I Was an Anarchist in my Twenties: Prose

There is a nail association, which at the beginning of the year advanced prices ten cents a keg. Last November it ordered a suspension of the nail machines for five weeks, to the great distress of eight thousand workmen, who are also machines-self-feeders.

[...]

The whiskey distillers’ pool is a combination of all the distillers north of the Ohio River from Pittsburg to the Pacific Ocean. It regulates production, export, and prices. Its success at Washington, in securing legislation several years ago granting whiskey-makers the privilege, given to no other tax-payer, of a postponement of the time for payment of taxes, is a significant reminder of Trajan's saying. The demand for whiskey so far falls short of the capacity of the pool to produce, that a large number of distilleries are kept idle, drawing pensions from the combination, in some cases as high as $500 a day.

[...]

On the third of April the largest and most influential meeting of cotton manufacturers ever held in the South came together at Augusta to take measures to cure the devastating plague of too much cotton cloth. A plan was unanimously adopted for the organization of a Southern Manufacturers' Association for the same general purposes as the New England Manufacturers' Association. The convention recommended its members to imitate the action of the Almighty in making a short crop of cotton by making a short crop of yarns and cloth, and referred to a committee the preparation of plans for a more thorough pool. [*2]

It is in the interest of profit to keep needing and wanting. Sociology dictates that human beings have some understanding on how to advance their self-interests. History's case examples demonstrate the profit-interest in action. The presence of monopolies was not noticable in the economy until the necessary boost provided by the industrial revolution. A sharp rise in productive ability was accompanied not by a greater distribution of the social product, but a burgeoning elite class. These are economic relationships that have always existed. To quote Adam Smith...

We rarely hear, it has been said, of the combinations of masters, though frequently of those of workmen. But whoever imagines, upon this account, that masters rarely combine, is as ignorant of the world as of the subject. Masters are always and everywhere in a sort of tacit, but constant and uniform combination, not to raise the wages of labour above their actual rate. To violate this combination is everywhere a most unpopular action, and a sort of reproach to a master among his neighbours and equals. We seldom, indeed, hear of this combination, because it is the usual, and one may say, the natural state of things, which nobody ever hears of. [*3]

The possession of property by the economic elites in the United States has remained virtually unchanged in fifty years. Though there are numerous cases such as 3COM, PGE, Enron, and countless other corporate disasters, it is still argued by many that these are exceptions to a general rule. It is not simply a matter in the distribution of wealth, but a matter of directing the operation of the economy in a means that benefit the whole. A free enterprise economy values its success according to a single indicator: profit. To raise its value, it can only lower the living conditions of the rest of society. When the industry is owned and operated by the masses, then can we expect the abuses of a profit-driven economy to cease. The right to work, a fair part of the social product, and a voice in directing the means of production -- all of these are the economic rights of Communism. Totalitarian dictatorships that seek to establish the Socialist economy are bound in their own hypocrisy. Centralizing power and authority in politics couldn't be accompanied by anything but the centralizing of power and authority in society, culture, and of course, the economy. Communist China, Cuba, and the USSR had simply turned their economy into state-run capitalism. These nations never granted their people the rights of Socialism; on the contrary, these states simply re-established themselves as the new class. Communism cannot be realized through government, but only on its ruins.

*1. "Political Economy," by Simonde de Sismondi, 1815, Chapter 7.
*2. "The Lords of Industry," by Henry Demarest Lloyd, 1888.
*3. "The Wealth of Nations," by Adam Smith, 1776, Book 1, Chapter 8.

Tyrants

2004-08-17

When the state is attacked, the formality of a trial is involved. The accused are read their rights, their right to remain silent and their right to lawyer, and an entire department of justice is erected, the District Attorney, to effectively prosecute their enemies. Powers are vested to certain lawyers, to force certain people to show up at trial, at the writ of a subpoena, to force men to speak, at the threat of law. Yet, when the individual is attacked by the state, these things do not exist. There is no lawyer appointed to the man whose life has been stolen. There is no department of justice to defend this man. This individual has no powers, no rights, and consequently, no justice. And, as I read over these words again and again, I can see how society has organized itself so that the individual is underprivileged, but the state is a ruthless tyrant.

A Learning Experience Through Drugs

2004-07-27

I am almost quite certain, that if there truly exists a purpose to life, it is for each and every person to finally come to terms with what they believe they must face upon death. Whether religious or not. You may be have appealed to reason more than mysticism, but you might still be afraid of that reality: the absolute, dark, deep sleep that awaits you upon death. Terrified that you will not be conscious again, and that maybe, just maybe, all of this life is for nothing. You might appeal to spirituality more than the thousands of books that surround you; you may have accepted every word of every preacher and priest as the very words of god, slowly trickling down to the eager ears of those pew-fillers. But, still, you're terrified. You realize that you must face a judge, that you will essentially live forever. Just as soon as this prospect fills you with relief, you become disappointed. Alive forever? What if you become bored, what if you exploit every aspect of interest in this world, and simply regress towards a sadistic, cruel soul -- a spirit that has so much hate for itself, that it must pour out this seething brutality to all that would listen. Or, perhaps your terror does not lie there. Perhaps it is the simple fact of being judged, of the past experiences of your life being looked over by a god. Maybe you're afraid you won't pass the test.

But this is the nature of the independent's spirit: always displeased, always unsatisfied, writhing and turning once it thought it had achieved the most possible comfortable position. I could honestly believe that this was the spirit of every being, but, no, no, there are too many people who are complacent, even within religious confines. Something so magnificent as having consul with the lord of all creation would seem to be something that could move people to do such great things. It has sedated them, it has filled their spirits with the idea that they can mutter "this life is enough" to their slavers. When it has not done this, it has moved entire people's towards prejudice. It has given so many people the idea that they are right to hate, because, if god wants you to hate, then you certainly cannot be wrong. I seriously doubt any army ever went to battle thinking that god was on the other side. Every person, every race of humans, all descended from the same early progenitor, and yet every one finds themselves special enough to have private discussions with god. When pressed in any other area, they are too ordinary. They feel themselves too ordinary to change society. They find that they are too ordinary to do anything meaningful. Too ordinary to create art. Too ordinary to believe that you should live in the moment, no matter how infantile and commonplace such an idea is. But, if you ask these same people, these "too ordinary" men, if they have conference with god, and they will say but these words: "I am among the few men who has the ear of god; not only do I believe it because of the evidence, but I know so because he has told me. We have very gentle, intimate moments, and on several occasions, before telling me something, he would ask me: 'May I be honest with you?'"

We will all die, but too many people misunderstand this fact. It is true that our actions that we take live on forever, but anyone who says this when asked about their own mortality, is misplacing values. I'm sure that there are millions of orphans that die unwanted, alone, homeless. If you add or subtract ten thousand, more or less, have their actions truly lived on beyond their deaths? Maybe so, but there is no arguing that they cannot live on in any meaningful fashion. Some people are under the very obscure impression that they will not die; that they, in fact, live on after death. As much as they may hold fast to this awkward belief, there is no denying that the body will die, that it will decompose, that it will rot, just as the bodies of the animals, and the bodies of dead worms. Well, I know something, that maybe some others don't know. I know that by the end of this life, I shall die. My body will rot, not unlike a decaying tree. The processes of thought, reflection, pleasure, and misery, will come to a grinding and complete halt. Just as I stop breathing, so I shall stop thinking. By my consideration of all the evidences available, this seems to me to be the most tennable, logical theory of life and death.

