The Lie Brigade

I have learned now that while those who speak about one’s miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more.

C.S. Lewis

  

The truth is a dangerous thing, especially to those who have been warned never to speak.

The truth leaves you alone. Abandoned. With only truth as your companion. Left for dead on a sidewalk. 

The lie, on the other hand, smoulders in embers stoked by the infinite jest. The joke is on you. What good did telling the truth do for you? Disrupted your entire life when you just couldn’t live with such seminal shame from the oblique obloquies piling up in droves, threatening your very survival. That is the absolute truth.

 
And yet your life as others have told it is only and always the lie. A lie no one even owns. A lie that has had a dangerous life of its own.

The lie gave the liar everything they asked for. The truth destroyed everything you worked your whole life for, obliterated all the things you’d had to overcome.

The sinister shadow re-invented as billowing storm. Soulless winds of evil swirl, released by those who could not only do what had been carried out, but stamp out any hope in the remains.

The truth was weaker than the lie. She could not get over that. All the liars were rewarded, every step of the way, while telling the truth had only given her more to overcome. And no one ever wanted to hear about that.

   
 The facts cannot be un-lived. The dark deceit can never be erased. No matter what is said in its place.

censure or blame  aimed at a person especially by numerous persons 

to discredit, disgrace, or bad repute resulting from public blame, abuse, or denunciation

  

  
 
  All you can ask is why? What made the liars lie? What did they gain by her demise?

What does it mean to live in truth? Putting it negatively is easy enough: it means not lying, not hiding, and not dissimulating.

Milan Kundera

The truth no one wanted to hear. The truth, twisted like the rope around the tree, unraveling the lie, over time.

Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.

Aldous Huxley

The Graph: Math of Story, pt. 2

“No bones. Not even a knee cap.”

 

 

 

 

As if knee caps are a different currency altogether, and, if that were the case, I should have a buried treasure full of gold somewhere, risk-free, in the desert.

I’ve been watching Breaking Bad in consecutive order, an anomoly for me other than “Lost,” “Deadwood” and

to gorge on one season a while back; I saw a middle episode of Breaking Bad (the one in season 3 where the twins are buying body armor from a semi-fucktard redneck in semi-trailer, but I knew everything (pretty much) that I needed to know. I think I watched that in a motel in the midwest or was is South somewhere on location and half asleep, and I can’t remember when that was exactly, but now I have made it to the gun pulled on protege and sensei, student and teacher, grasshopper and master, season 4 episode 12 or 11 or something, but either way, it’s been a bad season for Walt.

I don’t

feel as obsessed as I did

 

when I dreamt I was in Deadwood (because I woke up bleeding

 

Then, there’s Mad Men, which I watched on Netflix from the beginning and that show holds up but can be watched as a one-off, and you get the story of the man, in a Greek tragedy kind of way. Breaking Bad kind of unfolds. More disturbingly, Breaking Bad kind of unfolds in a strange parallel universe I like to call the entertainment industry which is in fact owned by the German Multinational that, on paper, owns the Laundry/Meth Lab and Chicken/Chile HQ, based on conference calls privy to, dimensions of difficulty it takes to function in the ‘real’ world, whatever that is, I still am not sure and all the signs are telling me I should be.

Yet, this I know, I know how to tell a story. The math of story is a graph that must move downward spiral to be ripped usunder to go where no man has thought to plunder to be redeemed and taken to the place unimagined, beyond and beholden, all the nipping at the heels of and chasing with shadows has stopped, but the signs point nowhere, are quite deceptively evoking payment of some kind and this should be no bones, not even knee caps, but something else entirely.

Francesca’s Knees

Francesca’s knees are bruised, from bashing into the car door-steering wheel combo as the Jehovah’s Witness chased her to her father’s Honda, a stoic vehicle in the Ohio snow. The other from the Icelandic Vodka, two brands, his girlfriend supplied in happier times.

She wondered if she was technically a drunk if it was only vodka and only on designated new moons in certain time zones. Who was she kidding? She was a wreck. A train wreck, in a minor key.

The Math of Story, pt. 2

Or the continuing math of the continuing story.

the deep dark motion


an expanse that happens to come and go  unpredictable,
since the emotion attached to the action or inaction beckons 
self-flagellation, mutation, abomination.
But today that is not the way I feel or think perhaps it is the sunshine perhaps it is the adherence to whatever shreds of practice can be maintained in constant (chosen, assigned, managed, apparent) chaos, a swirly world of why is no one listening to what I want?
Why am I not absolutely perfect, never misunderstood, completely influential, with flawless, arguments, solutions to every problem and that other thing, which remains to be seen, will eventually be determined as I am trying to sort that out each day as part of the healing I must face, or die. Literally I won’t be able to continue the way I was and that is both frightening and freeing–not so much for the baked-laced-drench-your-desires-saturated-over-consumption phase that occurs in many artist’s awakening and they use it as an excuse to get fucked up. Not that so much. This is one of those shifts they talked about but I was too far up the valley to feel it until now and I don’t want to jinx anything and go back to the shitstorm that usually seems to present course for me to chart my way through.
 
