Monday, October 27, 2014

The Greatest Novel Never Written

The Greatest Novel Never Written
This is my unfinished project to write a novel similiar to Bill
O'Reilly's "Those Who Trespass" with bad allusions to certain
individuals and a street-smart, tantric lover, anti-semitic, ladies'
man/party animal, sociopathic detective much like O'Reilly's "Tim
O'Malley". This may reflect poorly on my mental health.

A breeze passed through the opening in the window, with the shade
waving it in. The cold swirrled and mixed the darkness of the room. I
laid in bed a total schizophrenic caught between two minds - one that
wanted to know where I was and the other that rested so soundly in the
bliss of my colorless ignorance. I held my breath for a moment, to
listen for any sounds the heaviness of my being were muffling.
"Fuck..." words fumbling quietly over my gritty lips. Sounds of
slumber placed across from me, lurking on the other side of the bed
like some nefarious enemy waiting quietly for my next move. "Where the
fuck could I have possibly ended up?" I playfully ran through my mind
as if this had never happened before.

No, perhaps, this isn't the first affair - if I'm going to begin this
I should start with something earlier; the worst night of my life when
I met Shazine at that hole-in-the-wall bar on Crowning street. Maybe I
should introduce myself, too. My name is Landon - Landon Rogers. I'm a
private detective, though that is pending as my credentials are
unverfied. You see I got my degree in Portugal, but that's another
story all together. So I guess technically I'm a middle school gym
teacher, since that's how I earn a living - yeah, you can save me all
your PC bullshit; I'm a gym teacher, and there's no getting around it.
To keep my life interesting, I do some survelliance and tracking work
on the side. Some people, they say I'm a daredevil, but I'm not going
to get into how cool I am - I'll leave that up to you to decide - what
I'm doing here is expressing one man's story. There's no more or less
to that because frankly I'm not going to pretend that any of this
makes sense or even needs to. It's just my story.

And the shade snapped startling me from my internal world. The wind's
caress had turned violent in an unpredictable spat. The springs
creaked - shrill warning cries, but this monkey had no tree to scury
up, and the tiger was closing in. This damned ape didn't even have any
pants on. I knew she was awake before she said anything; I heard the
noise cooking in her before it even bounced out of her mouth.

"Hey stud..." I could barely see her but felt her warmth as she
reached over to bring us closer. I knew this was trouble; I wanted

"Hey," I said in a tone that vaguely suggested emotion. To be
painfully honest I had no idea who this woman was, and to further
extend that painful honesty, I had no intention of blaming myself for
my clearly deviant behavior. When a man is constantly drunk, he
doesn't even owe himself explanations. I don't drink because I can
deal with my problems; hell, this shit is getting too ironic. There's
few things I hate more than irony - well except maybe Jews because
that's just part of my absurd character, but I digress...

She got especially closed to my ear with her hot breath and moist
tongue, darting around in her mouth, and whispered loudly "Mmmmm, God
Vince, that was so good what you did to me tonight. I didn't think I
could ever feel like that - at least not outside of paradise. I've
never seen a man orgasm so many times. You're such a skilled lover." I
knew I was good, but not that good, so I assumed Vince was my name to
this sultry dame. One point for the L-man. I guess even the most
plastered can still be kniving. That liquid charisma is long gone now;
its corpse looking a bit like my dying liver. My head ached, perhaps
on cue to my realization (I use that word loosly) of last nights

"Baby, do you mind if I turn on the lights?"

"Whatever." I wiggled out of her oppressive heat and fumbled with the
dark swirls of the room. Keen eyes don't run along the y chromosome in
my family - the questions whose room this was and how would I know
where a light switch was clung to the womb, too heavy now for my mind
to push out. But, sooner or later fools get their break; I hit
something nearly knocking it over, grabbing it quickly to discover it
was a lamp. I turned it on. I looked over. I had no idea who this
woman was, but she was smiling at me - a big, ugly smile. The kind I
would expect to see on a sweaty-handed youth peeling through his dad's
dirty magazine. I felt exposed like I was spread eagle on a glossy
page for anyone, and I didn't like it. The smile moved to the words
"come here" and her finger reaffirmed it. God, the way she said that
was all tongue. She seemed reptilian to me, and my libido did protest.

It didn't matter how she looked. I won't even describe that to you.
Fat or thin, hard or soft, any color you can name - trifles really to
any honest man. There really is no visualization to passion - taste,
smell and touch are what matter. Who knows when man became an infant
in regard to his sexual being; thought I can't say I hold much
concern. "Hold on" I muttered taking note of where my pants where -
draped across what looked like a box of wine - embarassing. "Carlo
Rossi?" I thought - well at least it was a cheap date.

She crossed her arms and peered - defensive. I heard her mouth move
"well, you best be hurring it up." I grabbed the lamp like a tomahawk,
and threw it pulling the chord out of the wall right at her. Instantly
as soon as the lamp left my hands the room went pitch black. Swirls of
black rubbing up against crashes and screams of horror. I had slain
the beast; I think she had one ear. I wondered if that would make her
like a "aurclops" or something - I don't know. I grabbed my pants and
ran out the door of the room. Pants in tow, I booked it down the hall.
"Fuck, my shoes!" slipped between gasps, and I was running to
hopefully any destination other than here. Yeah, I should have
mentioned I have sociopathic tendencies; I seemingly lose my scruples
as much as I loose articles of clothing after a night of this
bullshit. I'm sure she's fine though....

