-- “A very close friend who happens to be happy once mentioned in a department store that he was going to a party and had to wear a ‘simple dress.’ I laughed: 'What is a simple dress?' I asked him. Then, he explained.” -- “And you didn’t take a picture.... what a shame…”
"Take a picture?"
I think all I did was look down in Macy's and try to imagine the definition. Only now, I realize it is like the difference between a T-shirt and a tux shirt.
As a heterosexual male, the idea of a simple dress is actually more complicating. Take you for example. In a simple dress, I picture more of the flattering lines you are endowed with. (Less is more.)
Now, with my friend - a skinny zonk of a white pasty tattooed and short-haired seeming neo-nazi, I pictured Adam’s apple, Dr. Martens men's boots, blonde hairy arms, and blonde hairy legs in a sky-blue-cobalt cotton dress with one of those square necklines in the back and slight rounded pleats erupting gently from a hemline just below his shoulder blades.
He wears a punk bracelet, punk boots, and basically its wrong gender, wrong accoutrements, or simply fashion chaos. He's not simple. He's subverting, which of course is intellectually appealing, but I distinctly remember being saddened by the fact that he was going to have a good time, while I wandered around in my life, like Woody Allen.
As a fashion photographer, I understand that. It's about creating beauty and truth. But, the reality of my hanging around this wonderful person, who I do an injustice to simply because I am worried about being construed as a homosexual and unavailable to whom I am interested in romantically, leaves me detached.
I photograph as Todd Hido -- www.wirtzgallery.com/exhibit...ame.html or Mona Kuhn -- monakuhn.com might. In the fashion of purpose and the joy of understanding the subtext, I point.
I am not interested in the sale of pork bellies.
The word "fashion" alone is profound. "How something is done; how it happens; a dignified manner; mode of existence; a lonely way of life; abrasive fashion; habitual practice; latest and most admired; consumer goods; improvisation; trends; frivolity; newness." Fashion is both the wearer and the viewer. There's an internal point and the affect/effect.
Oddly, it's no more than a distraction from the whole point. The thought of my friend in a simple dress came as the nightmare of my loneliness. It was to witness Truman Capote (Toby Jones) as he felt triumphant in the movie Infamous after kissing Perry Smith (Daniel Craig). Smith had fallen for the faux friendship of Capote in cold blood as Capote was reaching out to Smith as the last possible hope of being understood. Luckily, Capote in real life felt the robbery he had committed.
And so, any picture derived from this internalized reaction could be a subject for "Fashion Photography;" and it's funny as Slavoj Žižek remarked in The Parallax View that a "True permanent revolution is capitalism."
I am ashamed by the social-political-personal impotence I am experiencing. I am unfashionable and there is no light that can brighten my future. The truth is buried under so much fluff and stitchery that the nature of my sex is disguised by a preoccupation with what's on the outside. And really, I am a Truman Capote (True Man Kaput). My basic nature is the simplified man, a point and shoot paramour, who stands at a distance from what he cannot have. - Mario Savioni, Mon, March 12, 2007 - 11:08 PM. |
Burning the American Flag, A Letter to Senator Feinstein
Dear Senator Feinstein,
I noted your chief co-sponsorship of the constitutional amendment that would have given Congress the power to ban desecration of the U.S. flag and have so composed the following.
This whole issue has to be resolved and put to bed given the fallacy it embodies.
Your argument that as a young girl the picture of the Marines raising a flag on Iwo Jima gave you a 'bolt of electricity' and made you see the flag as "More than a symbol," should not now preclude you from being able to tell the difference between seeing the flag as "More than a symbol" and so legislating that as the lawful interpretation.
A symbol is "An arbitrary sign (written or printed) that has acquired a conventional significance," (See: wordnet.princeton.edu/perl/webwn) which assumes, in your case, that the conventional significance is limited to your experience of the flag.
You cannot possibly legislate a particular interpretation, especially since the sign is an 'arbitrary' one.
Moreover, the flag is an inanimate object, which if your legislation had so enacted, would have been protected over the constitutional rights of an individual to elect to burn the flag as say for reasons that he/she wished to engage in the freedom of speech, the right to peaceably assemble, and/or to petition the government for a redress of grievances, if any of these be the cases.
People should always be more important than things: Flying a Flag over another Person's Rights.
The very act of burning a flag is American.
It used to be the case that we could laugh at ourselves because we had the self-confidence that our flag would still be there.
