View single Journal Entry
chapter 14-my last trip to america
Date Posted: Feb 28th, 2017 at 01:13 Comments (3)
Blog entry:
age of aquarius: are we there yet?
(a report on the state of affairs and the changes in america since may of 2008)

riding through the old neighborhoods, the memories were there; some were much stronger than others-bernie and rose, especially. I found bus-routes shortened, some discontinued-stores gone, signs removed. many new taverns and sports pubs have opened, designed for family atmosphere. fitness centers seem to be popular, but not the like bally's-smaller, more down to earth places stuck in lines of empty shops. nearly all major department and grocery store chains seem to be replaced by discount and secondhand, either franchise managed or independently owned. ads on tv for car insurance and how it can be instantly obtained for those who arent really eligible and offers in the mail for ways to get credit for those who have proven they arent able to manage it. instead of 'lost cat' and 'lose weight', there were new signs on telephone poles: ‘we buy gold’, ‘we buy junk cars’.

teachers, preachers, doctors, lawyers, becoming obsolete...
new small businesses are born in attempt to survive joblessness-some innovative, some illegal.
parents looking to their children for help, hope, and a way to adapt...
civilisation trying to resurrect itself amid the still warm ashes of its ongoing destruction.
snow and ice storms, power outages, where snow was rarely if ever seen
signs of the times?

the world I knew is certainly gone...not such a big loss, really. it produced a lot of emptiness, frustration, distrust and exuded a total lack of authenticity. all I find now is a state of flux with no definite direction. there are certainly signs of what is to come, but too soon to interpret them.

looking back-the 60's were no doubt a major breakthrough, a glimpse of what could be. one of the noble truths should be Love is Work. if life is suffering, let us die before death as the sufis say-die to the false and awake to the Truth.

but love is not enough. waking up is not enough. we were wrong, ok? there will always be chopping wood and carrying water, and if no one does it, we wont get anywhere. love is something to be, but it is only effective when it is acted; i.e., premeditated and goal oriented...making love in itself will not make any changes. how about Make Love Work?

(this year i took no pictures.)

the following is a combination of prose and poems that voices my grief, remorse, fear and confusion:

in the dark

he asked if I was angry
he asked if I was disappointed
but all I feel is sadness
when he wants to hug me
I know he's using ecstasy

pray for him?
God guides those whom He will
and leaves to wander in the dark
whomsoever He pleases
pray for me?
we are both in the dark now

emails sent into the starry starry night
no, he is not all right. I dont think there is anything anyone can do, I dont know why I am telling you this. you of all people would be the last one to understand or recognize the problem.

his mind has deteriorated rapidly in the past few months-he doesnt seem to be thinking clearly any more. he has made a number of very bad decisions which at first I thought were a matter of carelessness, but now I believe it is far worse. I saw serious signs of decay when I was there in may of 2008 and hoped it was only a temporary lapse. now I believe it is an irreversible descent towards death.

maybe i am telling you this because something gave me the idea he wanted you to know but didnt want to tell you. i dont know why i am telling you.

this may be your last wakeup call.
you will be able to find valid reasons why I am wrong, so be careful. I am not wrong.

your thinking is not rational any more-you arent making sense. your decisions have been careless and destructive. you have sealed yourself in a bubble made of lead-you are that far from reality.

I thought you and your friends were the majority of your generation-maybe you are. but there are others I have now met on the internet-young people with brilliant minds, from 12 to 30 years old. they are socially aware and involved in the process of not only living day to day but striving to evolve spiritually. I dont know if you are a part of a small section of the lost-or are they a small part of what is left of humanity. I dont know if I am speaking for all my generation, or was I the only one who tried to create a new world and failed. maybe I am still as deluded as you are. like you once said, ‘maybe it is both of us'. if you cant hear the truth, maybe I should speak to you in parables...

where are you going my indigo child? I cant keep up the pace any more. I'm wild with worry
following footprints I dont even recognize. I waited for you, wont you slow down?
you held my hands, now it's me that's afraid. you're too far off the beaten path,
going the wrong way. What lies in store for you now that you've been exiled?

atlas shrugged, jesus wept and satan smiled on the day you were born.
I misread all the signs in the skies. you were never meant to save the world.
who could expect you'd live long enough to undo our mistakes?
a man has time to learn life sucks, and then he dies.

