhammer played a symphony to a tow truck that kept rhythm.

“I don’t know...repairs”
“Well, if ain’t broke don't fix it, I always say” His friend took paranoia seriously.

“wise words there”
“You bet! next thing you know taxes will be going up! well, that being said, take care! See you later”

“...take care. goodbye”
And like that his friend, as suddenly as he appeared, quickly disappeared. 



He called twice and there was no answer. Maybe she got caught up in some sort of business, he thought. It’s always some sort of entanglement. Last time she told him she was held up by a conversation. There’s something dreadful about carrying on a conversation whilst another needs to go. Seems there is rarely any time to “stop and chat,” and sometimes many see it better to carry conversations over into some sort of a digital interface. There is something weird about the human condition when devices used to communicate isolate in some fashion—fragments, a message here, an e-mail, a picture, a disembodied voice (voicemail) there. nowhere and virtually everywhere He sent a text message: “headed out, take warm clothes, see you there,” and grabbed his jacket and car keys.

He started daydreaming about something; he didn’t even recall what though. He’d lost his wallet the prior night and was calling the bank to cancel the credit card. A recording that notified him about all the tellers being busy would occasionally interrupt the muzack. It was nice, at least, to hear that voice. It was human, even though it was recorded; there was some history there, in the tone that said, "thank you for calling." He hung up and decided to cancel online upon return; he was heading out. Driving down the 105, passing LAX, the metal machines took off and dragged clouds behind them over the blue canvas.  The days were filled with this type of useless daydreaming. The fog thickened as he neared closer to the Pacific down Imperial toward Vista Del Mar. 

He arrived a little early, or just on time, depending on purpose, which is never quite clear yet opaque as air. He parked on Vista; it was happy hour. He entered a pub and, thus, shifted the atmosphere. 

“Young mm-man,” said an older gentleman.
“Don’t listen to, -sten to him, he’s drunk” said another over his shoulder.

The young man laughed, a bit drunk, not really to humor them; his drunkenness had reached a level of looseness whereby one could forget about themselves. On the brim of Dionysian forgetfulness. 

His (e)very cell(s) was doused in alcohol. 

He checked his cellphone: nothing. There actually was a sense of relief since his clouded, intoxicated thoughts would be furthered obscured by the weak signal on his cell. 

“LL--Listen to what, to what...I am telling you! you see..see that woman over there”
“yeah, she's beautiful”
“right you are, there...lover boy! gg-go over, and ask her, if she’d like to have sex. What’s the worst that can happen? She slaps you or she says yes”

He was starting to sober up, or he needed another drink.

“1 in 99 that it might work; I even doubt that...that figure, maybe it's more like 0 in 100”
"0 in 100! see, that's what's wrong with you young man, take a risk! 1 in 99? now that zounds likepretty good, purrety good, odds, wouldn’t you say? Feeling lucky?”

“I’m not a gambling man”
“Well then you ain’t living! It feels good to live!”
“excuse me, I’ve got to take this call”
"bah!"

He stepped aside. 

“Buuuueno?”
“Hey! How are you?”
“hey-ello! as good as the next man suppose”
“you ok? hey listen, I won’t be able to make it, I’ve got to finish up some work and I'm feeling soooo so tired. I’m so sorry”
“oh? um-hm..well,"

He sighed

"No worries, no big deal. Something came up..."

He cleared his throat.

"...then something came up...I’ll see you tomorrow?” he inquired.

“definitely”

“Guess I’ll head home”
“Again, I’m sorry about this!"

“Don’t worry, we’ve nothing but time on our side. We’ll meet some other time”
“Ok, love you, goodbye”
“Take care”

Inside the bar an argument broke out and the older man was nowhere to be found. He ordered a shot of tequila, drank it without company, and headed toward the shore.

He had always enjoyed the ocean. He loved feeling the sand grains on his face and the smell of a salty breeze that is so strong one can taste it. One can get a clump of wet sand and hurl it into the ocean and imagine it breaking down into several pieces. The oil-rigs in the distance seem to float out there in space because at night the horizon blurs in with the dark, and if you squint, the faint light can imitate a star. The occasional bon-fire’s attract occasional kumbaya folk and spiritual testimonies. He didn't like it; the zeal can make you lose focus of the sand, the moonlight shimmer bouncing of the water, the breeze, and the gentle crashing of waves sending salty mist into the air.

He had all sorts of questions in his my mind. At work, the teens were reading Siddhartha, and he thought about how much in that novel he didn't understand. Out of suffering came love for the Buddah. For him, pain and suffering: it was life. But connection through such baseless feelings while some love and others despise with words like love and hate meant nothing against the names of oceans, neighborhoods, galaxies, hunger, and people.