As a Humanitarian, I am of the firm belief that the world's current condition is an unjust atrocity. I should need to draw no more evidence than this: workers are still building palaces for kings of industry while the common men are starving on bread crumbs and starvation rations. Even if I could convince the people of the world to treat each other as brothers, to live as though they are all a part of a universal kinship, it is all for nothing, no? Because, in the end, every person's body will rot, every person will end, and there will be nothing. Every reform that was made, every revolution made on behalf of a working class, will not be able to be appreciated, when those who can appreciate, no longer flock the world in the numbers that we do today. Some may say that the individual cannot have immortality, but the cycle of breeding and repopulation can be eternal. But, no, no scientist, or even educated person, could ever agree to this. The universe will end in a cold death of all movement. Animate action, not even conscious life, will come to a grinding halt. With all of this true, for what reason can we say that we want to improve our current lot?

I could be poetic right now, and make some half obtuse and half cynical statement such as: "Well, if we can live in peace and harmony, together, for one or two billion years, that should be enough..." Nor can I pretend to enjoy the idea of death. As a human being, one born with the same instincts and the same basic mindset of any other being, death is perhaps the scariest idea, not even on a reasonable or rational level (but that's the point). No, I'm not going to take some backroute when it comes to answering this argument presented to me. This claim of an inevitable end to everything, as an argument, it is but a phantam pain, but as a serious consideration for a thoughtful person, I have an extreme burning desire to answer it. All that I want to spend my life creating will eventually meet the destruction of entropy...

I suppose I could begin my argument by saying, "If life does not matter finite, then why should it matter if it is infinite?" Yes, I hear the reasonable arguments biting at my neck, the arguments claiming that in one case, the accomplishments of mankind are able to be enjoyed indefinitely, while in the other case, such enjoyments end. Well, this is nothing but restating exactly what I said. Perhaps it is people being afraid that one day, what they did to help the world, will mean nothing. Or, perhaps it is what I am doing today, possibly meaning nothing in th future. But, no, no, I cannot accept this. I would not refuse tenderness to a person who was on death's door, simply because no matter what I gave them, they couldn't give it to others. And, so, too, if I can give a humane ethic to a society of men and women, whether or not they aid in spreading it, their cherishing of it is enough that I feel like I have done my part.

The Dex Trips -- It Kicks In...

2004-07-24

I scarf down my lunch in hope of it aiding my Dex ingestion. Holding the white pill in my hand, I look at the one key that will deprive me of any sort of sanity. I swallow. As I walk by and through the building, it kicks in. Very lightly. I see an Army recruitor and pass him by. 20 feet away, I stop and go back. I try to talk to him, but he is trying to convince a hot chick to see him in his office. I yell out, "So, is it fun to kill people?" He ignores me still, but others laugh. So I ask again, "No, it's fun, but being a soldier isn't just that." "Oh, yeah," I said, "Toppling democratically elected presidents in third world nations, too." We disagree and says he doesn't pay attention to any of that, and we obtain a consensus that the primary aspect of his job is "To take orders." I make it to class and my teacher's head has turned into a rock, of particular ugliness, of which the eroding winds have not been so kind.

The teacher puts a map up on the screen, and I have no fucking clue what I'm looking at. The words "Black Sea" are all that is legible to me.

Droogos!

2004-07-20

On psychedelic drugs, you lose familiarity with things that is normally understood. You look to your hand on a heavy 5-meo-dmt dose, and it slowly turns into the hoof of a pig. But, no, that sentence is somewhat misleading. Your familiarity with the hand turns to the familiarity you have of the pig.

You see your hand, and you instantly differentiate your thumb from the other fingers. You are FAMILIAR with this. On psychedelics, this familiarity is gone, and your thumb looks to the index finger what the index finger is to the middle finger. The ability to bend your fingers, to manipulate the joints, seems so simple, so obvious, but as you gaze on your hand on psychedelics, those simple and obvious movements are oblivious. They are gone. You see your hand, and you are instantly convinced that it can only aid you, by walking on all fours.

Sleepy Voice

2004-07-11

Walking down through a variety of ill-lit corridors, among my only friends, my conscience, my humanity, and a few trusted allies, I had decided that I wanted to live my life this way. I had been carrying around a notebook full of tattered torns, scattered drawings, and a tumbling batch of scrambled thoughts. Every moment in our adventure through this life, I had managed to stop, sit, and write, express some thoughts through paper. Eyes dilated, veins constricting, with 5-MeO-AMT as our poison, we decided that the world, as plain as it was, was not completely whole, unless we had our own fix to the frame. We trekked on, merciless in our seeking out whatever we could find unexplored, our dissatisfaction with a world sprawling with thoughtless bodies, our minds caving in to the constant and never-ending stream of

"Huh!" I said, waking up. I looked up and my eyes came to focus. A train was going by, as the street lights were temporarily blocked with shadows.

"You okay, man?" Kyle asked, himself very much awake and looking through various books.

"Yeah, yeah," I said, rubbing the back of my head, "I'm fine."

"Is everything all right?" a sleepy voice muttered underneath a pillow somewhere in the room. Three of us. Just three.

"Yeah, everything's fine," Kyle said, "Punker still hasn't gotten used to the train coming back. Don't worry. Go back to sleep."

"You know," I said, commanding attention of Kyle to me so I could start, "I just had the coolest dream ever. I have to write this down." I pulled out a notebook laying next to my pillow and started writing.

"What did you dream about?" Kyle said, mildly interested.

"I dreampt that I was a breaded shrimp, you know, those things you can get at Red Lobster by the bunch?"

Sober Man to Intoxicated Man

2004-06-29

Sober man to intoxicated man: "Are you aware of your surroundings or are you just trying to amuse yourself?"

Intoxicated man to sober man: "Can't we do both?"

What Are You Comparing?

2004-06-21

Guy: Hey, so, after this, you wanna fuck?

Gal: What!?

Guy: Ha, I'm just kidding.

Gal: I bet if I said yes, you'd totally accept it, though.

Guy: Well, yeah, but it wasn't serious. Like, if I asked someone for a million dollars, I would probably be joking, but if they gave it to me, I'd accept it.

Gal: You're comparing a load of cash to a warm, wet vagina?

Guy: Well, you're not -- yeah, actually, you do understand.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

2004-06-07

I might just happen to find, that when I am on these streets alone, I truly can or cannot find peace. Alone with the darkness of another still night, I'll ask why I couldn't push my miserable life just a few more steps in the direction of sustainable living. The nI'll remember that I'm an abused kid, peacefully alone and fucked upon this or that. Too dark of a past to discuss, my own condition worsening and worsening -- and people look at me with that daunted gaze, and when they hear stories of serial murderers and vicious rapists, they seem them as having my own past. Abused, beaten, prison time, homeless. To travel through my thoughts must be a journey through a man's mind that had he never known civilization.

Uncensored and pissed off is probably the most dangerous any of us can get.

So, will I go? The question of the hour. I don't know. And I have some months to consider it. Dodging bullets + billy clubs like a felon.

By now, "Rock on" is a corporate logo. And maybe I will atke that jump, and decide to risk life and limb to prove I believe what I say. Most of all, to myself.

"You smell like gasoline."

"You want to make love to me, huh?"

Maybe I'll fall in love and it might mean something. Four counts of attempted murder and a heart of god. This kid, really.

A criminal and a half.

Just a sucker in a system that oppressed revolt.

Fuck -- and it still hurts to live.

A Few Books and Space

2004-05-19

The man furiously flipped through pages, as his eyes ceaselessly scrolled through the words, not forming sentences, not allowing the culmination of thoughts, not granting access to the repressed parts of his mind: understanding, clarity, thinking. In anger, he tossed the book against the wall, gritting his teeth. He got up out of his chair, and moved to the stereo, where he changed the CD. He started playing, and starting humming along for approximately three seconds. And then a groan, "Argh!" And then he started fast forwarding. Then he skipped three songs.

