WATER IT ONCE OR TWICE A WEEK TO KEEP THE SOIL MOIST. REMOVE DEAD FLOWERS SO THAT NEW FLOWERS ARE GIVEN ROOM TO BLOOM.
auto-generated sonnets (by courtesy of GPT-3 say) all but vindicate Charles Bukowski. when in regards to art and the creative process he wrote:
AS THE SPIRIT WANES THE FORM APPEARS.
machines will never be able to emulate the intuitive intelligence of an artist. approximate: yes. but to replicate? no way.
machines may only (impeccably) embody the empty and formulaic aspects of the human. the mind. as it were. without the heart.
which is plenty meager.
German artist Herbert Brün talked a lot about floating hierarchies. or social systems based in growth and evolution—rather than stagnation and custom. an ecology of the shared mind that thrives beyond the pale of good and evil.
here’s a couple of succinct and eloquent pointers offered by him regarding the issue:
AGREEMENT IS A NONVIOLENT WAY OF MAKING ANOTHER PERSON SUPERFLUOUS.
PEACE IS SATISFIED BY US BEING ABLE TO HAVE OUR CONFLICTS [WITHOUT VIOLENCE].
OUR CONFLICTS SATISFY OUR NEED FOR PEACE.
WE HAVE TO FIND A METHOD OF LANGUAGING THAT DOESN’T ASSUME PEACE AS A REWARD BUT AS A CONDITION FOR CONFLICT.
WE CAN ONLY ARGUE WITH EACH OTHER WHEN THERE IS PEACE.
WAR PREVENTS US HAVING OUR CONFLICTS.
which are great counterarguments against the trending consensus of policing micro-aggressions and the excesses of the PC culture in general—incidentally.
A VICTIM IS A PERSON WHO CANNOT ESCAPE A SITUATION WITHOUT VIOLENCE [WHICH DOESN’T MEAN THAT THE PERSON CAN ESCAPE THE SITUATION WITH VIOLENCE]
which brings to mind the greyer areas of the Me Too movement as well. but let’s not step on that landmine here.
to obey or not to obey. that is the question.
for one: take Henry David Thoreau’s definitive take on the issue:
THEY ONLY CAN FORCE ME WHO OBEY A HIGHER LAW THAN I.
now there’s a great sentence. there’s a great sentiment.
truly. one needs not say more.
authorities mandating masks and social distancing and all sorts of lockdown measures (god forbid: vaccination)—based on spurious statistics and fear-mongering sensationalist narratives—all but activate the dormant gene of civil disobedience in anyone with a functioning conscience.
because them solemn sullen suited goons’re more opportunistic than caring. because they prioritize ‘insurance’ over ‘faith.’ because their law’s ultimately avoiding conflict (besides conflicts of interest) rather than seeking the truth.
but like I said: one needs not say more.
THERE ARE NINE HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINE PATRONS OF VIRTUE TO ONE VIRTUOUS MAN.
THE NUMBER ONE PRINCIPLE OF MY WHOLE TEACHING IS TO HAVE A GREAT CLARITY ABOUT YOUR INTENTION. ABOUT WHAT YOU ARE DOING WHY YOU ARE DOING IT AND WHERE YOU ARE HEADED. BECAUSE WITHOUT THAT CLARITY: YOUR ENERGY GETS DISSIPATED.
the question ultimately is: are you gearing towards satisfying your greed and your gluttony and lust (as a way of sublimating your fear of loss)
or towards saying yes to life and committing to serving something beyond the confines of your ego-self.
to embody—like the leaves of a tree (in their rustle and quiver) embody the wind—the forces of good or the forces of evil.
each and every day: to what energies and psychic currents you lend your flesh and your bones—is the ultimate question.
we’re not in Kansas anymore. just lost and confused under gravity’s rainbow. a mild hangover hangs over our sober.
READER DISCRETION ADVISED
I can’t stop pushing my speculative tongue into this loose tooth of a mystery.
he had this half-smiling cool and obnoxious and entitled swag. that aloof and elusive vibe which tells you that he knows stuff that you don’t. that he’s got some thang you aren’t even aware of existing.
the flimsy mystique merely of a slick (wretched and sick) sleazebag perhaps?
still: what a fascinating and captivating character he seemed. the kind whose pix online you can hardly stop staring at.
was bright and smart as well as interested (and invested) in science and tech. and most of all he was a master manipulator. always and already angling for an overall frame control. an in-your-face troll who loved to baffle his high-flying peers with inapt comments about quim.
he was himself a puppet—of course—chasing a moving target. scratching an infected itch. collecting scalps and leaving a scar in the souls encountered—etching himself in people’s psyches—in order to own and possess them. hung up (in short) on the ultimate snatch: of subduing all.
turned on by dominating others and by extending the sphere of his dominion. by coercing his will onto others. through gaming the system and puppetifying people.
what particularly turned him on was the act of bending people’s volition to align with his own. warping space around himself by the gravity of an obscene charisma. by the sheer force of intent. which (again) was to game the system. and to satisfy his lust for domination. and he had this ill fixation with young poosy to boot. about 15-16 (?) as his favorite flavor.
now. some say that he was a self-made brainiac pedophiliac billionaire. others that he was a construct of an intelligence agency—whose task was to set up honey traps in order to build geopolitical leverage. (but then: who is not a construct —of a multiplicity of agencies and institutions anyway?) god knows what the fuck. but in his case the saying definitely holds: truth is stranger than fiction.
and indeed in the end he succeeded in searing his silver fox-y image into the collective mind of humanity. especially in his death. his mystery gained added depth. right at the point where he was finally cornered.
his last picture’s lying on a bed—so much time he spent getting massaged at. but the questions remain. and still abound. did he commit suicide? or was he suicided? what exactly happened and why?
the questions are numerous.
was he a victim of circumstance? of affluence? was he a bad seed from the get? what determines the trajectory of a human unfolding? was he an agent of deliberately inflicted traumas? was he the victim of his own powers? was he more enlightened and conscious than we would like to believe?
who the hell was Jeffrey Epstein?
