Elephant. Had a dream that I was Dumbo. Drinking booze and popping bubbles within a cage, as children and the great white American race tossed chocolate covered coins at robot prostitutes. The men led the way, the fat children were in the middle, and the wives always lagged behind. I tried to fly away. My ears were tied. The cage was made out of laser beams.
I dreamt that I was an elephant, an elephant with the name Dumbo. Pictures of cartoons placed inside of my brain when I was a child, owned by the mouse, but at last, only controlled by me.
And so the dream happened. And so I no longer care. About the damn dream that is.
I take what I’m given by society and I make something, usually a mess, usually nonsense, usually aimlessly transcendental sentences of beauty, but shush, such thoughts of being an elephant, well these hallucinations were just the byproduct of so many human dreams.
Shush and make a drink, a few cubes, wear your rope. It’s winter. Oh never mind the wind. Turn the heat on and open the window, just a crack, just a smidgen. Just take your time settling down if you feel so inclined to fall into my waking dream.
Open the window or the sliding door and feel the last of the cold winter breeze that soon will be gone. Indulge your Goosebumps. Feel your hands. Feel your skin tighten as you breathe the sounds that the raccoons and paper-bags make when they both are startled learning about each other’s very peculiar existence.
Become the dirt that is carried along within the unseen water particles that is NOW what this wind is. Be the white sound of sleep as you read. Dream a little. Dreaming is one of the last common goods us human beings still share with one another. Take your time. Open the window. Get cold. Feel alive. Shush…it will all be ok. I promise.
I slept for three hours in the past two days. What’s this all about? And what is a blog? What are Words…wait…I’m sick of looking at this room with its orange walls and fake trees and hissing clock. And when I say I’m sick of it, I’m not angry or frustrated. I guess that I would say is that I forget to use connector words sometimes. My subject predicate/sentence is not an argument, but rather a form of fragmentation. Just like how I see this world and this life and this madness of my daily journey. No longer is it a journey, just what have you?
The world seems to be alive. Is it? Is the world leaning up towards anarchy, and maybe we want anarchy? For the corporations don’t even know or care to understand that they are greedy anymore. The suits, the people, the Americans, the Chinese, The Middle East, the everyone within this world government thinks that we are going to war.
Are we going to war? And with whom are we going to war with? The people? The tanks and machine guns? The dolphins and sharks and fishermen?
The laundry lists of so many wants but what we want is to work. We will go to war to be allowed to work. We need self-worth. We need to be able to buy lunch-meat and pre-packaged crackers. We need so many things. We need to complain. We need to be able to choose not to hate or to hate.
And we get angry. Oh how we get angry and mob for answers and then go home and say that nobody has listened. But we can’t even get passed the first sentence. We have a disorder and that in-it-self is an illusion.
We lose comfort in the room that we are in. Just like me we get complacent. We sit still. No longer is one enough, is ONE thought to be good; owning one book, one television, one album, one pencil, one dress shirt. No longer is being able to read seen as a desire.
No longer is the subject the interesting aspect of the investigation. We want the sun and the stars and complete control over nature. We want to know everything without even analyzing what thoughts are. And yes you may have thoughts. This aspect of your dull life doesn’t mean that you are necessarily thoughtful. Your lack of critical detail is merely sufficient for the end of the world to be a plausible solution to the complete breakdown of society
We want to be good and evil and fuck all night long. We want to eat spiders and lobsters and anything with eyes that don’t look human.
We want to fight and oh how we love to fight. We fight dogs and birds and men against men. We play chess and war and stab the sea monsters, neither for fear nor starvation, but rather we hunt the hunter for something to do. For lust, for freedom, for the right to do whatever it is that we damn well want to do. And this would be all well, if we were good.
We get sick of the rooms and the homes and the cities and every village we have built. We make bombs to scare ourselves.
We hate rust. We hate what we do when we’re alone. We condemn people because we think we’re righteous. We hate and vote for hate, when in truth we are the backdrops of what is wrong with the world, with society, with family, with love.
We distort love because we are afraid that if we showed ourselves we would not be loved. And damn right, we would not be loved.
We are wrong. I am wrong…wait…I need to open the window….wait…I need to make some tea…wait I need to find some more words and walk around in circles.
