13. A Blizzard of Consciousness

“He will be least afraid of becoming nothing in death who has recognized that he is already nothing, and who consequently no longer takes any interest in his individual existence.” ~ Schopenhauer

“The flesh is incompatible with charity: orgasm transforms the saint into a wolf.” ~ Cioran

Today I found a dual cassette dubbing machine with two microphone input jacks: a brute force recording studio for $ 5.00.

The first thing I did was to fix the cassette with the John Trudell speech (It may be located at youtube.com/watch?v=rlJ2oXs7OpE) on it with scotch tape. The main thing is that I can record myself reading my notes, preparing my voice to become an orator. I seem to have either lost my voice or my voice is just becoming hoarser and rougher, more gruff and gritty.

The more ferocious one’s honesty, the less certain one becomes, the more complex one’s worldview becomes. Could this be one of the rewards for deep thinking, that one becomes more comfortable with mystery, paradox, contradiction, and complexity?

I hunger for sexual satisfaction. I thirst for sensual, carnal ecstasy, and yearn to lose myself in orgasmic frenzy. This is the level of honesty I seek as a writer.

After a depressing evening stroll through town, with a full sense of the emptiness radiating from the automobiles and the vulgar sneers from “God’s children,” I settle in for an evening with The Great Melancholic, Lucifer. If it were not for government assistance, I would be either homeless or institutionalized or occupying Wall Street. The environments around me are ideal for existential philosophy. The atmosphere is dystopian. Will there ever be an audience “out there” to reflect upon these scribblings or do I really engage in these literary sessions primarily to better understand my own thought processes? To be so focused on my internal “invisible” transformations helps me to process how I feel, to explore my moods rather than to attempt to control or alter them.
While hordes of disgruntled anti-capitalists confront militarized police forces across the country, and indeed, all over the earth, I consider whether to continue going over my jailhouse notes or trying to focus on Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception. Knowing my true intentions, I find the taunting sneers of the gorts that much more pathetic, as in subtle little comments about my ‘work’.

I have to confess that Merleau-Ponty’s worldview sometimes leaves me unmoved. It seems dry, cerebral, and more focused on perceptual processes than on moods such as angst, disillusionment, and anxiety. When I think “existential,” I think Dostoevsky or Kafka or, basically, Pink Floyd’s The Wall. My focus is on alienation … our absurd dilemma … being crushed by historical forces.

Could our moods in daily, moment by moment existence offer clues into the true nature of existence in general? If one experiences a calm mood while hiding in an apartment wrapped in a blanket, does this not suggest that inactivity is the ideal state? Sitting at a little desk, jotting things down in my diary – my “philosophical autobiography,” smoking a hand rolled cigarette, with a belly full of home-cooked food, I am more than a little proud of the “character development” I witness in myself. Loneliness and laziness have been my inner guides for so long that “hiding away” has become second nature to me. I can daydream of sexual or romantic encounters, but, at the end of the day, I am just so many tubes, synapses, bones, a sack of excrement, and a sack of sperm.

Drinking cold water connects me to reality. These primitive needs for drinkable water, nutritious food, and the satisfaction of the sexual instinct connects me to all biological carbon-based life-forms.

2011.11.24 “Thanksgiving Day”

What one chooses to focus one’s attention on – is this really a choice? In the early morning, my awareness seems more emotionally mature. What I mean to say is, upon awakening, I understand situations with a more detached attitude. I take things less personal. I understand that my sexual and emotional attraction to a woman does in no way guarantee that this attraction is mutual. Also, can one who has ever been in jailhouse or held captive in hospital against their will ever be able to forget how easily one can be ripped from the everyday world? What is the “real world” anyway? Isn’t “reality” processed within the veins and sinews of the Thing itself?

I have heard people proclaim that we are not things … but we are things. We are each a weird creepy thing-in-itself … mechanisms. We are not “spiritual beings having a physical experience”. We are tubes and wires and a mixture of bad chemicals.

While Husserl was scribbling his notes, the soldiers and storm troopers were working on the details for reconstructing their local communities. Can a philosopher hide in a cave while his life-world is on fire? Now that the youth have taken to the streets and are facing the brutality of the hired guns of the Corporate State, I am drawn more to The Coming Insurrection (The Invisible Committee) and Basic Call To Consciousness (The Mohawk Nation). With so many crises going on in our world, how does a philosopher proceed? We have no choice but to think, and to think deeply. So quickly “everyday reality” can fall to pieces. Were sanitation workers to stop picking up trash, we would be over-run by rodents, all sorts of vermin and maggots. No amount of medical doctors, with all their clout, could fight a plague of maggots and rodents.

At least Germany is phasing out the use of nuclear energy.

Perhaps I am the philosopher of the outlaws and the downtrodden. Wasn’t the Nazarene also a philosopher of the downtrodden – an outlaw philosopher? Do petty criminals and subversive thinkers have some kind of natural alliance? Both despise business-as-usual and rigged playing fields.