"You've been doing this for 28 hours, Luke," she said.

"Just a few more minutes, that's all it'll take," he said, skipping three more tracks, and then fast forwarding again.

"What are you expecting to find?" Sharon's voice whispered in the dark alley of life.

He turned to her, and then back to the stereo. In rage, he knocked it over, picked up a random book, which had hundreds of paper clips attached to certain pages, marking off special observations. He turned to one of these pages.

"You see this page?" he asked her, turning to her. It was a blank page, containing a copyright. "I felt persecuted on this page. And this one..." he said, turning to a page in the center of the book. Apparently, it was written in French. "On this page, I felt beautiful," he said, "And this one!" He turned to another, as his pose quickly changed. His eyes were loaning to the page a sense of solemnness. Finger tips caressed the page, "This is the page I felt alone on." He could not understand the words, as they were still in a foreign language.

Sharon turned her head to the side, just enough so he would not be in her direct field of vision. He wasn't noticing this, as he was entrapped in his own magical world. She sat, alone and single-hearted, on a cardboard box full of books and papers. Her legs were limp, dangling back and forth, and her hands were holding the sides of the box, giving her some leverage. Then she turns to him, "What are you looking for?... Luke?"

He was ignoring her now. Gently, he put back on his glasses that were hanging around his neck by a cheap, fiber wire. He had turned to another page that interested him. Slowly removing the paper clip from that page, he started to read the French words. Very gently, close to himself, he whispered, in a way that you might think he only thought himself mouthing... "Un homme sans coeur a été lapidé à la mort par une foule des enfants..."

"Luke...?"

And then, without understanding his change, he continued to whisper, "Slowly, a generation of men and women would come to power, who not only had power that was unprecedent, but who were foolish and ignoble in all aspects... death was commonplace on the riverside this time of year..."

"Luke!" Sharon finally said, "What are you trying to find!?"

He dropped the book, as it closed on itself hitting the concrete ground. Turning to her, a teardrop rolled down the side of his face. "I think something inside of me has died..."

DMT Trip

2004-04-16

You know, I never meant this to sound like a drunken phone call at 3 in the morning... I didn't mean for this to be an encounter coaxed on by the intoxication of subtle substances... But, when I got back to the same place I've been at for months, you were the first person that I thought of. And, as much as you may cast me off as a ragged throw-away... It was you that I thought of first, when I got back to this wretched place.

And I'm sorry, if you can't stand me like this, but I can't stand me like any other way. Because when I open my eyes, it's like opening old wounds. And when I close out the world, it's like an eclipse of everything I always wanted. I'm trying to breath harder and harder, but I can't feel anything...

I'll say that I am sorry just one more time, if you promise to forgive me. Just one last time. Because if you're planning on me coming back to this spot, chances are that my survival rate by then would have dropped to 0%.

The Greatest Criminal on Earth

2004-03-07

the greatest criminal on earth...

Harriet Tubman with 400 charges of grand theft and 478 charges of criminal trespassing. (at large)

Martin Luther King with 150 charges of disturbing the peace, 40 charges of obstruction of justice, and 650 charges for criminal trespassing.

Susan B. Anthony with 1 charge of attempt to vote (time served), 170 charges of obstruction of the due process of law, and 353 charges of criminal property damage.

John Brown with 3 charges of treason, 20 charges of murder, 47 charges of criminal trespassing, and 14 charges of disrespecting an officer of the law.

Thomas Paine with 14 charges of treason, 3,728 charges of inciting a riot, and 902 charges of disrespecting an officer.

The Thug Problem

2004-02-29

"If government were abolished, then there would be no one to defend the innocent." So it is the cry of those who oppose Anarchism, those who work vigilantly against a living and breathing Democracy. Destroy the throne of the monarch, remove the seats of congress, relinquish power and the power structure, and the result would be chaos. And there can be nothing so sure of this, as the fact that the abusive and exploitive will seek out to persecute and enslave those who are weaker. Might is right. Topple the police departments, the government bureaus, the aristocracy, and the people will be left defenseless. Those harboring the natural power of warfare will engage in villainy and cruelty. Few will be exempt from their policy of robbery and theft. Rapine and vice will go unchecked as those who are not cautious fall victim to what would otherwise be classified as crime. Those who oppose the new system of thugs, robbers, and murderers, their cries will go unheard. As much as they muster their courage and strength, as much as they organize for unity, they will still be crushed and obliterated under a systemlessness that manages to keep them in dire poverty and starvation. Screams can be heard as they battle over the streets, combat and warfare over what may otherwise be pleasant without the presence of a thug... If Anarchism is established, so it is argued, then all civility and peace will be the first casualties, as civilization is the first victim... And those to oppose Anarchism, can then say that they were right in their assertions.

From all that I know and have experienced, I must say this: I completely agree. There are fewer things that can be ascertained and agreed upon.

Without a protector of the people, there will an unequaled amount of bloodshed and warfare. Organized brutality and cruelty would take form as oppression and exploitation were forced upon an innocent people. Protestors would be killed to defending the idea of free speech, holding anti-establishment opinions would get you incarcerated, speaking your mind would get you charged with treason. People are imprisoned for being young, black, or poor on our streets, under ancient legislation that politicians deemed unnecessary to wipe off the books. For every arrest, every police officer is granted a bonus. Militaristic regimes invade third world nations imposing inhumane working conditions upon the population under the guise of "Free Trade." The rights of the citizens of this nation are completely crushed under a two-party system, which completely alienates the will of the people and imposes a system inherently suseptible to bribery and corruption. Police are killing people for expressing their rage about the accepted ideology, soldiers are murdering civilians and peasants in foreign nations for "global security," personal liberties are being infringed upon, and there is no cruelty left undone, no inhumanity that has not been acted upon.

I am very convinced, in fact, that government has fulfilled the role of the thug. Official or unofficial are just subjective words. What one calls a thug the other will call a government. In the end, their means and methods are equally a breach of justice, truth, and honor.

As Sad a Fact as it May Be to Perceive

2004-02-16

As sad a fact as it may be to perceive...

The technology to digest, intake, and use food with a process that excludes the use of jaws, saliva, or swallowing, will be in place before those who are on starving see an end to their hunger.

Prejudice (Part Two)

2004-02-13

"I think the problem lies with the Baruul's Jovile," the psychologist told me.

"Baruul's Jovile?" I asked, "You mean, something that has to do with my sex life?"

"No, no, not all psychology can be reduced to that, no matter how much Freud you read," he continued, "There is an ancient tale originating in Gaul, of a woman named Baruul and a man named Jovile. Jovile fell desperately in love with this movie, for his looks, her image, her face, and her body. Everything that you might assume came from his lust, actually, arrose from his senses of affection. In this story, we find that -- in fact -- a man's desires on love are not always sex-rooted, as modern culture would assume."

"Ah, I gotchya," I said.

"It's also known as BJ's syndrome," he said, as I parted. Afterwards, I talked with my friends.

"Apparently, BJ's syndrome is what is distressing me with me love for Isabelle," I said, "I fell in love with an image, so thoughtless yet passionate, and... I just need to do something about it."

John spoke up, "Maybe you need to confront her, and tell her that her personality actually is dead inside."

"Yeah," Carl said, "That's one real good way to making friends. 'Hi, I think you're hot, but you're ugly on the inside.'"

Quinn walks up, "Hey, guys, what are we talking about?"

Completely ignoring Quinn, I say, "Ugh, this is driving me nuts. I have to talk to Isabelle right now about BJ's syndrome."

"Heh," Quinn said, "Who's getting a blowjob?"

Prejudice

2004-02-05

The history teacher spoke to his class, "Now we will be moving on to the history of the oppression of the two-headed people by the one-headed people."

