Welcome ladies and gentlemen and ladies to the death of the Lottery Party.
The skin is shed, the walls are erected, and freedom reigns supreme. From this mountain of displaced memory, I can see tomorrow.
Life under the shadow of my own imagination, the world at a safe distance.
Everything is beautiful.
For those who have followed me through my years of active blogging elsewhere, not to mention my freelancing all over the place of the past baker’s dozen or so years, then this blog will hopefully be interpreted as a natural progression to engage in for the foreseeable future. For those new to the philosophies of Richard Caldwell, you have my deepest sympathy. But I am not writing this for you, or for any of you. This blog was actually formed in the immediate aftermath of the Lottery Party, a webzine of cultural commentary and citizen journalism which I owned and operated for fifteen proactive months. The LP existed as an outlet for me to do my thing without others being able to take the credit for what I do, or to take the blame for what I do. And in spite of a good run I deemed it necessary to dissolve the LP, in part due to fears regarding privacy and security, online and IRL/AFK. Inspired by the A/I collective, and knowing full well that an unproductive writer is no writer, the new headquarters was thusly breech-birthed. Personally, I am such the nihilist I cannot even believe in labels, even if crazy suits the bill. I do however, hope to offer a stirring display of miscellanea, and hope to help provoke dialogues striving for answers. Answers to what? In Zen Buddhism there is an axiom of sorts, “To know the answer to a question, do not ask the question.” I am no Zen Buddhist but I do like some of their punchlines.
If all men are indeed created equal, then no collective has need of elections. Every adult citizen should be handed a lottery ticket, with the winning numbers allowing the winning ticket holder to hold whatever office in whatever body politik. But this shall never happen, because no person is equal to all persons. Our modern cultures are nothing but layers of hidden bias. We are expected to play the cards dealt to us, but the deck is stacked, by individualistic apathy and individualistic greed alike.
Empathy is not readily welcomed in the popular domain of the Collective Unconscious and its xenophobic lynch mob mentality. Life is too fleeting for being told what to buy, what to think, what to feel, as truly salt of the Earth folks prefer sniffing out the diamonds in the rough down the roads less traveled, not suffering the orchestrated pablum of our times. It’s not a matter of discerning highbrow or lowbrow tastes, rather it’s a matter of fact that our culture is mindless garbage, our ideals are mindless garbage. The finest music is never on the radio, the finest films never garner television commercials, the finest sexual encounters do not involve Barbie dolls. The finest ideas are never spoken aloud often enough.
Left field is not where all answers lie, granted, but it is far more attractive, more educational and entertaining a set and setting, than the mainstream. So in my discontent the Lottery Party was to be the new face for the anti-Realpolitik, and maybe a source for inspiration on how to think outside of boxes, how to expand your palettes. It was a grand experiment on my part, extraordinarily time-consuming, loaded with interviews and essays and news aggregation articles, all aiming to spotlight worlds unseen. The Lottery Party as terminology, despite my best efforts, instead rather perversely remains the dream Westerners share of what to do after scoring the magical winning ticket, and the dream the rest of the world has of what to do after coming to American shores.
As a journalist I adhered by the contrary exclusively, shunning the maelstrom in trade for those persons and curiosities who deserve their spot in the limelight for possessing imagination and initiative and integrity, even when such passion resulted for me personally in homelessness and unemployment. More Mom and Pop, less Uncle Tom. The tortoise beats the hare. Buster Keaton saves the day and gets the girl. The LP was a culmination, and the mission was to embrace that calling, even at times when there is nothing else on the planet worth embracing. Not even stegosaurs.
Presently, I could care less.
This new portal is not my way of supporting the little guy, the black sheep, the under dogs, the dark horses, and possibly other livestock as needed, as a direct means of fighting the monopolization of Capitalism, which I see as a mind-numbing affair that is slowly destroying the civilized world. And the uncivilized world, whatever the fuck that is. The stories and people who get none of the attention they truly deserve, because initiative and imagination and integrity are all fading virtues in this modern world of ours- they are the ones who should be playing harbinger for themselves, to adore and to praise, for they are the ones who will purportedly rip down the fourth wall into the tomorrow of tomorrows. But even the saviors of the world are dependent upon others.
Absurdism plays a large factor in this blog and its agenda. And I will drive this point home, hours after the dance, in an el Camino. Empty bottles of bourbon on the floorboards. Overflowing ashtray. I will drive this point home, speeding and never once taking my eyes from the rear-view mirror. Distance is golden. Distance is everything. Distance is nothing at all…
Our world, our culture, are wholly maddening things. I do not believe that laughter is always (or even often) the very best of medicines; but I do believe that each and every person in the world, experiencing its cultures of disease and control, has the right and the responsibility to make their own minds for themselves, to define their own surroundings and to do right for the people they care about and to do wrong for the people they do not care about. Create heaven for the people you love and create hell for the people you hate. Because it all happens here, and it all happens now.
And then we die.