2 Responses to “Speak spoof to power”

1. Ofcorso Dosoevme, on January 13th, 2004 at 9:16 am Said:

   Flash Point

   I am older now, and still way too single. It seems that somewhere between the ages of forty and fifty, people consolidate their lives. They fully conform, and plot for the long haul. They start to fear and avoid other people who might hinder them. They look to associate with those who might keep them propped up. The corruption begins when they start to hold other people down, but most close off into their own normal lives, and don?t need the trouble of having to care.

   I am alone: at work and at home. Two things that people fear the most are loners and euphoric bums. Some try to help as agents of the city. Not that they see you as equal, but they are qualified, and get paid well, to help. Not that they don?t care, just that they do not identify with you. They only want to do their jobs and go home where they can live much better than you do. People need predictability most. They need to classify you in specific terms, so they can assess your relationship to them. Either you have power, and can potentially help or hurt them in some way, or you are superfluous for the most part; just part of the landscape. If you can affect them, they revere you. Some even take a plain neutral view and accept you. You are lucky to find that–very lucky indeed. Here, friendship might arise from real human qualities; however much is of no consequence, because good is good. On the other hand, more than likely you will be slowly outcast–and progressively despised. Even old friends become wary of you. They do not want you to cling along. You might weigh them down, or worse cause them to fall. So they gradually eschew you. In you they imagine an example of what their own failure might God forbid someday resemble. You become an icon of the one who couldn?t keep up in the rat-paced race: failure anti-Christ incarnate. You didn?t strike the proper deals, or, worse, you may have something to hide. Surely, that must be it. Alone. Maybe you stalk children. Maybe little boys. No doubt now about the priests, but even they are to busy to bother with you. The liturgy is exhausting enough, so it seems.

   Maybe you are just in the closet, but still that is strange. You might even like wild sex with sheep, or turtles and fish. Oh, God. Why else haven?t you found more success in your life? You think to yourself that you have accomplished a considerable amount, if someone would only take the time to consider it, too, but your lifestyle tells a different tale. Sure, you work alone, but you are your own boss, and your income is legitimate–and sufficient–at least for today. That is not enough, though, it seems. Did not one woman lament out loud on the size of your kitchen (yes, kitchen), another at the apparent cleanliness (meaning value) of your surroundings, and yet another at your working-class hands (and bank account)? They look at your mode of transportation. It is non-status, but you just love little trucks. They look at where you live. It is in the turf and quite sparse. You try to discuss politics, physics, or philosophy with them, but it may as well be the weather, because they don?t know in God?s name where the hell you are going with all of this. What could have happened to him? they ask, but pretend not to really take much obvious notice. They size up your situation, then they slowly recede. This is not to say that your solitude is bad, or to be avoided, as long as it is voluntary it suits one quiet well, indeed.

   Why no wife; no girl? They wonder if you are a mad masturbator, or maybe inept. Why else would no women take note. You know that it takes a healthy relationship to make progress, but it takes progress to find a healthy relationship. A dilemma: a full paradoxical catch-22. You don?t let this stop you, but it does–like a wall, somehow. Bang. Ba-bang. How many times have you gotten back up now? Clearly, you are warped. You compose yourself and go at it again, because any sign of struggle makes them scatter like the birds; any indication of desperation makes them freeze like Medusa. Any trouble or problem must be certainly deserved anyway. You are obviously guilty of something that is slowing you down, no? It does not matter what, as long as you are tagged by the stigma you must be no good. Aha–alcohol or drugs, perhaps! You must be pretty far gone by now. Why else would you be so preoccupied with your condition? Wasn?t that you who got himself busted, waiting for a score, on the evening news? They wonder. You look too happy today. I know, it?s Saturday night, and you?ve busted hump all week at work like a moron at war, and you are so obviously poor, so if you are at all happy now, you must be high. There was a time, I swear, when people used to let loose at the end of the week. If you?ve had three glasses of wine, you must be a big drunk, though, no doubt. They have found out. Now they?ve really pinned the tail on the ass. You don?t touch a drop of anything all week because of your discipline–violin study, scholarly pursuits, athletic work-outs–but your secret life is now out there, simple and clear. After all, no one recognizes any of your activities anyway, so, if they really are pursued for their own sake, it must all be a deceitful joke of some kind. You used to play folk guitar in public crowds a long time ago, and people liked it then. One time was so cool you even played barefoot, and they applauded your style. Today you would go directly to jail like that, and be beaten to a pulp along the way. They know you are smart, but they also know no one else sees it, so what good does it do? You have tried all your life to be an interesting person, but isn?t a terrorist interesting, too? Could it be? Even you? You are not even smart enough to be a corrupt politician, it seems. A little power, you know, whether of good or evil is of no concern, is an aphrodisiac you learn.