The flag is nothing but a symbol. It stands for liberty and justice for all, even those who would burn the flag to prove this point. To weigh the punishment of a flag burner against the flag burner him/herself is to miss the point of freedom.The American flag must stand for eloquence of the idea that we have a right to act in a manner that supports our views, to protest, unless we are hurtful to another, but the pain someone may or may not feel to the viewing of an enflamed yard of fabric raked from cotton, the result of dried and stretched chemicals, and/or dyed (changed from its original form), forgets that I care more for the American or No American who burns our flag and his ideas for doing so than the flag itself.
The flag is nothing but a symbol that changes with the Americans who represent it. It can never replace the acts that gave it meaning, nor can it stand or have been memorialized unless those acts occurred. No one by burning the flag can erase this meaning, but a person who arrests or incarcerates another for burning the flag incinerates freedom.
Is there a psychological law at work in the mind of the person who wishes to stop flag desecration? Is it a person who would hope they could wield power over another, implying that they do not have power over themselves? Is it to blame when sympathies are not shared? Isn't the person blamed more important than the condemnation?
I love my country and support the people in it; but I will not support the rights of an inanimate object over life itself. In fact, I do not fly the flag because I believe it is presumptuous. That which makes my country great are ideals that tolerate differences of opinion, embrace all peoples, but it is not so proud as to fool itself into thinking that it can stand on its laurels. The flag is a representation only of success or glory, this country shall be perpetuated in righteousness, not the laggard of blame. Our country's greatness stands on the words of our forefathers and by the actions of good men who have followed them in protecting those ideals, not as symbols, but as actions against real threats. - Mario Savioni, Wednesday, June 28, 2006 12:42:21 AM. |
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The Comfort of Not Knowing
Similar to B's experience, as a shop steward who tried to incorporate others in our struggle against the company we work for to obtain a fair contract and to get other departments to join us, we ended up winning anyway and it sent me and a number of other "rabble rousers" into a class of people -- most of us justice knee-jerks to the point of impracticality, odd little people who stand up against injustice or who speak truth to power.
What is funny is that the "cool" or "beautiful" people, those "well-liked" and who everyone wanted to be like turned out to be so vain/scared as to not risk their jobs to protect others, who were only making $800 a month after working full-time. So, while people like me maintain our "no-man's-land status," the vain that saw that we were correct in pursuing our views based on a heart-felt certainty, still whirl about either in intermittent hate mode or who outright delete us from their lives.
At times, because I understand the truth, I laugh at their ostracizing methods, but because I also have to work with them, all I really want to do is to just walk away because it appears we will have to engage in another struggle given a new management company and I want them to learn that they have to fight for their rights and that their looks or intelligence or their master's degrees are no match for the realities of life in the corporate arena.
Eckhart Tolle says that we are the truth. If we deny it, we circulate in a pool of deception. "All your actions and relationships will reflect the oneness with all life that you sense deep within. This is love. Laws, commandments, rules, and regulations are necessary for those who are cut off from who they are, the Truth within." (See: A New Earth)
So, while I complain about them and demand that there is a connection between them and my inability to succeed as each new battle presents itself and I think that it is them who I need to succeed, I realize I am an alien, that my life is disconnected from their lives or any other life because "There is nothing that strengthens the ego more than being right," according to Tolle.
And so, my only recourse is to rise above myself complaining and continue to act in a manner that addresses my responsibilities to what I know and not to blame others for their "blind-sidedness," whether it is real or imagined. Sure, I may make them uncomfortable, but I would be worse than anyone if I thought I had achieved greatness. Every one of them is really, really great and I totally agree that they are popular for a reason. I realize from this position how even my enemies become my dear friends because as they try to attack and destroy me, they teach me about myself and my fears. Maybe one day I will be someone who is completely comfortable with truth.
Tolle said, "Love makes the world less worldly, less dense, and more transparent to the divine dimension, the light of consciousness itself."
And so after all these years of wanting to know who I am, what I wanted to be when I grew up, Tolle said that who I am is what is left over when I am comfortable not knowing.
