Tuesday, October 29, 2013

the revolt in revolution

I do not like revolution, not really. I am not a fanatic at the fringe just waiting for the Revelations to occur and the fire to fall from the heavens. I do not want to race about hacking things off or, god forbid, raping anything that I can shove my penis into. No. I am particular where I guide my penis into. It is a smart penis, I mean this in the trademarked sense; comparable to the guided missiles are often ballyhooed can sent through a window. This is, apparently, a testament to its accuracy. I tell you, my penis is more accurate than that and doesn’t get half the press. I digress.

When I think of the glee, that some write about, about the devolvement of the individual, mostly men, into are worst energies. A sort of gelatinous goo of reified testosterone and bad parenting. I am puzzled. Oh, I have felt this a time or two, mostly when I was salting slugs or blasting bugs under a rock with pilfered Black Cat firecrackers. I see that glee. But if I look at it, it is only the glee of a particularly cruel child that I believe all of us have been once or twice or thrice in our lives. Some of us continue to be one, or to live off of this particular energy, but most of us, I believe, move on to some other form of melancholy.

What one is left with if they believe that humans will act this way is the belief that one does not act accordingly in high stress or chaotic environments. In my experience people become more themselves when they are in a chaotic environment, it is a magnifying experience. They do not become other than themselves but more themselves. Our systems in place, and large portions if not entirely luck, have made it so that this magnification of our beings is necessary but muted. The coward at our job is cowardly in a small, silly way, the sadist is sadistic in similar ways. Oh it can be in larger ways when one garners more power, but individually one cannot sway enough to do it in a large scale. One needs a idealogy and willing acolytes to do this. But the individual, Stalin etc., by his bare hands could not engage this cruelty larger than his finite animated corpse could touch.

This coward or sadist when the environment collapses the system then magnifies their personalities, or at least, from my experience and what I have read, this becomes the case. The coward is Coward, the sadist, the Sadist. However, in my experience most people are more neutral than that, a long swatch of neutral. Not that they haven’t chosen a side but the very act of not choosing becomes a side. A monumental blandness. This again does not mean that they cannot be ‘fun’ or even say a witty thing or two. My goodness, just look what goes for politicians-you haven’t met a more witty bunch of folks who can party like no tomorrow.

The danger of this blandness as a side is that it becomes forgetful of its own self. The constituent parts of the system, which are the system, start believing, because of their stunning self imposed impotence, their impotence. The system rises as ruler and reality. This reality and ruler has to perpetually move, it is in motion all the time because the factual nature of the lack of a ‘system’ that is apart from the ‘parts’ but the masses must have it. So they put such huge efforts in believing it. This goes from large systems such as governing states to smaller like communities.

My neighbor once told me, as we first moved in, the only brown folks in the neighborhood,
“We don’t do that here,” in regards to a request to my neighbor to be quieter in their parties on a Thursday night. I did not tell him explicitly that I work until 10 with either my ill father, paid work, or my children-and that a wall rattling bass is not conducive to my sleep. I replied,

“I am always skeptical of one that tries to pit me against a ‘we’. I don’t know you, let alone my neighbors, yet, and until I do I will not give you that point. The, We, when it is not done correctly, honorably, or honestly, if it is not based on a virtue respecting the absolute worth of both parties, then it is a hateful thing. It is a thing that even when it doesn’t cause genocide, murder, rape, is the system in which it will happen. The ‘we’ of no responsibility is the ‘we’ that has killed untolds of innocents.”

I must admit that he had said, ‘we don’t do that here,’ to my wife and I had three days to prepare my answer to him.

So that is the system we have. The We, the We of inaction, the We of bland acceptance, the We of herculean effort to become enslaved by a hypothetical conception. It is because of this that there must be a revolution to reshape, for a time, that actual systemic way of thought. If one will not accept this individual revolution and enough individuals refuse, then the blandness must be used to be able to sway them from their current infatuation with another better one (best is only possible through the individual).

When is this to be done?

The term revolt is within the term revolution. At least to me. It is here that I am confronted with the idea of revolt. This revolt is not based upon some passionate, heated, emotion. In fact, I would say, that for the most, it cannot be. Passion, in its existent form, is unstable. It ebbs and it flows, and yet the sustainability of such a level of vehemence is highly unlikely. Revolt, I would better say, is based upon a deep disdain and, to a certain level, dynamic disgust. I say dynamic here because the nature of reality is that it is eternally dynamic and this dynamism is only bounded in the name of efficiency and practicality-I do not rename my child each moment even though they are not the same person, even biologically, they were 1 second ago.

A dynamic disgust coupled with disdain (a more stable emotion) are the twin roots of revolt. To be revolted at something, a system, needs refreshing, because it is rather vehement term (not necessarily passionate-I am revolted by chunky vomit but I am not passionate about this revolt). This refreshing comes from the dynamism of a particular system, education for example, and the effects that come from this systemic causation. I am revolted by nearly everything that comes out of it. I have dynamic disgust whenever something ‘new’ comes from it. That this system is arisen from a causation that causes me a great deal of disdain for it is the more stable emotion that remains. Disdain.

This disdain has lead me to the thought that this system is no longer tenable in any moral or humane way. It cannot be ‘reformed’ in how this is normally defined. Reformation from a subversive (working within a systems construct to be an opposition force within the system) standpoint is not useful in this way because the rot is entire, it needs to come down. When revolt leads us down this path to this realization it leaves us with the answer of Revolution.