This project failed as it was too ridiculous, and the character was
very bothersome. I did however write this death scene for him just

"Jim, what are you holding in your hand?" I asked in curious amusement

Jim looked down and saw what he was holding, "Looks like a knife, Lando!"

"Cool, I hope I don't accidently fall onto it." rang from Lando's
mouth as he moved forward to trip on a small stone and began falling
over for what felt like a very long time. The knife pierced his chest,
ending his life a little later when his own blood closed his coffin.

"NOOOOOO!!!! MY BEST FRIEND!!!!" Jim screamed while sitting in his
chair watching American Idol two months later when the realization
that Lando wasn't around anymore really sunk in.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

The Measure of a Man

It only took me 6 years to make $1.52.  Apparently my amateur philosophical ramblings are worth about a Snickers bar.  I guess that's better than nothing.  This is how you make money blogging!

Friday, February 10, 2012

Becoming Creature

We talk about a kingdom --  is it a matter of difference or degree?  At what point do we engage in an act, a mode of being that distinguishes us from an animal?  What are animals incapable of that we can do?  There is very little, as science reveals, that we thought belonged solely to humans -- e.g. language, self-awareness, rational and mathematical thinking.  All these qualities just draw out a line of degree from animal to human.  There is one thing that no animal possesses, and it is dual creative and revelatory energy of the sanctification.  It is nihilistic and destructive by denying the material in place of the splendid and spectral transcendent, and at the same time, it is creative and gives new meaning.  Lies are more essential to meaning than truth.  A difficult psychological and historical reality to accept.  Humans are the only animal capable of sublimated suicide, a seemingly disembodied ego that can turn on itself and the blood-based, physical world.  We have to believe; we have to lie to preserve our humanity even our base human functioning.  It is hard to maintain an appetite if you cannot convince yourself that human love is real.  We are animals without tooth and claw if we are deprived of the suicidal drive to lie, to sanctify, to remove ourselves from the material.  If we enter into the lies, we create and perpetuate the lies, we are no longer an animal, not a degree, but transcend into difference.

If sanctification, or sublimated suicide, is the way we become human, how do we achieve the fullest extent of our sole act of humanizing.  Enter into a lie that destroys the primary lie that enters into an absurdity of being both human and animal at the same moment.  Sanctify the animal, take care for the animal, abstain from injury towards the animal.  You lie and say the animal is your total equal, and you are an animal.  The animal is anointed.  In your most human act, you give up your humanity and become animal again.  How is it possible that we've acted at our highest capacity as a human and in doing so debased ourselves at the same time?  The material is sanctified, you are debased and equalized, your essential human trait to destroy is inverted and gives new meaning and life to the physical world.  You are both animal and human, you act in a way that makes the animal your equal, but you caused it to occur by engaging in the thing that makes you beyond animal, therefore a human -- you revel in being an absurd creature.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011


The gun is the great equalizer; All are equal before God; God is a gun.

And you ask yourself, how is it that men that want to jump back to another age, when things were in their infancy, shoot guns so fluidly. How can an identity of piety be absolutely fused with the AK-47 and its crescent trigger.

It is a case of false consciousness.

The relationship to technology is indelible, unavoidable. There is no greater post-modern actor than the religious zealot. There would be no Al Qaeda without the Internet for its networking and fomenting; there would be no identity without the hyperbolic, media-myth-making in the hyper-reality of the news. These Muslims want to do away with it. The flabbiness and decadence of the Western modern world, but they fail to see the irony that their very identities, all the symbols, all the knowledge and forms of communication are absolutely dependent upon the decadence of the West.

The guns they tote, the cellphones, Internet forums and the use of the media to give their terrorist activities meaning. Even the suicide bomber is motivated more by the notion of celebrity-hood, in the terms of the inflated sense of the individual by the hyper-reality of the media, than by a true notion of self-debasement before God. The very experience of committing the act of suicide for religious reasons is informed by the knowledge and fabrications of the Western world's news sources, that slowly trickle out into these Muslim nations. They comprehend their fate by those that have gone before them, and those that have gone before them are silent, shattered bodies that are given a false voice of meaning by news agencies.

Al Qaeda is nothing without the AK-47; they have no meaning without the threat of the equalizing force of technology. Technology continues to develop and allow for levels of freedom ineffable. That a clandestine force can exist across the world through the flow of tiny, clicking sinews of bits. That a few bands of men can possess arms that make them a threat to nations, to civilizations. And they speak about the ineffable and the ever-presence of God in a book, but they are composed by the ever-presence of the ineffable freedom of creeping technology.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Truth As Sinew

The strain to understand and to enter into truth and reality hangs as heavy as the weight of our very bodies. These truths maintain themselves in our lives as moral imperatives, as indelible narratives for which all utterances imply, lead back. But what is so scientific, so honest and objective about our deepest moral, cultural and emotional needs. Historically we have always needed a truth more than we have ever possessed truth, entering into the tragic and humorous hindsight of human, fragmentary "progression." Look to the harbingers of truth, the formulations of social bodies to professionally deal with knowledge, and the efficacy of their modern day institutions.