(to all the indigo children):

we tried to give it all to you – the love we never felt from our parents, the respect we never got,
the right and the freedom to question everything, even us. we thought we could save you from
our fate.

maybe we expected too much for you and from you, and it became an unseen burden that broke
your spirit, that which we wanted to preserve whole and intact at all cost, like ours used to be.
our parents forgot, but we remember what we were. how long we have waited to see you

I dont know how we failed you, but we surely must have. where are you going, so fast we cant
follow, so far we cannot see you? our parents made us not want to be like them, but we made you
not want to have children at all. is this what it means, that the world will end 'not with a bang,
but a whisper'?

sun stuck to the sky like a ball of frozen fire
over the house where the Lost Boys live. doors
loosely locked and shades pulled down, inside it is always night
for them. no birds fly over it, but hasten higher,
above the clouds of pungent poison. floors
whisper secrets and walls softly seep yellow tears. it might
have been a home, before this, except for that. once
there was music, now only noise, terrors
and demons that haunt the walking dead
living on the edge of reality. the hero, in his mind, hunts
the dragon, using guns for toys- colors
of christmas, dirty money mixed up with trails of bloodshed

it is dark, mercifully so, and the air is heavy with smoke, blended with the smell of old grease from the kitchen. cluttered with stacks of mail, old bills, flyers for sales, letters from legal agencies and tax boards-all unopened... this is a place even rats and roaches avoid, such is the extent of its lifelessness. the only sound is a television, replaying the same dvd again and again-discs and their empty boxes strewn about displaying the same recurring themes of lawlessness and blood. everywhere are the signs of the trade: digital scales, small plastic bags, mason jars, paper cups and straws, countless prescription bottles. out of sight are the guns-rifles, handguns of various sizes, brought out from time to time and boasted of, then returned to their careless hiding places. in a corner of the basement is a small garden, lovingly tended under artificial light and harvested periodically.

what goes on in a house like this? the occupants are two young men and the visitors are many. most stay only a few minutes, then disappear into the night...people with names like Beans, Flash, Wooly Bear. some stay longer and a game of role playing or cards may begin among the lost boys who never grew up. sometimes nothing happens but sleep-18 hours daily for three or four days-then no sleep at all for four or five days. always the sound of chronic coughing, punctuated with the aggravated spasms. they walk and talk, zombielike, oblivious of lit cigarets burning holes in everything, or stare motionless into the air. sometimes there is music-the angry frustrated rage of the owner on the upper level, creativity channeled into negative expression. from the basement, soft sounds of rock and roll from an age gone by-innocent, like the face of the listener, a survivor of childhood abuse. if anyone cares to consider the issue of hygiene, there is always a dirtier place, so this isnt so bad it?

this house, likely to be worth nothing when it is some day lost to sherrif sale or heedlessly burned to the ground, stands frozen without a future on the edge of reality. padlocks on the inside doors and cameras monitoring the threshholds protect property from friends who have been known to step outside the bounds of the code of honor. the occupants take their trips by turns; in this business, there must be a partner who is lucid at all times, or too many sales would be lost. this is only a small operation, but if they apply themselves it may move higher up the ladder of hierarchy. points to remember: always keep a friend who still has a valid driver’s license and one without a police record, another who has a car, and of course one has a house...for now.

where is this house? hell's kitchen you say? no, this is suburban, midwest, middle america. think about it: the polite young man who snowblows the drive of the elderly ladies living next door could be a drug dealer. would you recognize him? he is not the rowdy, noisy neighbor, it wouldnt do to attract attention or annoy anyone. and might you wonder who are the customers? ex convicts, repeat offenders, good for nothing dropouts from the real world? some perhaps, but the majority are the average person...schoolteachers, carpenters, auto mechanics. some are accompanied by their girl friends or even their mothers when the market demand crosses generations.

is this a way of coping with the economic meltdown? is this a reflection of successful entrepreneurs in the underworld of business or the underprivileged being forced to flaunt the law? is it a result of the asocial pathology of a few misfits, or a growing trend emerging within a society that continues to buy when it is overcome with debt and counts on dying before being held accountable? is it laziness, an aversion to putting forth the effort to change what is wrong in the world and a morbid sense of enjoyment out of watching society crumble? either/and/or a history of abuse, mental difficulties, both emotional and cognitive, lack of education, idleness and poverty are not required, but they do help. paramount is the decision to take risks and the belief one can escape the consequences only other people have to face.

is this the new world order or the end of order altogether?


my china doll, along with my heart, is broken for the last time. all the pieces are here, but
they just keep falling apart. my psychedelic child has grown and flown away. he plays
drums while the crippled angels dance and beat their tambourines to songs he hums.

oh long lost lover of my sweetest days, walk beside me always, unseen and silent. companion
of my darkest hours, fragrance of unfamiliar flowers, the sparkle in my tears, accompany me
through all the endless years until before and after are forgotten and the now disappears.

who else can comfort me, make me laugh again? if you leave, I dont want eternity. before you
go, one last request: dont just kill me, annihilate me completely. leave no trace of blood nor
bones, no paltry poems, empty thoughts, delete my name from cell phones. make me erased from
cosmic memory.

february 2017-
this is a story that i cannot tell you, but i think it is clear enough. it is far from over though, and i do still have a wisp of hope for a happy ending. i can see all the future of humanity in one young man, and it feels like if he fails, so will we all.

then again, what has developed lately in the government seems to be following the pattern...the pattern of no pattern at all. good luck to everybody over there.

i dont seem to be able to make an upbeat ending on this to just move on, i guess.

Search Engine Optimization by vBSEO 3.3.2