Bob quickly and unconsciously glances at John and Dick, the two-headed couple, and then turns away. John and Dick reply to Bob's actions by looking at him.

"What?" Bob said, "... I wasn't looking at you."

Punk

2004-01-28

Let's lose the fucking mohawks!

Face the truth. The more we rely on a material culture, the easier it will be to imitate us. High school kids who think it's cool to dress the way we do will buy a pair of pants for $70 at Hot Topic and start having an attitude, calling themselves punks, and then some forty year old liberal will praise them for being non-conformists. Let's lose the fucking studs, while we're at it. What's the point of having one thousand metal studs on our jackets? Intimidating as it may be, only idiots will argue that it can be used as a defensive measure. The less we become distinguished members of our own society, the less we dress the way we want, the more difficulty corporate leaders will have in turning our lifestyle into a weekend fad for yuppies and rich kids. Go to your nearest Gap store, and steal a pair of pants. Wear it with pride, and when the logo starts to wear, because that's all you've been wearing for two months, use a highlighter on it, so you'll look just like everyone else. Make sure you have an American Eagle or Abercrombie shirt. Take off your spiked collars. Destroy and burn every part of you that outwardly makes you a punk. Starve the megacorporations of their ability to make a buck off you. World peace and revolution don't sell sweatshop-made clothing. Being assertive and very confrontational towards injustice won't open up a new market for third-world exploitation. Sure as fucking shit, independence and anarchy aren't on sale! They very well may fuckin' sell shoes with the anarchist symbol on it, well good for them, because they would market the image of me pissing on their skulls if they knew it would make them money, even if they didn't understand. The idea of loving people as the greatest act won't make you popular in high school; it's the fuckin' attitude! And, finally, doing what you fuckin' want isn't the best marketing plan for any product, where 90% of the income becomes profit (wealth) of the Capitalist.

Do what you want...

So, maybe our material culture really reflects that. Perhaps the fact that we can offend people (at least make them feel uncomfortable, and at most violate their most sacred creeds), perhaps it is this, that we desire. Pushing people out of their secure zones so that they have to consider something else. Nothing does that better than a spike mohawk on a punk screaming, "Fuck the pigs" with a thousand studs on his jacket, kicking over trash cans while running from cops in the suburban mall. Maybe we were just fucking sick and tired of everyone dressing the same. Maybe it just got to us that a monoculture was intellectual displeasing. Mainstream media, covered with a thousand concepts that mean nothing to us, patriotism, nationalism, americanism, militarism -- for a low introductory price of three installments of $29.99.

Let's lose nothing...

Salvia Trip, 2 Point 0

2004-01-03

I had woken up early this morning, and after very little consideration and thought, I decided to complete my existence with a dab of Salvia Divinorum. I smoked close to .500 grams in the garage of my parents. It was 8:00 AM and only my father was up. He asked me what I was doing in the garage, but by this point the trip already had me in its thrusting power. I told him I was smoking a cigarette, but in my mind, I told him not to let circles of furious light spew at me whenever he talks. Making it up the stairs, I struggled with every, as the normal activities of a human became the most complicated. I should also note, with a certain sincere tone, that all of these happenings took place while I was carrying a MP3-CD player and listening to Apoptygma Berzerk's rather calm melody. Making it into my room, I was curious, in all confidence, as to its psychedelic nature. Those dark crevices and corners were homes to festering and boiling monsters, of a particularly striped nature. Such detail, provided by this Salvinorin A and B, but I am at a loss to describe them. Boiling with passion, perhaps, may work. I looked all over my other room, and I submit the following psychonaut inquiry: why is everything covered in neon-colored, glowing ants? Motherfuckers move with the speed of light. Or, that's too fast. With the speed of sound. I double checked: No, my finger is not melting. At least, it only feels like it is. It looks like it's on fire, though. Regardless, I enjoy this sensation. This smokey mint flavor still saturates my mouth, in a not-too commercial/advertising way. I am also quite curious why this differs somewhat from my last Savia Divinorum trip. Why, I ask, haven't I been dragged through any holes by goblins? Are they... perhaps waiting for a moment where the intoxication grows stronger, and my mental ability grows weaker still? Everything in my room at this moment taunts me, laughs with the sterile cries of society. Have I done something wrong? Am I... a bad person? Whatever the case, I feel proud and confident in my abilities as a human being, a sort of living creature of consciousness. Boldness and strength, characterized by my very ability. My finger stopped melting, and this pleases me.

Boston DNC Protest

2004-00-00

Anarchist to US Army Soldiers: "Take off your uniform, get a real job, and then come on down here so I can make you a Vegan breakfast!"

Capitalism FAQ

2004-00-00

It can be argued that Feudalism and Capitalism produce identical results: perpetual poverty among the working class. But what of the justification for those systems? A Feudalist's argumentation is backed by greed and tyranny, and a Capitalist's claims are justified with nothing less. What can you argue for a system that deprives wealth from those who produce it? What can you say to a system where the ruling class and the rich class are equally the thieving classes? What argumentation can be proposed for it, this so-called "right to property"? There is nothing that can defend it, less the arguments of brutality and ignorance are employed.

I am a Socialist, and I oppose Capitalism because it produces widespread poverty, and its justification is no greater than that of Feudalism. I am a Socialist, because with fair prices and fair wages, poverty would be eliminated -- because I believe as an industrial society, fairness and justice ought to exist. The reasons why I am a Socialist are the reasons why I am a Vegetarian and an Atheist: because I believe in compassion, fairness, logic, Freethought, and Reason.

Hacker Psuedonyms

2004-00-00

"We got another hacker here?"

"Yeap."

"What are his aliases?"

"A Way To Resist, BeingOfSentience, Bitterly Sober, CulturalNihilist, Horizon Revolt, Jesus And TeeVee, Raised On Cement, and Social Dissident."

"Great, another fucking activist."

Idle Profits

2004-00-00

Since the defining aspect of the Capitalist is that they live idle off of the labor of others, it would seem illogical to assume that they should have ownership of something which they did not labor upon. As the Capitalist makes their living from the dividends and profits of the industries they possess, they are not applying any labor to land or capital. They are not working, and in the most literal sense, they are not fulfilling the obligation of property by applying labor to the object they wish they to posses. But despite this, most followers of Locke still support Capitalism and the class system.

In this economy of our modern world powers, purchases and sales are made with a currency, which is used as an exchange rate for other commodities produced by labor. An individual can labor and create something that is worth a certain amount of exchange value, and then sell it. These economic exchanges are just the bartering of laborers trading the things which they have produced for things which they have need or desire. Purchases, then, are just a matter of trading what we ourselves have produced.

The wealthy Capitalist, then, may have done no work at all whatsoever in the massive, corporate empire of which they are the owners; by defining trade as the exchange of property, or labor's creation, then it would be unjust to restrict or prohibit it. Likewise, those who possess their vast fortunes by means of trade do so justly. This naturally entails a world full of landlords, industrialists, managers, employers, and investors, and their armies of middle class servants, such as the lawyers, the bankers, the judges, and the bureaucrats. None of these contributes anything of value or worth by means of their profession, but the adherents of Locke find these upper and middle classes to be justly in possession of their wealth, even if they contributed no labor to the production of their possessions.

The logic for this, as above described, is that they acquired their wealth through trading products of value with others. That is the only way one could justify such a system; otherwise, we would be forced to conclude that the capitalist, the corporate executive, the banker, and the stock trader, all of whom may be millionaires, are in possession of wealth that does not belong to them. We would be forced to conclude that they are thieves, and that it is the workers who must seek to reclaim their property. But, if we were to conclude that from Locke's writings, we'd certainly be associating him with Socialist ideologies.