At one point, take up the domain of the human mind and its many emotions, the irrefutable truth of the etiology of malformation in the psyche was the excess and deficiency of humors (i.e. fluids) in the body. Now we talk about such world views riddled with snickers at the expense of the Ancient Greeks. The snickers ring with a certain subconscious self-doubt because the history of the eventual development of the science psychology is as needful of careful editing and dismissal as Church history. Each historical period enters into a radically different world view, an ideology that distinguishes itself from a previous period; this is the stuttering, stop-starting of historical force that allows for a history, where a fluid progression would be impossible if history is to be a real, evocative force. Fundamental contradiction is the historical norm in nearly all science, where for example Newtonian physics and the Theory of Relativity absolutely tear asunder, creating two isolated, historically disparate ideologies. These are not born from each other, but rather, like the neuroscience of psychology today and its Freudian libidinal theory precursor, one ideology becomes inert while another ideology is suddenly, without warning blooming, unfurling the gears of a history.

Each ideology looks back with a wrongheaded notion that it is in some way indebted or related to what came before them, and that it is somehow greater or the torch-bearer of something that came before. Each new ideology thinks itself to be finally at the gates of truth, and it is a foolish Christian sentiment. Each ideology is in the end times, in the time of some great revelation, where the true essence of things has finally arrived and with it the end of history. Yet, this meta-historical narrative continues to repeat itself as one giant, endlessly-toothed gear. We look back and ask how they had possibly gotten it so wrong, and how they had been so far from the truth. While self-assured, we wait in the end times, finally steps away from the truth. But we never once ask, that perhaps there was no truth before us that we had built on, and our new formulating truths are of a nature nothing like what we conceive of in the notion of a historical progression. Truth seems to serve towards the totality of the ideology, the sinew that brings together the senseless, formless nonsense of everything into a meaningful reality. We need the truth to comprehend before we even arrive at the possibility for truth. Truth resides like a blade in the hand, not as a shimmering mirage on the edge of our quiet desert; and blades can lie in their indiscrimnate cutting, the furried pace of blood-gorged fingers. Might lies be primary to allow for a cobweb of intricatly connected truths? And when that first lie, or truth as you might call it, dies as it always does, what new lie must be thrust back into the gullet of the transgression to start the game of ideology and truth all again.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Power and Rights

First feelings of power, of volition are the replications of initial, external power that submit us. A child is scolded for wetting his or her pants; the paternal force disciplines the child. The child then soon enters into this force, appropriates it and in delusion believes when he restrains his own body, he is doing it by his free volition. The first feelings of power, the emergence of the free self, is the exercising of control and power external to ourselves.

From this base, psychological condition of humanity, larger structures of political and social construction occur. Democracy and liberalism, understood in a broad sense, is the appropriation of power that submit disenfranchised groups. What are the pillars of democracy and liberalism? Universalized human rights, the notion of a common good stemming from the construction of a concept of humanity -- of what a human is and therefore needs. Looking carefully and anthropologically, it is apparent that the creation of the human idea is an act of separation, isolation and justification. The Ancient Greek's believed that only men, of particular greek families had status as humans, and every person outside of that restrictive, elite group were sub-human, something more akin to animals in their availability for use; humans have a right on a ground of superiority to exert force and dominion over groups outside of themselves.

In subordination, these subhuman groups enter into numerous psychological complexes. One of them being their inability to assert their force, robbed of an identity, a position in society that allows for the expulsion of bodily and mental force. At times, their resentment and anger turn inward, escaping from the world, giving rise to metaphysics, to a new world of insubordination that can be turned on their one of powerlessness. This is the birth of Abrahamic religions with its clear and hidden progeny. At times, being unable to assert their power, they appropriate power, but power as defined in terms of the elite group's notion of what is human and what humans have rights to. This is the paradoxical universalization of human rights. How can there be an encompassing of all into the one notion of what is human which is defined by elites to distinguish themselves from the subhuman and give them the right over all people? This is the birth of liberalism and democracy. The initial power held over subordinate groups is appropriated, but ironically, the robbing of the elitist notion of humanity allows for the preservation of that power permanately, outside of the hands of its creators, floating between people in senseless self-discipline.

Western formations of government and religion are both born of powerlessness, resentment and revenge; their subterranean texts fester, where the bubbling up of these hidden words and feelings results in an obsessive need to association these institutions as harbingers of freedoms.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

What We Do

But we are omnivores! Yet so is the dog an omnivore, and you -- an ardent and steadfast dog! What of these spirits that seeks the most base for definition? But we are humans(?) and by what distinction? Not in our shared baseness of animality, but humanity is birthed in relation to godliness, to divinity. But we are omnivores? But we are gods! -- of unending restraint and justice.