I want, more Lonesome Dove cattle drive than Bonnie and Clyde so I can focus on things that I want to put energy into —  because sharkland beneath the sea of sharks swimming and eating and swimming and devouring everyone who is good, with those dead eyes.
on a stretch of road
littered with lost souls, we held our tongues.
so now, in this
day to day
existence
we can’t tell
which
is easier
and all we want
as days go by
is less trouble
less testing
less trying
for needless senseless random exercises in futility-
no. no more of that please and thank you.
even if no one reads this, no one cares, no one knows a god-damn thing – there will be no random futility here. That’s been disassembled and analyzed and I’d be happy to explain my theorems to you, they are well thought out. What else ya gonna do but work out those kinds of academic problems when you’re living a block from skid row and it’s hard to tell where your next meal’s coming from sometimes.
 
but no matter
no mind
that’s all
behind
us now
get it
driving fast
write off
the past
and then the hush that came before the roar…

It’s as if
the sea does part
but
these days
it
happens
on the
freeway

Wednesday is a goth girl

“Never give up. Never let things out of your control dictate who you are.”
Unknown

The mornings are cool near the desert and life begins sluggishly because it stays up late. The to do list creeps up slowly following like a hungry dog, starved for attention, as they always are. Dogs are in fact bottomless pits for that, and perhaps that is the problem between us and dogs. There really aren’t any because we want to be needed so absolutely, so resolutely, so infinitely because it makes us feel loved and we want to be loved, salutated, abbreviated, and exonerated more than any marketing meme expert will ever be willing to annotate and tell you.

I play with words because the meaning has been knocked out of them by a fast cash paced society where we are all just moving along the moving sidewalk of life, through the airport of existence, looking out for crazy bombers to lose their nerve when faced with the absurdity of a plan that includes killing yourself for someone else, and yes, that includes you, God, and you know what, that’s why god loves me. If you understand that, then you are a Buddhist koan, answering itself just like Narcissus knew that looking inward would be the place to start.

However, the ‘fable’ warning only poets and biologists seem to ‘get’ was that if you go too deeply into the inner me, you, narcissus alone without an ‘other’ (first caveman sort of thing), you can drown. Like chimpanzees, we need OTHERS. We rely on our fellow kind, the humans and the people who look like humans, not so much the alien race pretending to be human (the guys in suits planted in certain supposedly strategic positions around the world) or the hybrid shape shifters who wreak havoc on our guardian angels (who prefer to be more like us and are known to slip up on occasion which just keeps the good-evil thing in a bit more of a fair game, because then they have to make up for it).

Some will say: I DON’T UNDERSTAND A WORD YOU ARE SAYING.
Some will think: OH THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT THIS THAT IS DELIBERATE.
Some will analyze: AND THAT IS WHY IT’S ALL JUST STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS DRIVEL WITH NO BASIS IN REAL LITERATURE.
Some will realize: THINK AGAIN.

I may always need a re-write but the way I phrase things and the words I play with are based on a long-standing study of literature in a way you probably can’t even imagine, so if you do have feedback like I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A THING YOU ARE SAYING, it would be nice to know more specifically why you ever read a thing I write and why some of those things resonate with you, even if you don’t ‘understand’ me. That’s one of the harshest things to hear–it’s actually easier for them to not agree with you or not like the way you write than to have someone you have trusted, admired and felt comfort in, albeit fleeting as every passing kindness is in these brutally distantly close times, tell you in some off-hand, dismissive way that you make no sense to them, and actually, come to think of it, never have.

That was part of the elusive heartbreak files, which only served to cause more heartbreak in the end.

I am only trying to monetize my pain so I can use it to pay for the happy ending I intend to live out for the rest of my days.

Prometheus has a mistress

yet it is not
surprising
that few people know this

Icarus
ascending
nobody cares
this time
it’s hot in
the desert
she is sick
of wasting time

granted,
the mistress must
wait
each day
for
him to come
home from
workprometheus hurts

AH, Prometheus
I could love you
better than
Athena
Prometheus
moulder of mankind from clay
tortured by Zeus, reborn every day?

accelerated then degenerate
as is
the ancients way