PS - Q, I really loved The First Man. What's funny is a Q and I had read it together and she underlined what sections or sentences she thought described me. What is sad is that for her not only was I the first man, but I was also blindsided to her perfection as a true lover and friend. And so as she had underlined: "Later on, he would remember that incident when he came (truly) to understand that men pretend to abide by what is right:"
"At eight o'clock, when Jacques entered the store... a light went out in him, the sky had vanished. He greeted the cashier and climbed to the poorly lit office on the second floor... and you saw the result of your labor take shape... But this office work came from nowhere and led nowhere... A mystery was being revealed to him that, despite his many experiences, he would never resolve." (- From: The First Man, by Albert Camus.) - Mario Savioni, 12:36PM, March 5, 2007. All rights reserved. |
Astro-naughts Lost in Space
In "Normal," there is this boring scenery along Highway 5, and the healthy-happy dog named "Horrified," where "Normal" is a perpetually smiling woman with jet-black hair who keeps haunting my thoughts.
And you don't want to appear overly-eager and probably have a million times over, and so I guess there lays the rub. No one, despite the assertions that you have to chase the girl, really likes to be chased by someone she doesn't quite like. There's a physical line that has to be crossed before we become interested. I'll admit that.
The physical lines are there for me as well, as are the words. She comes across as how she markets herself, "I am just a regular girl."
The problem is she isn't.
As a "marketing weasel," she downplays her ability with words, as a perfect physical specimen, she hides herself in black, casual attire, and when you meet her, she's warm and welcoming, understated, soft.
You want to kiss her. But she won't let you in unless you have what it is she's after.
It's probably because I am as far away from 'cool' as I am from herds of people. I don't hang around 'cool' places. I don't try to be 'cool.' I fail miserably.
My only interest is in having someone who can write and think, how 'Normal' looks doesn't hurt either. I know the limitations of my imagination. The physical is important.
But, there you are. In 'Normal's' galaxy, I am the astro-naught disconnected, floating in space, an afterthought. (This was before I was ever really thought about.)
It makes sense now; she's just a "normal" girl, who is keenly aware of the winners and the losers, except that sometimes the awareness is made by a loser and it is from this position that I view my chances.
This is the on-going sadness, the facts of life, although you may find someone attractive, there are a lot of things that have to be there to make the connection.
I am now the blemish on an otherwise perfect body of knowledge. I reside as an experience, certainly platonic and nothing more if at that, greeted out of kindness, kept at bay.
It appears that another winter has come and gone and the prospects for spring are over-zealously hopeful.
There is a book I am reading that states: "Beware of people who operate from a position of vulnerability/melancholy, whose truths seem true indeed, because a state of sullenness is not the proper way to view the world; something is amiss."
For all the cliques in the world are there for a reason. They weed out those who are unadaptable to a healthy outlook. Beware of the blindsided, who cannot see themselves. And even these "Mario's," who write from vulnerable positions, and seem to describe these situations to the T, they seem to like to view from a distance and the negative far too much to participate in their own healing.
So they drift like astro-naughts out in the galaxy too far from earth to recognize what earth may or may not be. Who, it would appear are already dead to the world, but who write about it, and perhaps at some point they hope, there will be someone like them floating too.
Someone to remind them of the kind of lovemaking they are setting themselves up for.
See: Tarkovsky's Solaris if you want to know what that's like:
"Earth to Mario, come in please."
("A 'normal' girl is just not interested. I am sorry.") - Mario Savioni, February 28, 2007 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solaris_(1972_film) |
Overnighter/Carry-On
Baggage
Hello Flight Attendants:
Many of you are highly attractive, and yet in transitional arrangements, spending lonely nights in strange hotel rooms and god forbid sleeping alone, usually while somebody waits at home, but phew who needs that right? Some insecure, overly imaginative significant other, who thinks of you in some concourse making plans for the night, 'sharing' a room for the movable feast.
So, how about extending your little lay-over to a fellow fresh meat connoisseur, who only wants a beautiful steak once in a while and who enjoys the pain of the one-night stand as something to put in a story or picture book about the passion and drama of falling in love over and over?
Oh please respond and be pretty and thin and totally used to the 'fly girl' routine or maybe not. I'd like to break you in. I just want to get wet and fulfilled without the strings. I so miss saying 'Goodbye,' like a drug addict to a hypodermic needle. And just in case you wonder why, well my mother used to look like Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet, like Audurey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, like Betty Page in, well, those pin-ups. I don't know if you know the photorealist painter Marilyn Minter but I have a crush on the human elements of beauty, and as a writer-photographer, I need a constant flow of new material.
OK, got to go, but leave word when you'll be in San Francisco, so we can hook-up. Who needs long-attachments; I just need some juice from your loins and the flattery of a trophy date for the evening.