New Hunger

2004-00-00

Having died and come back to life, I noticed that my appetite for human flesh has increased at least fourfold.

Photography

2004-00-00

Our lives can be defined as the moments between the greatest highs and the lowest lows. It can be defined as the habits that make up our outter person, the bashfulness, the affections, the desires and hardships. These things can all be remembered naturally by anyone. Yet there is nothing so crystalline and accurate as a photograph. Whether in a wallet or scrapbook, it remains as an unfaded, unforgotten memory -- a time of passion, a time of fear, a time of life. Photography is a technological means of acheiving something that is close to everyone's heart: capturing the moments of life. Where they cannot be blurred or buried, the memories that constitute themselves through photographs will be with us forever.

I want to be a photographer.

Sex

2004-00-00

The most disturbing trend of our society is in its sexual attitude: it is impolite to talk about what everyone does and what everyone's body tells them to do.

This Girl I Know

2003-12-04

There's this girl I know, and in many ways, she's betrayed me as a friend. It wasn't over money or drugs or anything material like that. Not even sex. Just, over other people. She lied to me. I didn't like it very well, and I convinced myself, like any other time, that I would just let go. I thought I was strong and that I could just do it. That it was a matter of a certain amount of pain I would have to go through. Because, even though I didn't like to talk about it, or bring out those emotions, I still had feelings for it. Maybe if enough time went by, they would die. Then that pleasing feeling will come, where I know I feel nothing for her. And maybe one day, I would cross her on the street, one out of a million chances, and I could see her smile at me, and I wouldn't blind, I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't laugh. Just death. Just another human body walking past me that I don't know, and that I'm convinced I don't want to know. So I closed my door, refused to talk, to this girl. Months would go by, and I'm still thinking about her. I'm still convinced, though, that if I just hold off long enough, I can ignore her. I push the phone away. A week goes by and I find myself at my worst, drunk as fucking hell. One pint of vodka and several beers. Fuck it. I lost count. I pick up the phone, and call her. No, I didn't care that it was three in the morning. I didn't care at all. In fact, as the phone was ringing on the other end, I was arguing with myself that it was even better that it was three in the morning. As I was about to get into the reasons, someone answered. It just so happened that it wasn't her. I dialed wrong, dumbass that I am. Now I feel bad for that person. I concentrate this time and dial. She answers, and I hear her voice, and I feel like I'm in the sky. We talk, for a little, and instantly, I start talking seriously with her. I jumped on those things in my mind that I wanted to tell her. She immediately picked up on the fact that I'm drunk. We talked for two hours. I remember only one word: when I said "hello." The general thoughts that we exchanged, I remember those. Next morning, I had some orange juice with ice, to help the hangover. At around twelve in the afternoon, the phone rings. I pick it up and it's her. "Well, what the fuck do you want? I thought I said I didn't want you to call me?" She paused for a moment and said, "You called me last night." I furrowed my eyebrow and thought. "Oh, fucking, yeah..." I said, "Yeah, I guess I did." We talked for five minutes, and then I convinced her I had something to do. I didn't, it being a saturday and all, which is the unstated intention of weekends: having nothing to do. Nothing changed. Since I talked to her that night, I just think about her more. So I called her, sober, or mostly sober, and we talked. But, as I talked to her, I realized that I was immediately trying to look at her as I have before: that ultimate beautiful, sex goddess, affectionate creature. As I did this, my mind remembered some of the betrayals, and they make my heart dark with pain. I couldn't bear to talk to her, because to tell you the truth, I wanted things to be reversed. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted to go back to that time where she was that absolutely perfect girl. But, things happened, and people change. And I wanted her to be that person again, but it seemed impossible. "Fuck it, I think you're just going to betray me again," I said to her. She told me on the phone that she was sorry for everything and that she still loved me. I hung up. The phone rang again. I picked it up and dropped it. Taking my jacket over my shoulder, I opened the door and walked out. For one second, I considered what I was doing. Too many thoughts to analyze, so I brazenly went out into that dangerous saturday world. Still, I constantly thought about her. Drinking myself to insanity in one of the local bars, one of those, "Fuck you! I control my own body! I know when to stop drinking!" yells, and it working. God, I hope it works. For just one more drink... Just one more shot. Another week goes by. I held her phone number in my hand, as I glared over the phone book. "What the fuck..." I said. I picked up the phone and dialed. Ringing. Part of it was that I was afraid of being hurt by her again, hurt so bad. Another part of it was that I didn't want to be there standing at the end, knowing that I didn't learn one goddamn thing from this experience and made the same mistakes. "Hello?" she answer. "Hi," I said. We talked. I didn't treat her like a lover, and not like a wretched banshee from hell who came to torture me (which I accused her of once). We talked for a few hours on the phone. As a friend. Then she had to go so she could go out. When I hung up the phone, it felt like the stress and tension lifted. So maybe, with her, I can't live as just a lover, or just a hater, if I value my sanity anyway.... I have to live as a friend. Maybe I'm wrong, but I sleep better because of it.

Salvia Trip

2003-11-17

As I'm writing this, I am coming down off the massive Salvia Divinorum trip. It was, I must say honestly, quite unlike anything I've experienced before. But for this to have any meaning, I should inform readers of my background. I have used Dextromethorphan, LSA (Lysergic Acid Amedes), methamphetamine, marijuana, crack, and a few pharmaceuticals (Codeine, Xanax, Klonnopin). The only drugs to have little success with was Marijuana and crack -- I simply felt extremely little to nothing. The rest were powerful, enjoyable, and deserved to be respected for their powers on the mind.

Recently, I've been drinking so much alcohol, that I'm trying to look for a casual replacement. My friend hooked me up with dried leaf Salvia once, long long ago, and when I smoked it, it was a very subtle, subtle high. I laughed my ass off a lot, but I didn't get anything hallucinational about it. So, now that I'm looking for an alcohol alternative, I think about Salvia. My alcoholism was somewhat undesirable, because when I stopped drinking for a day, I got the sweats, the shakes, and I got just really pissy and aggrivatted towards everyone. I had to drink every night. So, maybe Salvia could do it for me, I thought.

I purchased a gram of 10x, a gram of 5x, and an ounce of dried leaf. Since I didn't have a pipe (I didn't smoke weed or crack or meth), I took an empty can of Steel Reserve (wh00!) and punctured holes in it with a safety pin. I smoked some 10x and some dried leaf on it, and got just a slight high. Like, "Okay, maybe I'm feeling it. I feel sort of happy." It did nothing for me. I talked with some friends, and they're all giving me mixed advice. I read over Erowid's vault on it several times, and it seemed like it would be a hassle to get high off it. One friend said that it kicked in in only 20 seconds and last only two minutes, and some of Erowid confirmed that. Then someone suggested that I had to use a torch lighter, and get it really hot to smoke it. And that I couldn't use a beer can.

So, anyway, I ran into some friends, who had known I was a psychonaut (and somewhat of a chemist -- related interest, heh), and I told them I have some Salvia. I told them about it before, so I offered to smoke them up. I get the shit from my room and bring it to theirs (we were all at the same university). With a nugget of weed on the bottom, I packed in some 10x. I let my friend (Jay) have the first hit. He took a huge fucking hit, and coughed so much. His eyes were bulging. And then he fell back in the bed. "Oh, fucking, man," he said, "My whole body's temperature is increasing and decreasing, my blood has been put on red alert." He was bugging, and looked so tripped out. In less than ten fucking seconds. So, I take the pipe, and take a nice long hit off of it, and pass it off. I released. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Nothing. "Fuck, maybe I didn't hit it right." At this time, I was thinking that I didn't know how to inhale maybe, because smoking weed and crack didn't do much for me. My other friend, who took a hit off it, felt nothing, too. "I 'unno, man," he (Dan) said, "What's it supposed to feel like?" I said intense hallucinations.