Rigged Playing Field: The universal suppression of truth fills psychiatric hospitals with patients. I have made myself a scribe, and the pure logic of their emotions has led the disgruntled youth to revolt. We will witness more and more exposure to truths that have been repressed. Now the ruling elite may show their ugly side, becoming more violent and economically brutal. Civilization is not civilized. Will our tribal nature kick in during and after the collapse of civilization? Will we cooperate and commune, or will we mutate into something more savage than our tribal ancestors’ worst nightmares?

Taken as facts, our failings can lead to the dismantling of the hypothesis of the self. It is then that our failures to adapt to idiotic norms, that is, systematic stupidity, become acts of resistance in this current rats’ nest of crises. They become a rebellion and a force against everything that conspires to normalize us, to amputate us. I repeat: We are a living rebellion against everything that conspires to amputate us.

Our inadaptability is only a problem from the standpoint of that which aims to subjugate us. The hypothesis of the self is beginning to crack at the seams. I don’t want to upset Mother Culture (Space Age Mommy and her microwave oven, cable TV, etc.) with crazy talk about the massacre of Native American and Natural World Peoples. How can we still celebrate the founding of these United States of Amerika, or the Americas in general, when we witness the present results of the conquest of the so-called New World? How can we still endure the Superbowl, Paris Hilton, President Obama, The Tea Party, and car commercials without reaching for our barf bags?

Now, after unloading these subversive thoughts into my “diary,” I head out to sit down and throw down mass quantities of food with the People.

Upon returning from the meal, I called The Mother. She was surprisingly sympathetic toward my hostility against the celebration of the conquest of North America. And yet, I have no intentions of fasting.

We spend our whole lives passively letting “society” tell us who we are. Maybe we can invent something better.

Gotta stretch my mind to handle contradiction
Who would have thought truth could be
Stranger than science-fiction?

The Spaniards exploit los Indios, then, when he had children, his children exploited the half-breed meztizo, then the pure blooded Mexican. The Children of God feed off the Children of Earth. Alien Space God Jehova One. Then the meztizo exploits everybody: foreigners, Indios, and all. Then the Germans and the Americans exploited him, giving him a taste of his own medicine. Now the final chapter: the exploitation of everybody by everybody else. This rhetoric refuses to be “toned down” or “dumbed down” for mass-consumption.

On a personal note, surprisingly, I spent much of “Thanksgiving Day” with LG Jr. – Who shot JR?

Last night, my Medicine Man strongly suggested I stop complementing his younger sister. I became very sad over this. My feelings were hurt, and I wondered how it is possible for others to instruct my heart. Also, I am tired of being so misunderstood by others. I am not the joke the world makes me out to be. How does one “control” one’s feelings? Aren’t all emotions authentic?

I enjoyed sitting around a fire outside with my father, my sister, her husband, and one of their daughters. I was able to babble on about my latest disastrous infatuation. From now on, I will try to keep inner feelings to myself.

debt = money = slavery ====> debt-slavery

I am in the mood to read “philosophical novels.” With so many other distractions “out here,” I am in a very small minority as far as being into literature goes. As I mention frequently to other people’s surprise, in jails and psychiatric wards, literature seems to be appreciated more, sought after like gold, more so than in the universities where there is a lot of cheating and cutting corners, it seems. Tonight I am able to retain this love for literature as I “invite my own soul” to transcend the mass mind-control imposed on the populace.

When I went to pick up A Clockwork Orange, which is supposedly a philosophical novel, the librarian informed me that the book I had requested had arrived: Franz Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks. They were able to track down an old copy from Guggenheim Memorial Library at Monmouth College, West Long Branch. I think it is the 1967 edition – the year of my birth. The original edition was published in Paris, France in 1952 as Peau Noire, Masques Blancs. The pages are brittle. I will focus on this text over the next few days while my mind is clear and focused.

While protesters occupy cities across the nation and around the globe, this obscure scholar investigates the Africana Phenomenology of Franz Fanon. Fanon asks, “Why write this book? Nobody has asked me for it, so why write it?”

“Well? Well, I reply quite calmly that there are too many idiots in the world. And having said it, I have the burden of proving it.”

I notice Fanon uses the word ‘dupe’ the same way I use the word ‘gort’. When describing the way he has witnessed hundreds of white men addressing blacks as though adults addressing a child, and how not all white men behave this way, he states that, “the subject of our study is the dupes and those who dupe them.”

Emmanuel Lavinas writes, “There exists a weariness of everything and everyone, and above all a weariness of oneself. What wearies them is not a particular form of our life – our surroundings, because they are dull and ordinary, our circle of friends, because they are vulgar and cruel; but the weariness concerns existence itself.”

