Apodyopsis meets Apophenia

Posted: July 27th, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: aposiopesis | Tags: , | No Comments »

In once more silently amusing myself at the inherent self-contradiction of my being the proverbial writer wishing to leave minimal paper trails, I realized something about myself today.

In professional, non-creative environments I long ago came to the conclusion that by thinking like a manager, I would then have little cause to ever need to interact with the real deal, with actual management. I suppose efficiency just became a part of it, although not necessarily self-efficiency, as in later years I have probably gone overboard in welcoming degrees of chaos into my world making my life as unconventional as probable. Increasingly so. But even as a kid in school, I very rarely brought home homework, as I was productive enough to find the means to finish it all while still at school, leaving off-time at home to read ahead in my textbooks. My work performance was an evolution of that practice in many ways.

To the point of overworking myself wherever possible. I was exceedingly fortunate enough to learn as a young adult, to see with my own eyes how much the sense of accomplishment that comes from a hard day’s work (and a job well-done) can have on my mood, my spirit, my psyche. So the older I got, the more addicted I grew to that sense of completion, and the less I really found myself working for cold, hard cash. If I liked what I was doing then I wanted to be the best I could at it- those were my finest jobs, my greatest performances.

What I realized today however, or what I finally allowed myself to acknowledge rather, was that the pathos of thinking like a manager truly has carried over into just about every other aspect of my life, well and beyond vocation.

If you work like a manager, as a manager should, then you are less prone to face the consequences of not working to one’s perfection. Likewise, if you approach life in an authoritative manner, no matter setting or circumstance, then those who actually are in positions of authority tend to second guess themselves. Now I have never been one to play control-freak, and I have never been one to force my will, but I think that everyone really does shield their own levels of self-doubt. Where this regards my work, almost without exception employers too readily come to depend upon my natural compulsion to fill voids, to the point of pushing me to guarantee matters I am not obligated to see through, not contractually, legally or ethically.

I believe, I feel, that I have been drawn to individuality for the sake of autonomy. I want and need to be strong enough to live under no outside authority, and not at all in any anarchistic sense. I only think that I am more complete the less divided I am by outward influence. I do not wish to follow orders, as I am confident enough to follow my own lead, and pay the piper should I err in the doing. That part is exceedingly important, obviously.

The problem in this though, is that when authoritarians question themselves, then people look for new leaders. In being individual enough to act on what I perceive as higher grounds, virtuous aims and the like, then I increasingly find myself in the position of others looking to me to make decisions for them. I do not want to be led, but I sincerely, honestly and wholeheartedly with every fiber of my being do not care to play leader. I have had to before in smaller scales, be the work leader for the day in trade jobs, or supervisor for months on end in kitchens or whatever, or serving as various incarnations of “editor”. It is never an issue of my wishing to avoid responsibility. I realized long ago that I could get more done if left to my own devices, my own will. I have made it this way, and it is constant sacrifice on my part and my part alone.

And that applies to everything else in my life, every strange facet that I unearth along the way. The more removed I stay, the closer to perfection my end product, my end result.


Albino in the Storm

Posted: July 19th, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: aposiopesis | Tags: , | No Comments »

Realization: Money is for those lacking skill.

If money is the endgame, and said endgame being not a stellar performance or the work itself, then you misunderstood your Ayn Rand. People can steal money because it is not the end-all. Nobody can steal your work ethic. Nobody can take away your skill. Be an artist at what you do, no matter what it is. But if your life is nothing beyond collecting currencies, then you are not going nearly as far as you could.

People with money need people with skill to generate more money for the people with money. That is the world today.

So how are you placating the mess, placating the inheritors and the good old boys who pass on jobs to friends and family as opposed to those who could perform whatever task?

Throw bricks through church windows. I dare you. Plant pot seeds in the yard of your local constabulary. Stop voting, stop paying taxes. Have some respect for yourself, and for what you offer this shameless mudball of a home-world. If you have skills, and everyone does whether fostered or not, then use them to define yourself, to better yourself. And not to enrich well-to-do strangers. Let that lot just drown already. Nobody else will but it is bound to happen irregardless of public apathy.