   Alone at work? What can that possibly mean? There have got to be others somewhere, unless you are just a porno pervert (you do wear glasses and ride a bicycle), or underworld man (you clearly have Italian features and an Italian last name, never mind the hot temper and hand gestures), or foreign spy (you do read the oddest of books). The mail carrier is there for a minute or two, and the UPS driver stops in daily, too, plus all of the telemarketers who call. You have customers, moreover, but they act like customers. They buy things and require services, but they could care less about you. You should be glad enough, after all, that your heart still beats in a normal rhythm, the air is still free to breathe, and that you are not pinned somewhere under an Iranian earthquake. You just get them their stuff so that they can go. They like their stuff a lot. It makes one more socially acceptable when one has lots of stuff. They do not want to have to like you along with it, although they are comfortable with your ability to get them what they want, and they are happy about that much, at least. At times like these, some don?t even care whether you eat dogs for lunch, or have your sex in a test-tube. So what, really. You won?t follow them home; at least not now, you still have to continue to work. If you work, you are at least safe to that degree. Some, though, just stop coming in, wondering about all this stuff too much, too.

   Your friends, the ones you used to know, they have no reason to have to recall you from way back when. You are a living relic reminder of pre-critical times. You would make a poor show in the midst of their current and correct world now, anyhow. You might even prove the consummate clown, which would reflect badly on them–never mind that you might touch one of their kids! Oh, God, not that! This is very likely, because you are not a threat to any of their wives, you are humble and bald–you lack all sex appeal–but you must still have certain needs, and outside of a wife?s discretion, Lord knows what you might do! You may come in handy for some, though, as a scapegoat of some kind. Hmmm? The wives don?t even want you around, though, because you might have an unacceptable influence on the husband. Maybe you are the one responsible for his last trip to the nudie bar? Maybe you bought him one shot too many last time you went out? He even begins to become suspicious of all this. What could your motive be? Even you, the audience, are starting to wonder. Come on, now, you say, you?ve got to have more self-esteem than that! Well, maybe I do: a thousand dollars worth, or two? Then, when it?s gone, it?s gone, so be it. It is well understood that, at my age at least, it takes at least a semblance of a career track, if not a real $30,000 a year job (that appears to be the threshold for someone of my age and local), to even think of looking for a wife; and even then only if you?re lucky. Someone has got to be single out there, too, at least, as you could care less about infidelity in matters of the heart. Furthermore, most would require a house, and never mind that the classifieds add: five-foot ten or more, constantly fun and agreeable, likes to sleep on the floor with the dog when requested to, and only comes around when needed or called. I could never make that cut, you definitely know that. I fall short on all counts.

   So, now you must even be sexist–that?s it! Aha! You are just one big pig. Maybe you even tagged-teamed a dumb girl in high-school, which would be O.K. if you were at least marginally good looking, or basically financially stable. They can see it–they even vaguely remember it, for God?s sake, and you are starting to, as well. Oh, no, great God! Could you have repressed it all these years? There is probably even a report about it somewhere, an article from the student newspaper that got filed away with the F. B. I., or worse, with N. O. W. Yes, all women share the same file, and they all know the truth. Doesn?t your last girlfriend from eons ago barely admit to knowing you? She?s in on it, too, you chauvinist dog.

   That does not begin to explain being outcast from society at large, though, does it? You did go to college, in the event of an eventual circumstance just such as this. Did you not prepare with proof that you at least have a brain that might be good for something socially useful eventually. You went all the way through the M. A. Didn?t people say that college was ?something to fall back on,? in those exact words? Did they mean ?fall off of,? instead? When a young girl 15 years your junior asked you at a job interview for an entry level teller position ?What happened to you?? one time, you knew she was just an exception, and that, obviously, the educated level of truly intelligent people up above her somewhere would intervene on your unfortunate behalf–and you waited. Then there was that interview at the college where you were told you that, although you are qualified, and the only one with experience, she just couldn?t quite see you with the younger students, older students, cross-training students, minority students, indigenous peoples, or anyone at all, for that matter, outside of the back room of the local pizzeria (I made up the local pizzeria part, more or less, because I know that?s what she was really thinking; not that I have anything against pizza, believe me.)

   Are you not waiting still, or are you actually invisible by now? You know that your reflection is still in the mirror–ugly as ever–and you know that the cashier still takes your money, politely enough, at the grocery store check-out. So, where are these brilliant folk who would recognize one of their kind in a flash, then? Now, is not that the whole point?

2. Ipse Dixit, on February 5th, 2004 at 5:17 pm Said:

   Someone Needs To Adjust His Meds

   kuro5hin.org presents James A C Joyce’s Why Your Movable Type Blog Must Die, wherein a guy who puts two initials…

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