Now I am disgusted and weary. There is no mind or soul but for the thingly presence of our animal body. There is a world of absurdity and paradox beneath the surface of everyday life.

I found a free copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. I am already captivated by the introduction by Nina Baym. Hawthorne was writing about the truth of the human heart, about what goes on inside us rather than what goes on outside and around us. He was writing psychological fiction before the field of psychology had even been developed. The Scarlet Letter was published in 1850 but harkens back to the Puritanical witch-hunting society 200 years earlier. The aim of the Puritan rulers was to bring every aspect of human life under control; this aim is incompatible with permitting the individual any private life or any “inner existence.”

The main character, Hester, stands up for the welfare of the private person and the freedom of the inner world. She believes some acts that the Puritans call sinful are really good. She also believes that the private, secret self is good. Her identity is in her inner life, as is my own. This is a book that gives voice to a deep rejecting and defiance of social regulations. Those who stand alone are courageous and not intimidated or afraid of ostracization. This short-circuits the authority of those who bank on approval-seeking tendencies. Mass industrial consumerist society thrives on approval-seeking tendencies.

What do you mean, you didn’t watch the Superbowl? Don’t you want to be on American Idol? You don’t believe in God? You’ll never get a job with that attitude! A woman wants security, she’s looking for a provider. You’ll never be married! When’s the last time you’ve been to a dentist? You need to go every 6 months. HA!

So much is based on going into debt to acquire the credentials: debt-slavery. The populace is bombarded with advertizements pressuring them to buy the latest gadget. This kind of pressure can be quite severe for the youth. Generally, once one reaches a certain age, one doesn’t give a lick damn about public opinion, and so the advertizing industry as well as the film and music industry put so much focus on the youth. That’s where their bread gets buttered.

2011.12.21 “Winter Solstice”
Moving to Downtown Freehold has been a great blessing for me. Between the Open Door Food Pantry, which distributes bread and produce daily, the free meals at St. Peter’s Church on the corner of Main and Throckmorton Streets, and now breakfast at the Reformed Church on West Main Street on Fridays, as well as breakfast and lunch on Saturdays, I know I can get through each month, as far as sustenance goes, rather smoothly. There are some benefits to Freehold Borough being the hub for refugees.

Here’s a good joke I made up on the cuff today. I told the mechanics at H’s, “You guys could shit on seat once in a while. Give a brother some extra work. Shit on the toilet seat. It’s good for the economy – at least my personal economy … and the liquor store’s economy.”

It got a few smirks and giggles.

On a not so humorous note, I was figuring what it costs to feed those of us who frequent the free meals at St. Peter’s: 52 weeks times 4 days per week is 208 lunch sessions. 208 sessions times an average of 50 heads (sometimes only 20, other times full house 70) is 10,400 servings; but considering we usually get seconds and often thirds, let’s say 22,880 (2.2 * 10,400) plates. If each plate costs at least $3.00, that’s less than $70,000 for the whole year. You might think this is a huge amount of money.

Here’s the rub. President Obama spent four million dollars in one week for his Christmas vacation. Let’s do the arithmetic. 4,000,000/70,000 = 400/7 is about 58. In one week, for one vacation, that would feed 50 men a fairly large lunch 4 days a week for over a half a century. Holy Fucking Hot Dog!

Presidents are afraid of prophets. Listening to Eric (Mike) Dyson interviewed on WBAI had a somewhat depressing effect on me. He seems to be playing both sides of the fence, praising Obama for seizing the reigns of power as president of the United States even though he is clearly just another brand, another product of the status quo establishment.
My subtle mistrust of Nietzsche’s naïvity is confirmed in this philosophical biography on Franz Kafka. Kafka had met his friend, Brod, when Brod was giving a lecture on Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. Kafka walked home with Brod, who, as a fanatical Schopenhauerian, flatly denounced Nietzsche as a swindler. Kafka had strongly criticized his crude formulations. I cannot deny I am far more impressed with Schopenhauer, and I have always had this impression of Nietzsche as “a boy whistling in the dark.” I suspect that reading Schopenhauer had a huge impact on Nietzsche: it terrified him.

Politics is more than maintaining order, pacification, and security. Politics is the questioning of the authority and legitimacy of the Corporate State. Now, for the answer to the million dollar question, “What is ethics?” : Ethics is the questioning of ANY attempts to IMPOSE ORDER below from above.

Literature is better than cocaine
Put down the pipe, bitch,
And pick up the pen
Mic He Not Rich is back again
You know where, you just don’t know when
I’m sick of being judged by gangsters and thugs
Sick of being manipulated with drugs
Too many bugs and not enough hugs

What do you say?
Two thousand twelve or dos mil doce?
What kind of rigged game they play today?
About me, I don’t care what they say!