So, I packed another round, figuring maybe it was because he had the first hit he got so fucked up. I inhaled, passed, and then exhaled. Still, nothing. I packed one final bowl of 10x, and smoked up. Still, I felt absolutely nothing. So, I gave up on it. The kids were packing some weed in it, and passing it around, so I took a few hits off that (in a way, it's a social institution -- the hitting off of weed of your friends). I'm chilling in this room, with about five people, and football is on. Now, I hate watching football, so I just try to relax, and eventually come up with an excuse to get the hell outta there. About thirty minutes after my first hit off of Salvia, I started to feel weird, just like, the world was slowly drifting apart. I put it off as probably an LSA flashback, caused by the slight effects of Marijuana (which happens sometimes with alcohol). The screen of the TeeVee felt like it was its own entity and that everything else in the world was simply a two dimensional backdrop. Then all of a sudden, my heart started to pound rapidly, and it felt like my entire body was pulsating. And then I felt it, a disconnection with the world. That trip feeling. It only happens with psychodelic drugs, a very specific feeling. Not "uber fucked up" feeling. But that, "mind-expansion" feeling. It happens with LSA and DXM, so far I could confirm (and LSD and shrooms as others have stated). After about 40 minutes from my first hit, it came on decently. So, I packed a whole bunch more. I put dried leaf on the bottom of the bowl (so the 10x extract, which was sort of looking like grains) wouldn't fall through. Then I smoked up some more.

My friend who got really fucked up in ten seconds said, "No, man, I'm done with THAT chemical for tonight." My other friend was like, "I 'unno, I'm pretty fucked up now... But it might be just the weed. It feels like something else. Like, I feel like I'm not really here." And we both started to laugh at the comment, because that was definitely not the weed. I smoked up a whole bunch more, and the trippy feeling just became so much more intense. And there was a physical body buzz, that whenever I flexed a muscle, I felt an orgasmic euphoria, similar to LSA -- except LSA can have these almost random depletions of happiness. And like, my mind just tripped hard.

I'll try to explain the trip. When I looked around the room, and someone said something, that feeling, that attitude, that demeanor, the general VIBE, became so intensified. Like, my friend would say, "Oh, man! Did you see that guy get tackled!?" And my heart exploded with passion, a feeling of, "The intense power and strength of a football tackle, of a goal, of a game we root for." And then someone said something funny, and my heart exploded with passion more, this time a feeling of, "Holy hell! The comedy that we live through our lives so that we can remember who we are a little more!!!" And while I focused on that one vibe, it felt like EVERYTHING had that feeling, and all that didn't, seemed to disappear entirely. I would see this vibe, feel it, and then my mind would make a prediction. Like, I would close my eyes, and the next thing would happen. I saw someone stand up, I closed my eyes, and then I saw them do spins and chug a bottle of vodka. I opened my eyes and they're standing over the TeeVee, trying to get better reception. I looked at something, and then blinked, and I saw what looked like an electric shadow. My eyes were wide open (as it was with other trip drugs), and my friends said I looked like I was bugging.

On the television, they were talking to some guy who looked like a mountain of flesh. Literally, the human version of Jabba the Hutt. Nobody was paying attention, though. So my friend Jay said, "Whoa, look." And everyone there (about me, Jay, Dan, and some chick) looked. Dan said, "Man, that guy is not real." The TeeVee switches to something else, and Jay turns to Dan and says with a smile, "Dude, he definitely did not look real." And I burst into a laughter that lasted about 20 minutes. So, finally, I did stop. And then, the girl was going to say something. In my mind, I was so convinced, 100% that it was going to be about the fat guy on the screen. But then it wasn't. And my train of thought had shifted to the new vibe, the new topic, the new ideas. What I was just thinking about, the vibe that had just filled me with passion, dissipated entirely, and I could not remember what it was. On Dex, I've said, "Yeah, and you can't remember what happened 5 minutes ago." That Dex sort of feeling is more like, "Yeah, and just where did my day go, and why can't I remember how I got to where I am right now?" On Salvia, what you were just thinking about five seconds ago is just obliterated. I would close my eyes and get these visuals, these things I would imagine. Since I have ADD, my mind likes to go a million miles a second. And these thoughts, these images, these movies, each built up upon the other one, started to unravel, as I saw clay figures battling each other, stairs that went down a thousand miles, scenes of myself running through the ghetto (long story behind that one), just trippy images, with balls bouncing, and weird caves.

I also had a horrible case of dry mouth. In fact, when I folded my tongue, it would stay stuck together for 30 seconds. I showed Jay and he screamed like a girl. I went to show Dan, but he was like, "No, no, no, what is it, first?" And Jay was like, "Oh, don't worry, it's cool." I showed him, and he was pretty down with it. I went to show one of the girls. But my tongue got wet by the time I went over to them (stupid body). I mean, it would have made my night, if I could freak out this chick. The most intelligent thing (which she repeated about five times) was, "Salvia? Wow, that sounds like Saliva." And offending a no-brain girl is my sort of fun.

When the Salvia started to kick in, I thought it could have been marijuana, but I had a small nausea, just an uneasy stomach feeling. The only thing Marijuana has ever done for me is end nausea, and that's how I could tell the drug of Salvia was kicking in. Thirty minutes after I smoked it. By now, I had smoked 300mg of 10x with others, then 300mg of 10x by myself (using dry leaf at the bottom both times), and then I had abotu 300mg of 5x (which, basically, you had to smoke twice as much to get the same effect, which wasn't as much as a hassel as you might think it to be). I really hate to smoke, because my lungs get burned out easily, but I kept smoking and smoking and smoking this shit. I wanted to reach a peak where I couldn't handle myself any more. On Dex, it took several months before I had the balls to take a 600mg trip, and every time I go over, it's a bad trip now. I wanted to reach the optimimum level of smoking Salvia. Also, with smoking Salvia, that feeling I had of burning out my lungs in pain, when I had my first hit -- that burning sensation stopped. Whenever I took a hit off it after the effects of Salvia kicked in, no burn. Just smoking happiness. Dan finally turned around and said, "Man, this kid keeps staring at me and laughing. You should stop smoking." So, I finally put it out. I chilled there for about a half hour longer, since the human interaction there, the moving and vibrating scene of living social interaction, it all provided me with great physical and mental stimulation, as situations were twisted and fucked up in my mind when I closed my eyes.

1 AM rolls around, and I'm still getting fucked up off of it (even though I stopped smoking). About that time, I skip out. I was walking down one of the campus paths. It was like, a regular assphalt road on an otherwise grassy area. But as I looked down when I walked, I suddenly got thoughts. "This isn't just a road -- this is the driveway to my commune -- no, this is the road I'm hitch hiking out of New Orleans with, -- no, this is the road to home -- no, no, no, this is the surface of the moon." Each time I thought one of these things, I absolutely believed it. The first time, with the thoughts of the commune, I believed (or knew) that I was carrying the mail from the mail box, and that my friends were waiting for me at the front porch. And when I thought I was on the surface of the moon, the road became gray and everything looked exactly like the moon's surface (the grass turned gray and grew craters). I thought that everyone was looking at me weirdly, thinking, "Why is that kid walking on the moon?" But then I looked up, saw everything else, the hallucination faded, and I felt like they stopped thinking I was walking weird. As I walked through the unwinding, white corridors of my dorm house (since it was night now, they locked every entrance except the main one, so I had to do some walking) -- and I was thinking that I was walking through the halls of a hospital. And I was convinced of that. Mentally, your brain can decipher between what you believe and what you know. If you know there is an imminent threat to your body, you release adrenaline, but if you pretend that there is a man with a knife after you, you won't get the same physical response -- and mentally, on Salvia, whatever I believed became exactly what I knew.