Displaced and Confounded

Posted: July 12th, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: aposiopesis | Tags: , | No Comments »

The older I get, the more troubled I am by how eagerly the whole world seems in passive-aggressively enabling others to do wrong. To commit wrongs upon each other.

It feels more and more as though the whole world has accepted the death of Virtues.

I cannot turn a blind eye. I really would rather die on my feet than live on my knees. If we allow for any transgression, no matter how small, to be enacted on those around us then we simply have no right to claim heartache when the eye-stinging smoke blows our way. Taking a constant stand is no easy way to go about life though, obviously. If principles came easily and demanded no sacrifice then more people might exhibit them more freely. But the airs persist, that as long as the bad things happen to others and not ourselves, then we can drown them out as though they were little more than slightly unnerving beats from a passing car stereo.

I could drop the crusade. I could be an asshole like everybody else. I could take on the hand-in-hand mantles of “underpaid” and “over-worked”, happily accepting such slavery by dealing with an employer who openly screws over anyone and everyone for the sake of the almighty dollar, selling ill-conceived and over-priced goods and services to those who do not necessarily either need or want such things to begin with. I could pay my bills late like every other American, then make the weekly appearance at church for half-arsed redemption. I could use my meager pay to purchase a great many things which I in turn do not necessarily either want or need, thereby creating further opportunities for slavery. I could selfishly put the need to keep sustenance in my belly before the rights of others in knowing any degree of well-being of their own. I could exhaust myself in obscene working hours and conditions so that strangers with more money and resources will receive the larger portion of my own labours still. I could exhaust myself so badly that any life beyond the ageless pursuit of work would be the talk of idiots unaccustomed to the ways of the grown-up world. Best to keep dreams in the realm of unspoken personal inspiration, than to rock the boat and risk displeasure from these well-to-do strangers, regardless of the expense to those we actually know and profess to love.

I could do all of these things, but I have grown accustomed to my spine.

Memory is a fundamentally potent aspect of what we are. We are one and all guilty of idealizing the past, when all the logic in the world insists that times were always tough. But choosing to see the world in a limited view, choosing to see the people you meet through rose-colored lenses, choosing that the idealized past persists, does nothing to make our lives any easier or to contribute to the world around us in any sensible or healthy manner.

Religion breeds hatred by limiting inclusion. Industry breeds slavery by limiting independence. Government breeds ignorance by limiting access to information. All of Church, Business and State have been bonded into a singularly grotesque monstrosity, as though sewn together by some mad scientist, but instead by the pathos of Capitalism. In this world today, money means more than you, more than your enemies, more than your loved ones. Money means more than the love that Religion should create. Money means more than the freedom that Industry should ultimately pay out. Money means more than the chances to grow in safety that Government should provide. Failure to see these connections does not seem to be helping in our own lives, or helping to make the world anything better than a downward spiral gathering momentum and bodycount.

If we keep our personal dreams private, instead of acting upon them…if we allow the tribulations of our times to overpower and silence the happiness that we could and should ultimately achieve, then we are passive-aggressively allowing everyone else to be overpowered and silenced along the way of our life’s journey. No good has come from this, so why does the world insist on laziness in all matters short of empowering those already in power, those with categorically malicious intent?

If you give up control of your life, to whatever degree, then you have no right to complain over the natural effect to that cause. If we wait secretly for everyone in the world to learn from their own mistakes we will be waiting til our backs are broken from decades of servitude. Problems do not repair themselves.


Mantra Oh Mantra, Who’s Got a Mantra?

Posted: July 9th, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: aposiopesis | Tags: , | No Comments »

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.

I do not exist to make money for others.


Eulogy for my Auschwitz

Posted: July 7th, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: aposiopesis | Tags: , | No Comments »

Today would be the anniversary of her murder.