I saw your pictures online and right away I felt drawn to your wide and clear-cut eyes. a socialite you are labelled as a person who knows them social circle jerks.
Ghislaine this is my naïve impressionism of you. based on a couple of YouTube clips and Google pics. all with the captions that say you’re a depraved wolf in sheep’s clothing. pure evil caught red handed in a heinous scheme—feeding (as it were) a high-flying Lucifer on the flesh of young and innocent birds.
they claim that after you lost your dad and your way you found your match in (the lust of) J.E.. still I feel something more tender than a perv perp deserves when I look at your bright but troubled (?) face.
perhaps all you ever and always wanted was to please an unpleasable dead? that TerraMar project of yours (for one) does strike me as a symptom of just such an itch. a good girl initiative that.
and why is it—I wonder—that yours feels more becoming while your victim’s bearing’s more redolent of malice? as if you were in effect the victim? now. invoking naïve impressionism won’t temper the unokayness of such statement. still. I can’t shake the feeling that you deserve somewhat fairer a shake than you seem to be getting. on a deeper order of analysis—say?
at any rate. I like the pronunciation of your name—Ghislaine. (and from the obvious rhymes—alas—I cannot refrain. no matter how lame.)
but who is really to blame? Ghislaine—
why did you stray from your natural lane?
when did you get derailed?
have you ever
what a shame—dear Ghislaine
what a shame
you just wanted to prove something
to somebody perhaps
for some unconscious reason
but you crossed the point of no return—
(you were doomed enough to have
all the necessary means
to do that)
tell us—was it all in vain?
is it all in vain?
riding it all the way?
perhaps no word whatsoever should be wasted on the following aspect of the whole speculation but . . . I feel compelled to address it. which is the issue of the fuzzy nature of victimhood.
as I understand it: the victimized girls felt compelled to oblige but were never directly threatened or physically forced? they were financially compensated? they were introduced to a world of privilege? they accepted the lateral perks and benefits in exchange of their services? they went along with it but felt like crap about it? they felt troubled by it and deeply conflicted about it? they felt ashamed? they felt paralyzed? they felt terrified? they felt trapped? they felt tricked? and diabolically manipulated and used and abused?
and now they want some sort of redemption through (judicial) revenge? they want to transcend their shame and their guilt by publicly demonizing their seducers? they want to come clean and cleanse their conscience of all the slime they let stain it? they want to atone for their sin of having had weak personal boundary (as a young person) by stomping on their abusers now as (strong and compassionate) adults?
is there a critical difference between being abused and allowing oneself to be abused? is age the critical factor here? who defines the boundary that’s been violated? the boundary that separates the psychological from direct physical rape? is there a boundary there at all? are there better questions to ask?
being an activist more often than not’s a condescending gesture which assumes that the given object/subject of activism is so weak and fragile that it needs an activist’s protection (from their own reckless brothers and sisters).
environmentalism begins at one’s aura. the actual vibe we put out is what we are primarily responsible for. and not much more. the rest is taken care of by the grace of globe.
you think you are a good soul raising awareness and all: but in all likelihood all you are raising’s only hell and the level of division. that is to say: the quotient of the collective human neurosis.
you are (in effect) intent on wounding others around yourself—under the pretext of healing things—just so you feel off the hook (say) of your internal hell by imposing it without?
isn’t it utterly deluded to assume that the world needs anyone’s protection?
that mother Earth (the womb) could be victimized by humanity (the fetus)?
isn’t it sort of schizoid to treat the world as a separate entity from humanity?
as if humanity was not itself an expression of nature?
isn’t it deeply arrogant and narcissistic to assume that you know what’s good for others and the world?
isn’t it actually counterproductive (in the long run) to guilt and shame anyone into performing certain (pretend) gestures?
isn’t it more productive to (silently) walk your talk rather than pro-vocatively talk it?
don’t you sometimes feel like that you’re part of a mob which threatens to drag us all into a fascistic and joyless state and flux of affairs?
what kind of utopia would you expect from constantly policing an ever more sterile sandbox of a society?
so here I am and I am here and I say yes:
I allow what is and I roll with what gives,
I say yes because I am here and I say yes,
not because I want to change the world,
or to change the people of the world, no
I say yes because I’m here and life is yes,
life is yes and so I say yes: simple as that,
I take what life gives and I give what life
takes, yes: I say yes because even if it is
a goddamn mess, in the end, life is a yes
Cage fighters often state in interviews that no matter who their opponent is—whether they like them as a person or not: they still have tremendous respect for each of them simply because of the fact that they are willing to step into the cage and literally put it all on the line in front of the whole world.
And this seems reasonable indeed. What I don’t understand is why don’t we all relate to each other like this by default.
Granted, not all of us deliberately cut weight to weigh in and face off and take the fight on, but one way or another all of us are involved in it—we are all equally exposed to the elements of the blunt and unsparing arena of life:
We are all fighting pitiless demons haunting our mind and our soul and we are all subject to the vagaries of available resources and to the inevitable degenerative processes ailing our flesh.
With or without much grace: We all fight the little battles that day by day we are called on to face.
There’s a small balcony here, the door is open and I can see the lights of the cars on the Harbor Freeway south, they never stop, that roll of lights, on and on. All those people. What are they doing? What are they thinking? We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing. (Charles Bukowski)