I made it back to my dorm room in one piece, where I listened to trance-ambient-techno. It felt like it was pulsating through my body. I had four beers to add to the effects of the salvia. When I when to take a swig, I looked into the hole of the can, and saw the beer, and it looked like a cave, and then it felt like I was being dragged through the cave extremely fast. I would open my eyes, and just my monitor, looking like it was cracking, as though it was dissolving into small pieces of liquid magma that were about to explode and burn themselves deep into my flesh. I rubbed my stomach, and it felt like ultimate, divine, heavenly bliss and purity -- a sort of absolute pleasure, that it was unthinkable. With LSA, it sort of feels like you're on the brink of a bad trip/bad insanity. With this, it was pure, wholesome, I had no fear, I wasn't afraid of a bad trip. Finally, at 3 AM, it had been almost 3 hours since I smoked, and I was uber fucked. The beer made me sleepy, so I crashed for a few hours (afterall I have to get up at 8:30 for class, or, uhhh, about 40 minutes from right now).

I finally woke up at around 5:30 AM, still feeling mentally fucked up. I hadn't eaten anything, which is why I thought I was still fucked. So, I crammed down a few triscuits and soda. When I focus on one part of the room, I see everything else slowly dissolve, as though being eaten by an acid. It's certainly not the mental chaos I was in before, with my mind going through a hundred thousand movie scenes in less than a minute. But right now it's 7:50 AM, and I'm decently still fucked up. On a come-down, and it's been about six hours since I smoked any Salvia.

Anyway, though what happened to me was very different than what anyone told me, take it for what you will. It took 30 minutes (not 20 seconds) to kick in, and lasted for 6-8 hours (not 10 minutes). As a parting message, remember that a healthy relationship with a drug is one where you control it, not where it controls you. With that, I wish everyone a happy Salvia trip.

Drug User

2003-11-17

So, I'm hanging out with my girlfriend who does C21H23NO5. While we're fucking, she wants to do C18H25NO -- bad idea, but she didn't listen, and ended up losing her mind. A few wakes later I did the same thing, and there's no freedom like when you're on C18H25NO and crawling around on your knees. One day I finally dosaged on some C16H17N3O3, kind of like C20H25N3O, and ended up writing a really fucked up story involving all my friends. To calm myself down I take some C2H6O and C17H13ClN4, a love mix. Next day, I smoked so much C23H28O8 that I tripped balls for 15 hours, hallucinations and everything. Just like C10H15N, I stayed up all fucking night. I felt nausea, so I just smoked some C21H30O2. With the right mix, I think I can make it through this life...

Social Letdowns

2003-11-14

The night casts a shroud of darkness over our small little world, our small conflicts and interests. I look out past the stars, the small beacons of light in an ever darker night, and I look into those memories, distant and faded, of family. I see the same thing I always see when I decide to gently sigh about letdowns. Their faces, as kindly and warm as they always have been, as they always will be. Maybe something else, maybe something more. The ferocity of the blackness covering our world was unbelievable. So it was when my heart became more convinced than ever that honesty and sincerity were the only methods to happiness. There should never be a lie in a tear, never fraud in a smile, never motive behind a laugh.

Third number. College girl. Likes Crass. Resident Assistant. Talked to me. Thought she liked me. We talked, I comforted her, I shared moments of kindness with her, but nothing physical. Then I suggest it, rather casually, perhaps too casually for her, and she laughs, maybe the only way she could respond. So I ask her if it's okay if I ask another time, and she tells me that she's not interested. Third number.

The third one.

In high school, there were two girls I liked. The first I had a date with, but she cancelled. The second followed suit with the date I had with her.

A world of madness, poor street kid sitting in a well heated subway trying to sleep in his bed of tears...

Now I'm on the streets of New Orleans. Cold air and streets that smell like beer. Streets that smell like the kids of the past two centuries. French influence and American politics. Punks. Kids. Two weeks there, and I found three girls I could care about.

Skittles. Twelve years old, a thousand times more freedom than a two hundred year old nation. We talked. She liked to read. We laid side by side in the squat, as these very same stars poked through the shadow of afterhours. Wrapped her arm around my chest. Burried her face in my neck. Kissed. Bit. Closed her eyes in ultimate peace. And I returned it. Ounce for ounce of saliva, we found freedom together wrapped between a torn blanket, on a bed of styrophome, as the winds passed through the broken windows whipping through the clothe we put up, as four people did the same in the room. Such a beautiful smile, pink hair, shaved skull. I wanted to collapse and love her forever. I did for that night. Closed eyes and fingertips gently running my face.

Stray. Mother to a child, and the idea that maybe sleeping naked to a lover is the best experience for a girl. Counter-culture, manifesting itself in a woman who was into anarchy and squatter rights. Wonderful thighs, gorgeous body. A shaved head. Adorable smile. Secret smiles every time I moved, as she watched, and told me with her body what I never was told with words. One night. Two nights. Three nights. Waking up and just wanting to sleep some more. Softly bruised skin. Bites on my skin. Pulling away and wanting more. Together with the idea that love of body meant something, alone with the solemn promise that we won't forget. Kindness and affection, hands running the lengths of my inner forearms. Me forgetting for then, that I wasn't free.

Megghann. Herpes virus, but the most knatty and enticing dreadlocks imaginable, of orange flavor. Selling roses on Bourbon street to tourists, wearing a leopard skin skirt and a black coat. Pale skin. Eyes so precise, you felt embarassed when she looked at you, and she could see your soul. The most angelic face. "Kiss me" I said, without speaking. So warm. So close. So befriended. Vegetarian. One of those "if I could only kiss her, I would be forever satisfied" beauties. Second grade again, falling in love without the idea of sex immediately coming to picture. Touching her body. New meaning. Sarcastic, witty remarks. Kindly gestures. Warm affection. "Don't ever forget you knew me" I say with a glance. Long walk into the night. Kissing closed eyelids.

I fell in love with the idea that affection can liberate my heart for a few hours. And I never let go, when the girl told me every way she could, that she believed in goodness.

And alas, the third, non-squatter girl.... a rejection of my advance. Because maybe I thought it wouldn't matter where we came from, that maybe we could still meet somewhere in the middle. I'll still keep my eyes, heart, and mind open, for what may come.

...

Maybe I was wrong when I thought, that no girl would ever say no, if she knew how I would kiss her, how my touch felt.

This Vase Is Everything You Know

2003-10-13

"This is the world," Vonz said, as he pointed to a vase.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Joline asked.

"Everything we know, society and government," Vonz said, as he turned away from his audience and focused back on the vase, "This vase is that."

"I'm afraid I quite don't understand," Alfred said.

"How can you say that this vase is the world?" Arbuthnot asked, "It is but a small vase."

"Quite true," Vonz said, "But each piece of it represents part of the civilization that we are a part of."

"What's your point?" Joline asked.

Vonz lifted up a piece of cloth that was laying on the table, revealing a sledge hammer. Everyone lost their breath. He picked it up, and smashed it against the vase. A thousand small pieces of porceline exploded into the air, demonstrating the possibility of flight for inanimate objects. A shimmering glaze of air.

The crowd, holding their hands up to prevent any of the glass from hitting them, lowered their guard. On the ground they found their host, Vonz, sitting with his legs crossed and looking through the broken shatters of the vase.

"What are you doing?" Arbuthnot asked.

"I'm looking through the pieces of our civilization," he said, without looking up, "I want to understand."

"Understand how?" Alfred asked, "You just destroyed that great vase that represented our society."

"Not destroyed," Vonz said, looking up for a second, "Taken apart." And then back to examining the pieces.