By the way, I may be getting older, but like extremely attractive men, they only get better with time; I have my mother's genes and her inability to maintain a relationship with the added benefit of a desire to keep things painfully shallow. Oh, but I yearn to relive the euphoric feeling of first love over and over. Please call soon; I am in my lonely room but only for a short time. - Mario Savioni, Feb. 13, '07. |
Notes on Crash (1996), a movie by David Cronenberg, starring James Spader, Holly Hunter, Deborah Kara Unger, Elias Koteas, Rosanna Arquette.
Everything is straight-forward in David Cronenberg's Crash. It's something you would have had to have gone through yourself to understand. Even James Spader (as James Ballard), the protagonist, accepts the hand job Doctor Helen Remington (Holly Hunter), gets from the connoisseur of accidents (Koteas) -- he'd just relived the collision of James Dean, who without the accident would not have become the legend.
This is the reclusivity of the underground, because getting off on near-death experiences is pretty much common in a world that lives insularly, like the occupation of Iraq, where soldiers are thrown into something that is marginally justifiable and frankly quite obvious that there is only one purpose, an attempt to secure the oil fields for our nation's consumption (See: John Blair's The Control of Oil), but certainly more directly to fill the coffers of the rich, who bask in a power-driven madness of over compensation and fulfillment of a kind of decadence that wishes it could actually live, to feel what the regular guy (that nine to fiver) feels working in a state of apathy, but how he is karmically invigorated (or is he?) by his self-loathing and blame.
It is at this point that you recognize the thesis of Crash. It is an investment in a wake-up call that involves some risk, just about like anything, but it's the Thorn Birds' equivalent. A racing farce into the destiny of urges that bubble up in every one in an effort to truly feel and so what if we cop the feel of our compatriots because only they understand the car ride and laugh at the rest of us in a headlong victory, which kind of reminds me of a William H. Macy film (Edmond (2006)), where he just gives up and stabs innocent people. He ends up facing all of his fears and finds comfort in it.. One of the main constructors of replicated car crashes (Koteas) says "They don't really know who we are."
This choreographer of collisions lives in his car, but has a grand workshop in a fancy house of which I am jealous, where the women are sedated by alcohol, and they make plans for a new replication involving a decapitation, a dead dog, and the driver wants big tits "So the audience can see them get all cut up on the dashboard." It's like prostitution, where the half-curious, economically-disenfranchised-motivated are lured into the unrealized lives of their masters. "The reshaping of the human body by technology," which is to say that who we are suffocated by in the environment, we are forced to endure, like passengers. "Would you like to sodomize him?" is a question Spader's wife (Deborah Kara Unger) asks Spader regarding the car crash choreographer given his power over both of them. I believe the psychological basis of sodomizing is to degrade what has power over you.
They watch movies of crashes in German both for the educational and curiosity-basis. Holly Hunter (as Doctor Helen Remington) is obsessed, like her life depends on it, getting and giving pleasure, encouraged by the intensity benevolent psychopathology that draws us into it.
So they engage in sex on the road. What fulfillment the woman provides and for such a nominal fee amid the danger of it, heightened intercourse between strangers. She looks over at him, he in possession of the ritual required to live life at the fullest. They are crash junky inspectors of the realized, artisans of our culture's demise and injury, we try to get where those have felt, copycats, models, where the victims stood in a dizzying spectacle and some say, don't disturb us and they can barely stand in the back seats where their husbands might never land and so in the fulfillment of the exercise they have sex in the car in a car wash. (Technology cleaning technology, where the curious but frightened engage out of curiosity.) It's a vicious nightmare the cliff-diving we incur to get at the life that's dying inside. Unger is beautiful in her peripheral role having been finally man-handled to the extent of an accident of the flesh. It's painful to watch and so they cross over a line that never would have otherwise been crossed if they didn't first engage the prophetic results of their lives which are a series of ideas eloquently realized on the roadways. But for many of us, it's all just too strange or weird and we realize that what our imaginations provide as realism enough until some force of nature takes over and we cling to our little overdose and then back to banality.
I think we finally die when we cross on a line into on-coming traffic and then our friends are curious, at the memorial questioning how we lived, having sex in our back seats to relive we become what attracts us, like ghosts of the types we were fated to become, like Kevorkian supporters in groups of life-testers to where we can finally wear our stripes, until again we test our fates. Lovers till the last breath -- Two people, three, and maybe four in a collective degradation to feel. - Mario Savioni |
Das Boot, a Comedy of Waters Understanding where I am coming from in this next ditty would require a knowledge of the website Tribe.net, where I interact with a bevy of broads and when I have to boys, a number of whom would be so inclined as to kill me, most, thankfully, are less inclined to throw rocks.