It is interesting, to me, that this both means the revolt of someone, somethings, against a dominant whatever as well as to go around, to revolve. Because something revolves does not, inherently, mean that one arrives at the same spot in a larger scope. It is all perspective and reference points. For example, a car tire revolves when it drives but the car, if it is the point of reference, is not in the same place as it was previously when the wheel made one full revolution.

We live in an era of almost immediate change, at least in the West. But we are a creature of a different time with the capacity to give the impression of changing-but we are not happy within this change. There is a difference between falling within the spectrum of change that allows for a positive growth of an individual and the act of survival that is outside of that spectrum. Because both individuals have similar biological features; the breath, they eat, they work, does not mean these individuals are the same.

We must revolt. In our small and large ways. In our disdain for what is even called ‘ideal’ within this system we must. It does not have to be this way.

The Rich, The Poor

The conversation swings one way or the other, economically because this world we choose to live in is one in which the proverbial ‘pile of beans’ is the prime mover. In some of the ecstatic moments one is left with the idea from our writers, my betters the lot of them, that there is something noble about being a bum or, at the very least, not ignoble. Perhaps, in some sense, I can agree with this because the, at least in the fantastical mythology, there is, at least, a motion of intent to become wealthy. This intent, because of its supposed willfulness, can associate the practitioner with blame. What a sorry fucking bag of shit to strive for. It is somewhat funny, a dash of the ha ha funny, and the funny that one uses when they watch their fourth grade teacher, one whom they, the said child, associated with Beatrice of Dante’s fame-strut onto stage at a seedy strip club as ‘Jannah’ (the gates of heaven). In all the wealth I have accumulated, very modest for most, but for one that came from immigrant/refugee fame, twice over, I have accumulated a fair amount of beans. In all of it I have found not a iota of happiness. Oh, in some sense, there is the practicality of the extra hundred dollars that allows you to wear underwear the fits nicely, afford that root canal, or, if I splurge for three months of savings, by a jacket, then there is a modicum of safety to it. Happines? No, I do not think it brings it. I have been told, though, that it brings that ability to be happy because your needs have been met but that was a bit ago. Two children and a wife ago. My beautiful Children and my wife ago. I knew, then, in a dark and miserable way, that I was going to pay for it. I knew it. One must compromise when they choose to have the joy of the householder. Oh how I loathe that compromise but I do it because, frankly, and honestly, I love my family. To love them is, in this measurement life, in comparison to what I must pay-morals, ethics, they must take a second fiddle to their eating and material happiness. I have found, through the years, that my own material happiness has come down to around 6-12 dollars a month. Strange. But, those moments, those brief moments, the other day, when I saw both my children making a fort, my elder daughter making a plan, my son tapping his chin with baby fat still on it, I understood the cost. If it cost me four or five more countless eons till I can come up and gasp for any air-then so be it-in that moment I would have paid it happily. In fact, in this beer haze now, I would still pay it. Ninkasi IPA is a great beer.
I digress
I think how the poor, to someone like me, is sometimes ennobled by those that have not been poor. I have been poor. Wretchedly so. The groups I was around had no nobility in them. They were filled with the bile of our contemporary lust for gold as much, if not more, than any other Fortune 500 prick. They were just failures at it. They were mean, cruel, and treated each other like starving pigs in a desert like sty. They feasted on each other. The gangs, the horrific gossip, all of it was something I found debilitating and something I wished to run from. Through this terrible effort that I was able to manifest, mostly born of fear, I was confronted with wealth in my endeavors. In college. I was the token poor boy. The incensed, maniacal, study fiend, that kicked their asses in GPA and who kept a full time + job. How stupid. Oh, I see the gawkers and I try to play it up to the children who have killed their gods, because, frankly, finding out the impotent, flaccid, cock behind the curtain is better than starving. But in all those yeas and the years I have spent with them, there is no nobility in having not. None. They have the same deep craving, the same errors, the same horrors, except they do not have the tokens.
The rich
They have the tokens and that which separates them from the rudeness of the poor is the shit thick wall of comfort. That is all. I cannot stand to breathe amongst them, often. The giggling SOBs watching TED talks which is like a bunch of humorless vagina’s without any lubricating abilities and the temperature of Sashimi grade Tuna thinking they have some prestigious place on this earth. They are prestigious like a malignant tumor is prestigious on the temporal lobe. I have fucked rich girls. They fuck okay. I must say. Sometimes a bit more kinky than the poor girls, but, I can’t get away from the fact that they, honestly, think they are the winners. Oh, I have met the liberal rich person, I have met the guilty one, all of them white, but once one speaks to them, fucks them, their place in this world is manifest destiny no matter how much they like it up the ass.
“What do you mean?” She said as she rolled over. Naked. Filled in orifices with something I must have wanted to get rid of.
“If you measure worth in a pile of beans, whether those beans are called dollars or rupees, you have made yourself, by your own choice, a pile of beans. Not even beans that can sprout into more beans, but a bunch of dried out beans, useless beans, like the nuts of a gay man or the ovaries of a gay woman.”
“What! You’re homophobic!”
“When you constitute one’s humanity into their sexuality, once you have bounded them into their definitions, and really believe it outside of pragmatic devices, you are anti-life. I would be a homophobe, a racist, a sexist, before I stood against the awesome responsibility of the divine existence-and fuck god, not that conceptualized, prickless, well quaffed, white god you want-the divinity of which you cannot count or speak”
dont give me numbers. Give me your duties. Don’t give me your words, but your deeds.
If you say you love me tear yourself of your skin, dance about in your bones, sell those to the glue factory, and follow then, in what is left, those that are worthy to follow.
The dollar’s tail is sprouted from the ass that shits-just like everyTHING else. I wish not for such THINGs.
Be well