She was the runt of her litter, all born on my 25th birthday a quintillion lifetimes ago. Her parents, owned(?) by my younger sister, were Hercules- a then year old farm cat from Springfield, and Aphrodite- a much older lady cat with shaggy black and white hairs beautifully proportioned and who’d suffered an irregular feminine cycle all her adult years, howling like a scorned toddler for days on end every other week yet who had somehow even over such a brief time trained all of her kits to wash themselves by hand from the water dish, for life. My sister was at the time in the hospital for what would prove to be her first bout of meningitis, so the duty of watering plants and checking in on the very prego kitty Aphy fell on my fragile shoulders. And I was so thankful for it.

Around a week after they were born in a closet stuffed with jackets and the like, I claimed the smallest of the five, whom I named Gabriel and Auschwitz.

Gabriel was the next to last, and was handsomely covered in black and white long-hairs like his mother. I named him such for the works of artist James O’Barr, who created the Crow. When O’Barr sold off the licensing rights to his character, his only two staples were reportedly that A) all stories deal in some manner of retribution, and B) that all stories entail an appearance of a kitty-cat named Gabriel. And sure enough, even years after the fact all stories pertaining to the Crow (now megalith) property whether comics, film or prose, involve some modicum of appearance of some Gabe or other.

Auschwitz I named at least initially for the color of her own calico fur. She was black and white like her madre, but also with (in the words of Tom Waits) “chimney red and Halloween orange” to the degree that as awkward as she generally appeared she more often than not looked as though she were more piles of ash than a cute little kitty.

I took them both in, tiny as they then were, although they’d hide behind my refrigerator for the first two weeks or so until I realized that playing any manner of piano-inclusive music would draw them out. We all quickly learned how to react to one another, with too many pleasant memories of the duo fur-balls perched on either arm of my green chair like adorable gargoyles despite my then-chain-smoking ways.

When they were roughly two months old, and by then just big enough so that I could no longer fit the both of them into one of my combat boots for an “awww” moment, I was forced to make a hard decision. Gabes had too much of his dad’s roots in him, progressing into some bizarre form of ninja/acrobat/hitman, to the point where he bullied his smaller sis away from both the feed dish and the litter box. When he permanently removed her right eyebrow, young as they were, I was compelled to give him away to a friend living deeper in the country than I was then. And for the next few years, it was just me and Ashvy.

She quickly unveiled the true meaning of the blasphemous name I’d given her. The conventional usage involves nothing but connotations of humanity at its absolute worst, but that little kitty cat gave me a different meaning for my own life: a reason to face each and every day, to get up and clean off and conquer the work-demons, to provide food for the both of us and a roof over our heads. She was the meaning of life incarnated for me, little thing. She honestly preferred store-brand generic Cheerios cereal to actual cat food. She was afraid of the dark, so that should I ever leave for work forgetting to leave a light on I would return guaranteed to her hiding under my bed. But she was not at all afraid of water, to the extent that she’d always hop in the shower with me to clean herself people-like, and that I had to train all guests to leave the toilet lid down lest she hop in for a private sponge bath. She loved thunderstorms, and whenever one would pass through our windows would be open and we’d both be watching out for hours on end, magnetized to the raw power of nature at its most exciting. She had so much character, shy as she was. But ever taking her outside and she was all fetal position in my arms, scared of the big old bad world.

My widdle fang, my lil bit, my puppy cat, my best friend of several years.

-

I cannot even bring myself to type out the details of how she died, back in ’08, but that it directly involved the Louisville police department, with her losing half her weight in less than a week and literally dying in my arms. I buried her with a thunderstorm growing all around, her little form wrapped in a Dr Seuss blanket and covered in a full pound of catnip, money be damned. I have never had a pet of my own since, though I have babysat here and there.

I miss my little friend. I miss waking to this tiny creature cleaning my whiskers. She had more heart, more humanity, than (easily) 99% of the people I have encountered in all my travels. I miss my one-time meaning for Life.