It's the words I can deal with. The rest seems to miss the point. We are civilized aren't we? Anyway, I've been chatting up this girl whose name I won't mention since it serves no purpose. It is merely the fun and frolic of words and she lives miles away and I've tried that kind of relationship, which is more like water torture and aren't relationships supposed to be fun?!
So, she belongs to this tribe dealing with colonics and so I get there and its like standing in the middle of a cat fight of terminology and seriousness and I say to myself, perhaps a joke would do us good, which was fine for about four minutes when I was going through the monologue as follows, but then they quickly cleaned up all the evidence like the good medical professionals that they are.
I bet even if you forced their arms behind their backs, they'd simply ignore you and smoke a cigarette with the other hand. So, as you will guess "Doll Parts" is the girl I've been following around in cyber space. That's a pretty pixilated skirt that she wears. "Pleated school girl" I would guess and somewhere one would hope there was a simple white top, but of course it's a bit riskier with her.
If I'd Only Listened to My Better Judgment; see what I get for following a Doll's Parts around? I had no idea I was joining a tribe in responding to her comments. Well, anyway, since everyone here, except me is a colonic expert, I am more into wines and good food. I do like the food to stay inside once I put it there.
But, I've had a double colonic or so I believe: Beryllium enema in one door and a suppository in the other and let me tell you, I am glad I was at home. I was preparing myself for a colonoscopy, which was a bit like someone on the inside poking. But, the experience did not arouse me unless you think stomach flu is sexy. I panicked. I felt like an actor in the movie Crash (1999, Cronenberg), one of those mortally wounded, doubled over, bleeding, kicked around, gone through a window.
So, yes if I were the client in a hospital and turbulence of that kind was going on inside of me and that many trips to the bathroom and sweating, like food poisoning, were my ritual, then hell yes it's like panic. And if the tube escapes, which is the rough equivalent of no bathroom to run to. It's like having diarrhea on a first date and you are in her new car. That can't be positive.
You know I really just thought colonics were clinics in occupied territories and all the people were politically constipated, which of course eventually leaves a big mess anyway. While people panic due to what seems gun fire, and those hearing explosions in another room or down below, leave their lovers to investigate some of the more unusual or unexpected things like an entire tribe dedicated to colonics, which is definitely something toward the other end of the spectrum, like Reactionaries.
I am glad someone is in control of the tube and asking about the huge mess it's created. Just look at what's happening in the world.
As far as I am concerned, the truth is going in one ear and out the other.
[So the Doll responds in a lighthearted way as an apologist to my monologue. I am sorry her words were not kept given my sense of vanity forgets the importance of context, usually. You can gather however a bit of her silliness, something about a boot for my a--, and I am off down another avenue of words with my pants at my ankles. I must admit this entire conversation is a bit out of the ordinary, perhaps. What do I know, I am not ordinarily involved in other peoples' conversations, except perhaps now, and you'd think it should be cleaned up, but what's the fun in that? A joke about a colony is one thing, but a joke about the whole colony is quite another. I believe this whole joke weighs in at around 20 feet.]
Typical Doll Party.
So, I am going to get the boot? And to think I just got here. As far as stuff going in one END and out the other, I still don't think that's logical.
It sounds like an argument from a homophobe; and two ENDs just don't make that right.
I do believe you are trying to confuse me with reverse psychology: "OK, this is going to feel a bit different than what you are used to. We are going to stick this Iceberg lettuce into your a--- cavity (Look, Mom, no cavities!) and as it moves backward through your digestive process, well just please trust us, we are sure it will end up coming out the other end just fine."
(I still can't picture that: Going in one END and coming out the other END. Isn't that like a story that never begins, or reading backwards, which I guess is kind of like reading a book upside down and through your legs? The thought of which makes me blush.)
"Experimental Advancement," well that's scary too. You aren't sure you are advancing? I can tell you any ideas about putting stuff in my a-- are pretty straightforward, except of course that colonoscopy coaxial tubing, which winds its way with one eye glaring through 20 feet of my semi-permeable membrane.
Once they pinpointed that I was blemish-free they pulled that sucker out with a vengeance.