His liver was hurting; he often, absentmindedly, mixed  painkillers and alcohol against reason, and he was paying the price for it out there. He wasn’t waiting for an answer, really. He didn’t wait to hear anything. The shore’s salty breeze fizzed in the air like fizz.

The horizon melded with the ocean in a vast canvas of darkness, and the oil-rigs in the distance flickered like a stars. All of the medicine in the world could not fix the dis-ease he felt that night; his eyes burned against the breeze.

He took off his clothes and walked into the Pacific, deciding on a swim. The shore waves hypnotized his vision with an ebb and flow of stillness. The water, he figured, was sure to set him straight. The ocean hissed ~shhhh~ and smoothed the sands; no other sound could be heard but that of a cricket, chirping somewhere in the twilight.

No, everything is not Permitted, even if there is no G-d.

t     h     e     v     a     s     t     c     a     n     v     a     s     o     f     b     l     u     e     s     k     i     e     s
       .  .-.-=-.                                      _.-.-=-. .-=.'"=.-=.               ~                              !  

  ( OPPRESS   )   .'    \&/     'suffocate-=_=-'    with reminders of               BEING   tossed

to~          )) )

     a'nd       )                                                     :above:

            ~fro)                                         B              from the
   '-"-=="                                    ~            l           . consecraitons .         .                                           u               into

                       ~                                                                                                 hu                   transforms                                                
                                              blazon                   twilight                          signals                     of

                 sensational  @@@@@@@@@  entrance             bla           that

      ^^       ^^              @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ ~              gluh!              o           Nada! nadada!
                              @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@              ^^              h
   ~  in  the                @@@@@@@@@@Ω@@@@@@@@@                            c
 ~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~ ~~~"and the giver of golden coats relinquishes its orange flares"~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~                                           E                              
 ~    undercurrent  ~~ ~ ~    vacuous   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~       ~~     ~~ ~                             a
   ~      ~~      ~~ ~~ ~~  ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~  ~     ~~~    ~ ~~~ resound~ ~~
   ~  ~~     ~         ~      ~~~~~~  ~~ ~~~       ~~ ~ ~~  ~'nd\o/~ ~
 ~  ~       ~ ~      ~           ~~ ~~~~~~  ~      ~~  ~rise     ~~~     ~~
       ~             ~        ~      ~      ~~ Prayers           

 of   a    g r e a t o c e a n i c w a v e~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~

The vast canvas of blue skies oppress and suffocate with reminders of being tossed to and fro in the undercurrent of a great oceanic wave. Prayers rise and resound a vacuous echo that transform into consecrations from the above: Blubhublagluh! and the giver of golden coats relinquishes its orange flares, a sensational blazon signaling the entrance of the twilight. The name of things ring hollow next to the chaotic monuments of geometry--in the puffy coil of a cloud and in the seeming randomness of a curl in a wave. Nada! nada! can be heard faintly from some unknown place.

The universe tends to communicate whatever message you'd like to extract from its leaves, trees, and automobiles. Things tends to get muffled in between; the act of translation and decoding has always been a delicate matter, and I tread softly over the relics of the past seemingly alive in the present.

I reflected on this matter over some coffee at a local shop. I froze my gaze upon a palm tree swaying in the breeze. The prelude was set, and the silence accentuated an intense emotion behind my composure:

I felt like crying. My eye's filled to the brim with moisture. I felt tired and weak and stupid and frail and like the biggest fool in the world. I beat myself up over and over that I feel ashamed to tell you about it here, none of it was healthy for my mind or the universe. It was absurd, the existence of humanity--a comedic reflection of defiance against the indifference of a vast multiverse.

For a brief moment, the wonder of a young man--an embodiment of power, rationale, and passion (or lack thereof)--realized that at any moment he is easily thrown about like a rag doll torn to pieces in a social whirlwind that invade and overwhelm the fibers of his consciousness on a day to day basis, and like the majesty of movement in a lion's pounce and bite, his mind is ripped to shreds.


I felt at that instant like a fanatic and wanted to jump up and down like a jack-in-the box. In fact, the very fact of me feeling in that manner illustrated the mechanical nature in my existence. I was a mere object under the illusion of a conscious subjectivity that had been set in motion ever since man sat around fire and planted crops. This thought heightened my melancholia into laughter and stupidity. My tears subsided and I felt like part of the crowd, sipping my iced coffee at a kaffeklatsch where no one was invited and the only guest was myself and my foolishness.

"If God does not exists, everything is permitted" -a popular translation of Dostoevsky's line in The Brother's Karamazov