"Again, I want to know," Arbuthnot inquired again, "What are you doing?"

"I'm examining the pieces of our civilization, our governments, our cultures and societies... I want to see how it was built. You see here..." He points to some inane piece of the broken vase. "This piece is the right to life, but it was built on top of a constitution that originally denied women the right to liberty. And you see here..." He points to another erroneous part. "This piece claims that all who do not believe in the almighty god will burn in hell, but it was resting on top of a piece that says religion is necessary towards a happy life. Look at this one..." He points to another shard. "Aawww, this is one of my favorites. This states that government should be just and fair. But right on top of that piece was this one, which gives the power to a person, a "leader," that lets him make a tyrant of himself. And you see over here..." He stretches his arm far over the glass particles that covered the ground to one small five sided shard. "This piece was on the bottom." Vonz looks up to everyone. "It says that people want to know the truth, but then look over here." He points to three triangles near the five sided shard. "This says that people will have bias for their culture, and this one says that people will always have their society's prejudices, and this last one says that people don't want to change."

I Was Human Again

2003-07-13

I was a homeless gutter punk. I had spent several weeks, roaming these sometimes scary, sometimes terrible, sometimes entertaining streets. Alleyways were my home. The sidewalks were my couch. And the city is my living room.

Sad, disoriented faintingness. Lively images of what confer to death. I thought I knew it all, but I didn't... I lost it.

I came to the Drop-In Center, a place for the homeless (or near-homeless) to get food. When signing in, I asked them some questions where I could get a blanket. They started to tell me directions to various places, and since I was in a social situation, I relied on my old social skills. "Hhhhhmmmm, very provocative," I told her, rubbing my chin and only half opening my eyes, appearing like an ass. I said it several times.

"Stop saying that," she said, while laughing. And I smiled, because she laughed at my joke. And I was human again. I was human again. I was human.

Our Daily Dose

2003-05-01

On my journey to a land where happiness is provided and security is guaranteed -- where there are lovers and friends abound, never a bankruptcy is brotherhood or kinship among these people -- I will take drugs to soothe the pain of what I do not have. And while under the influence, I am not taking any steps closer to salvation, but it is our daily dose, where for a few fleeting hours, we may rest, and think, and pray.... that goodness shall be upon us, that tears will flow like streams, that I will never forget where I've been or where I'm going. This is for our daily dose...

I Ran

2003-04-07

I was sitting on the steps of the closed, store waiting for my friend to get out of work. I wanted to feel her breath on my neck again, taste her body, love her physically. I waited like a lover, impatiently, content with dreams and fantasies. Only minutes before she would be out. I turned my head and cops were chasing me.

Crime: Obstruction of a Public Passage.

And I ran... I ran so fast.... Through the French Quarter and zig-zagging blocks... I ran...

Going through the store of Albertson's, I wanted to steal something to feed myself and my friends. We were walking down the aisle, myself holding what I wanted to lift. And I held my pocket open with my fingers and was just about ready to drop the item in there, as a manager walked by and stopped, and I immediately stopped, and he kept walking.

Crime: Attempted Petty Theft.

And I ran... I ran so fast... Out the door and down the street... I ran...

There were so many shiny things in Oshman's Sporting goods. I had taken over $100 worth of knives, not because I was greedy, but because I was what Capitalists call "enterprising." They served me well once I was on the street. As I walked out the front door, the alarm went off.

Crime: Felony Stealing

And I ran... I ran so fast... Out the door and down the street... I ran...

It was late, and we were all in our squats. The dog park served us well, and we knew the days that it would be raided for squatters. All was quiet and all was nice. Those who would have fucked already fucked. But the dog heard something and started barking. We were all confused. Then we heard gun shots.... pop pop pop pop.... And cops came to the squat as the dog would lay down next to us, bleeding...

Crime: Criminal Trespassing.

And I ran.... I ran so fast... Into the French Quarter and never looking back... I ran... I wish nothing held me back.

A Note From New Orleans

2003-04-03

When I left New Orleans, I took a mini-library with me of books I had ripped off from Bookstar, a local store owned by Barnes and Noble. Unfortunately, I had left many of my essays and a book on Objective Morality I had started writing, probably accounting to a good 200 pages of written material, each word just another piece of my soul. "A Tribute to Goodness" survived, though, as I had uploaded it to my site for safe keeping. While writing my other pieces, I didn't have the luxury of the internet. Hence, they were lost. I inquired to the owner of it, and they said they had to fix the computer and clear the harddrive. So, I was left with nothing more than just that one essay, though I was thankful. Then, while looking through one of the books I stole from Bookstar, I pulled out an 8 by 11 inch piece of notebook paper, which I had used as a bookmark. I had entirely forgotten about it, but it was a mini-essay which I had written. And here, I present it....

Through the study of history and the heroes of the Humanitarian movements, and the millions in each protest of Direct Action, that related to the liberation of others, I can only come to the conclusion that we are destined for a civilization where cruelty is non-existent and where the crumbs of superstition are among the rubble of the past. The belief in this destiny is accompanied by the conviction that conscious beings naturally seek justice, liberty, and peace. Then I left my library, my computer, and my research, and I became a squatter. My father expressed to me personally, that he believed me to be hurtful, hateful, and dangerous, and not welcome in his house. I trekked out into the world with my real family, those I share more than just fickle blood with. On the streets, I met drunkards and addicts, many of them vultures without conscience. I had stolen food for them, befriend them, treated them all well. But when I was taken to jail for Criminal Trespassing (I was sleeping in an abandoned building), they looted my things. I cannot wholly blame them -- the only mode of existence is supported by beggary and theft. The corporations are to blame, as the prices of goods are too high, and the jobs pay too little. Many of my street friends attempted to have jobs, but they were paid poorly, under the table, and my closest street brother (Pockets) was fired from his job for eating food on the ground. My faith in humanity had never been so smashed than by the betrayel of these men and women. Many of them were good, in that they were friendly, cheerful, and kindly. I found the two faces of mankind, and learned more of being homeless in a day than in my life of being homed in a year. And I thank my friends and family of the street for their uncompromising support. For Pockets, who I was released from jail with, and for his brotherhood. For Stray, for her cute, affectionate nature. For Humble, and always treating me as family. For Jeff, and his promise of my safety in every dark alley. For Twitch and Violet, who have wronged me in some ways, but have shown great Altruism to me. To the men and women whose names escape my mind, for their actions which will never escape my heart, for the experience of being with them which will never escape my mind.

My Writing Is Not Mature

2003-04-01

When I submitted my story "Waking Up Cold" for inclusion to Strawberry Press' magazine, they said that it was poorly written, in that it had no room for character development and was not mature enough. But that's like saying that poetry is nothing more than a collection of undeveloped sentences and that paintings are no more than a childish configuration of paint. And yeah, it's kind of hard to do character development for a character that's dead.

A Thought on Stray

2003-03-29

Myself laying down, her on top of me, she started to undo my belt, and the she looked to me with a smile, and said, "I hate these Boyscout belts."

Hope

2003-03-29

The boy really has nothing in his life, except the hope that one day he will.

Dreams

2003-03-29

And I flew through the sky, to a place where a shade of purple inherited the clouds, and I discovered a castle, a flying city, made entirely of glass, reflecting nothing but that light purple. And I saw her, I saw Stray, in a suit made entirely of flexible glass, wearing a beautiful helm made of glass. I flew in a little closer, she wrapped her hands around the back of my neck. Our eyes met with a tranquility that cannot match the beauty of any man's imagination. Together, our two passions combined and stirred; we made love forever, until the skies turned to a meld of darkness spotted with the light of stars, until I woke up from my 500mg of DXM experience, and realized that life meant something more.

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