This is not to say that the nurse didn't have a fine time at the beginning of the END. She got the honors: Little lick of lubricant and then the comment: "This might startle you."
But a Boot?
I am thinking ski boot with those metallic clip-ons and the spiked soles. My cousin wears the type that keeps his feet warm. But, those are too damn big to use as a colonic. Are you sure you aren't in Home Land Security? And what will the children think? "Come inside and visit?" This really is a strange crowd. How many people do you think you can put up my rear? Some may think it's warm and cozy, but really it's like Burning Man and mud wrestling next to an oil refinery. What have I gotten myself into? - Mario Savioni |
This Issue of Anna Nicole Smith (ANS)* has Gone to the Dogs. Tue, February 20, 2007 - 2:47 AM Dachsun off. Looking Dachsun. Dachsun, but I believe she left a daughter. Both of whom was not/never will be dogs. But the first Smith threw herself, and was fed as fresh meat to the paparazzi: Some were airheads; I mean airedales. Others were Afghans who hounded her. At times they even Terrierized her. Yet they didn't seem to bother her about her A-kid-a until ANS was Mala-mute. Those American Bulldogs, which I will admit she looked for a time like a bulldog too. It must have been those Eskimo Pies, which are the Pits if you are trying to diet, Stasfforshire. Spanieling on water, as if she were an Anatolian Shepherd, with her flock, Dogtling in Australia with her Basse[n]et[t], bearded cause she shaved as a young girl to impress the Bloodhounds or Bluebloods, I can't remember. Barbara Boxer was an interested party, "Geehuahua!" I know, but then the Boxer has always been a Sharpie, A bit like ANS at the dinner table: Chow Chow. Which I know we've beaten these dogs to death, and I should Coolie it. It turns out ANS was a Doll Martian, Who got Pinchered by the boys. There were English Cockers and Flat Coat Retrievers at the door. Some were German, others just had Golden Hair. I believe there was a Great Dane, who came in a Grayhound, joined by a Havanese. And some Irish guy who had to wolf down his breakfast as the bus was outside. Another was too busy labradoodling on a pad in the car seat to see that ANS Had Mixed Breed her feelings about the arrival of all these dogs and Called it a Horse and Pony Show. People were Pekingese over the fences. Some were Pomeranian with long sticks over the Ivy-laden walls just to get a Poodle? Some Rott-weilered they waited outside. There were those who were Saints named Bernard and still another who Took to Tree Walking. I believe her name was Vizsla. She was a good sport: Golden short-haired and wiry, full of energy, affectionate, easy to train, eager to please, smart, intelligent, loyal, sensitive and a quick learner. I liked that she loved field sports and if I was consistent but gentle she'd take to corrections. Vizsla loved children and other dogs, but boy how she would bark at strangers. Sometimes she would Weimaraner at them like a Yorkshire Tory. In all, this post has gone to the dogs. I need a Dauxenation, if you know what I mean. - Mario Savioni * American Numismatic Society |
Image Shot on Feb. 20, 2007 |
Riding My Horse in the Morning
I woke to a dream about an undercover cop and his coworker, who for some reason arrested me. He brought me to his apartment, handcuffed me and said I'd be spending 31 days in lockup.
I never quite understood why, but I was quiet. I felt I was the victim of an abuse of power, but there was nothing I could do. He went sarcastically down an imaginary line that I felt everything that happens, happens for a reason. The implications of what he was telling me would happen due to his conquest was that I took no guff from men or women for that matter, who were illogical, and I kind of knew, given all the actual stops or scrutiny I had been experiencing of late that something was up.
I was getting into the faces of a lot of corporate types and confronting the Bush Administration in my single human way. I did it with intolerance for what was clearly an act of aggression toward a country and people for whom no such provocation was deserved.
I could tell by the fact that there was money to be made and that they were changing a constitution, the core values of a country, to benefit their greed and ambitions. They were privatizing all resources, namely oil, for the sake of bartering and selling it and certain of the very rich benefiting, while the innocent in both countries would suffer.
Everything was a feeling with some credible resources (like KPFA.org, Truthout.org, Truthdig.com, and Democracynow.org), so I listened to his insults and need to justify the "tough love" as it felt because I knew karma was working, further forging this steel.
Books like Heidegger's Being and Time and Sartre's Critique of Dialectical Reason coupled with the voices and works of KPFA's announcers and stories, not to mention a woman, who it is best to keep her name secret, knew the undercurrent of greed that was pulling the rug out from under the truth.