I need my time. My space. I need MY TIME to contemplate this existence that I live.
The truth is that I am you and you are I. We are wrong. Life is a fine-line and we have forgotten that line. Examples should shame you. Examples should sound so cliché in an essay such as this.
Truth is that we can’t stop. Truism is that we can’t change unless we hold those we appoint to political office accountable for what we want to be. We want to be better, this is natural, but our reflecting lenses are what we are, and this scares the shit out of me.
Our leaders lead the deviance. Our parents condemn other parts of the same city. Much like a prison, much like any institution, we have all forgotten that we placed mandates within the foundation of this country and this world, in order for treason to be understood, not automatically condemned.
We were built on dreams that are born within all of nature down to the frogs and the ants and the moss that grows homes for such beautiful monsters. We have the chromosome for a tail. We are part of it, part of what makes the sun breathe.
We are made of peace. Peace is what we are. Humans and all star dust dreams of being better than we could possibly be. As a species, this is what we yearn for.
Built for life and the preservation of all life is what we indeed do inspire towards. Inspiration sought in stars that look at us, stars that dream about us, and stars that are reflections of the goodness within the individual and randomly chaotic imploding universes.
All inspiration. All innocent reflection.
This world inspires me. These letters inspire me. Everything that I’m often blinded from consumes me in the time when I’m alone. But still…wait…wait…I’ve already forgotten. Oh yeah, I still have to make my damn tea.
Something strange down the road over where the school used to exist. It has been closed down. A new type of class war between the poor is spreading within. Spies across the street and within your own house. In charge of the moral unknown and on the lookout for those who are guilty for doing anything.
Everybody looking at screens, and then looking to see if you’re doing what is on the screen, in real time and in front of them. Was that you? No. Was it you?
The same sides blinded by an uncontrollable amount of experimental social control techniques. The controllers can’t even tell you when it began to become bigger than the machine. The spirit grew by the decade. The spirit now does what it pleases. Nobody knows what they should drool for anymore.
Something strange is happening in the playgrounds that have been turned into gravel depositories. School yards are now the graveyards for old condemned industrial factories. Houses flicker with television candles. People told by the news to watch, watch out for suspicious behavior.
Society breakdown. People placed against their own neighbors. The poor vs. the poor and the poor is spreading.
In a sense Schools held the public accountable. Streets respected where children were raised and taught. Schools were the churches of our culture. Schools were to be honored. House value was correlated with where the school system was.
Now what you see is the entire destruction of working class towns. It started with the schools. The fear of schools. Columbine occurred before nine eleven.
These two dots are social variables. They both are indicators that can predict the next decade of this false believing society.
The schools are being placed on some kind of probation. They have no resources. They have no authority over the home life of children. The adults are out of control. They laugh out of embarrassment. They make you feel weak when they are the ones that are weak. They give me rage. They peddle their false ideas without even thinking. They judge and vote for evil. I understand this is not their faults. It is mine. It is the fault of society.
As a writer I will say that I believe in America and the word decency, but I’m often angry, I’m often afraid. I’m afraid of what we’re becoming and what we judge as unnatural.
We constantly judge. I’m no different. I too at times am guilty of acting the part of the insane masses. But with them there is something different. It’s breeding in the swamps. Something is happening where the wind blows in the night. The houses shake. The laughter is creepy. The laughter is a mob of Americans who want to bring the world to her knees. There’s hardly any decency left to be scrubbed out of the dirty sewers that leak underneath our city sidewalks. There is only fear.
Who will stand up for what you can’t see? Stand up against what you can’t describe with words? Who will stand up and say something is happening to our karma, our gods, our science, our business? Who will stand for honesty, love, goodness- all intelligent attributes.
Who will admit that they are wrong? Will we admire them when they do?
Shifting eyes and blood on hands and dogs sick. The diseased cyborg has spread. Science and politics and religion have all been undermined. Not by Corporate America, not exactly by green and money and war thirst. The best of the human species has been taken over by those afraid to die. It is run by cowards, not by rebels. It is run by decaying brands and sheep stalls filled with overzealous marketing cadets.
And I am afraid. For like you, my hands are covered in blood.