I stood calmly and peacefully having read recently in the magazine Maxim that somehow magically appeared on my doorstep that when you are in jail do not be mindful of others, but keep to yourself.
There was a code where no law was present. And so I knew if I survived that I was moving closer to my purpose, which was to have a brilliantly-honed mind through both keen observation of universal acts, metaphors, George Lakoff mentioned that negated all forms of authority because as Tolle also said, we are the truth, we know instinctively right from wrong and I woke before I would leave the officer's apartment, where his kid was playing at my feet and I thought to myself that someone had sent him to "scare" me.
But, I was working already, turning into a soldier, a member of the Democracy, revolutionary-ready to stand by my country's founding documents of freedom and justice so help me; I am seldom afraid it seems now that my life focused on articulating what I felt was injustice.
And so in a way, I stopped listening to the officer as he went on and on because I knew it was all a lie. I watched his actions, for words spoken were nothing if they were not true. Everything he did was for provocation sake. And everything I was becoming as an act would confront him in time, for this was about me and not about him.
He was a catalyst for change and I was changing, learning to adapt to a smaller workroom without my toys of access and so I knew I would be left by myself in time. I had no accounting. It was like being sick, so your body could refocus and get back to basics.
It was happening right before my eyes:
"Yes sir, no Sir." - Mario Savioni, February 20, 2007 |
"The entire civilization is losing itself in doing that is not rooted in Being and thus becomes futile." -- Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth
"You shouldn’t try to be to be somebody you're not," he blurted, as the woman presented herself as a series of pictures by other people, famous artists mind you or at least they were competent artists and writers, who she had borrowed from rather than attempt to express herself for whatever that was worth and so the fact of her immaturity as a creative person made him loath her even more.
He hated people who borrowed from others, for he had sacrificed himself to live in this world. But, it also gave him satisfaction that whatever he was, struggling to express himself here, that it was for the reason of his purpose. He would be the person from whom others would borrow and who vicariously lived through his life, like spectators at a ball game and how he could raise their ire or joy of succeeding and he knew that he should feel sorry for them because he imagined what it must be like living this way in light of a dull job perhaps, somebody else's dreams, and he just knew they could not be happy. They were too far from their creative selves that he just accepted that copying was a form of flattery and that if they ever did use his creations as their own he would sue the hell out of them to get back all the sacrifices it took to become this individual in a world of borrowers.
It was they who would look down at him because he drove the '93 Sentra with skin cancer or who carried plates to their tables and served their children and who was a second-class citizen to their self-sacrificed lives. He was jealous of that in a way. For these people, although they borrowed to create worlds that reflected their personalities, they also raised children or did things they didn’t necessarily like because they knew they were doing it for others. And so he recognized at this point the interconnectivity of people. How on different levels, they were sacrificing themselves, giving lovingly, participating in a democracy of thoughts and actions.
It was a paradox that explained how he was still single at 46. How he hadn't been on vacation for twelve years, how lovers were temporary, if at all, and how he felt in the material world, as a complete stranger, out of touch, but at the same time he was always growing, one creative project at a time, each page he would fill with the road map to his own self-realization. "But, when will this pain ever end?" he asked. "When am I supposed to be recognized for the great man that I am?” and just as he said this, he remembered what Eckhart Tolle had said: "There is nothing that strengthens the ego more than being right," and as he acknowledged this he understood purpose and Being. It would always be his role to create and to share, to give freely, and that he was meant to be a leader in a borrowing world. Still, he must rise above this conceit, for as Tolle had said, “You are the Being behind the doing…. You are the alertness, the stillness, the Presence that is listening, looking, touching, even speaking.” And this was life itself, a curious Möbius strip of our lives intertwined and organically taught. And he thanked Tolle for his sacrifice. We are all beholden to each other, he realized, whether positive or negative, we use each other to contextualize our lives and respond, for isn’t life an act of becoming?
He rested for a time in the realization of this definition of purpose, but he was still edgy, unsatisfied, longing to be with someone who could love him. But, even in that he knew it was a paradox, for deep, was the core of his insecurities. They kept resurfacing like remoras to the shark of his understanding. He was both man and frightened child, the product of a billion decisions of thoughts and actions that would both haunt him and appease him simultaneously. But, what bothered him most was that he was no different than the man or woman sitting next to him, for they too were perplexed by the same thoughts. – Mario Savioni, Feb. 19, 2007. | ||
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