While squatting in one of my favorite spots on Main Street, next to the New City Food Market, reading Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, I was forced to refer to the notes in the back of the text. Near the end of chapter 4, The Interview, Hester asks, “Art though like the Black Man that haunts the forest round about us? Has thou enticed me into a bond that will prove the ruin of my soul?”

Note 55 refers to page 70: the Black Man – a reference to witchcraft – witchcraft sprang from primitive religions that expressed belief in the incarnation of a god in a human or an animal. This god was always called a devil by the Christians – and it appeared disguised as an animal or dressed inconspicuously in black; hence the Devil is called the Black Man.

I be runnin away from the light
So I can see in the dark
What you do for food?
I be eatin shark
Sometimes I bite
Most times I bark

The encounter with Lionel last night is on my mind this morning. He accuses me of wasting my potential. Evidently my writing is not considered to be enough. He told me to get my head out of my ass. Huh? Say what? I tell the world what I told my deceased paternal grandmother when she made similar accusations: You may be shocked by this, but I am not your natural resource. I’m definitely not your Savior. Along with Henry David Thoreau, I say that it is not my responsibility that our society functions or that our species even survives. I am somewhat concerned about Lionel’s insistence that I make some kind of attempt to leave my mark on the world. How about I blow a hole right through this world’s idea of itself? How’s that for making my mark?

The beginning of chapter 18 of The Scarlet Letter struck me, seemed to speak directly to me. As I have spent many hours in despair and solitude, my mind has been made strong. I have habituated myself to such latitude of speculation as is altogether foreign to clergymen, ministers, and many others. My solitariness has been my passport to regions where the masses dare not tread.

With a deep sense of impending doom as a species, my diaries really are for my own personal development, a method I use for self-understanding – in no way to be published as entertainment. More alone and isolated than ever, I have ceased trying to find like-minded individuals. Surely, eventually, all the contemplating I have done must lead me to the Natural Power Within.

From my experience with the Internet, I can tell that the masses are profoundly disinterested in what I have to say. My personal disillusionment might be far more wide spread than I realize. This might be universal, where there is a vast conspiracy to make us feel this way. If we knew our numbers, we might become a Natural Power, like a blizzard. Many people who get a kick out of my wits tell me I remind them of George Carlin.

What does John Trudell mean when he warns us that the Enemy has come into us, that the enemy is inside us, that this enemy has been lodged inside us from programming, conditioning, advertizing? This enemy exploits our needs, exploits our egos, exploits our dependency. It has made us to be insecure with ourselves so that we will listen to the Zoo Keepers instead of our own hearts. We the People always seem to react to manipulations of circumstance. We can’t outfight them, but we can out-think them. Voting will not cut the mustard. Voting may be a complete waste of energy. Trudell tells us that we have to stop reacting and start thinking. We have to take our minds back.

I found a junked piano, dismantled it, and now have the main part with all the chords in the basement right next to the drums. I get some original beats from the combination.

1. Sade is exhalted as the philosopher-in-chains and the first theoretician of rebellion.
2. Sade denies God in the name of Nature.
3. Sade surely went against his times. It was his mother-in-law who was always sending the police after him, demanding he be locked up in a cage. The freedom Sade demands is not one of principles but one of instincts. The Romanticism he embraced was Lucifer-like in its rebellion.
4. In Biblical literature, Satan rises against his Creator because the latter employed force to subjugate him. The rebel flees from this aggressive and unworthy god.

I’m a hermit and a cave bear, but I also enjoy intelligent conversations as well as just joking and smoking. Because I go so deep into my own inner being, I feel very close to all that is. We each are passing through the same Machine World under similar pressures, coercions, and manipulations.

Am I already dead? Is philosophy just a preparation for death? How uncanny the comment made by LGjr at the soup kitchen when he said, “This is just like prison.” I guess it was the way we were lined up like so many cows being fed their daily grub.

Is life worth living? No. So, once again I am faced with the predicament of getting through a life not worth living. Is any life worth living? These are the complications of being a drunken madman. Do I sip the remaining brandy or do I drink coffee? Sip brandy. First I had to pick a baby cockroach out of the jar that the brandy was in. It seems to have drunk itself to death or drowned. Writing those last two sentences gives me one answer to how to get through a life not worth living: Even though there is nothing humorous about renting a unit on Marcy Street that has toxic water and is infested with cockroaches, there is a ludicrous effect in the details of a Day in the Life of This Mad Animal. Humor may help one get through a life not worth living. The tapes I created with Professor Reverend B while we were on a drunk were hilarious.

Johnny Cash wore black because he identified with the downtrodden and oppressed. Sometimes I also wear all black, for, at least when in Freehold, I sit with and even break bread with the downtrodden todos dias. Nosotros tenemos hambre todos dias. We’re hungry every day. While living in Asbury Park, when communing at one of the meals in one of the church basements, one of the volunteers explained to me that, throughout history many people who would have never met got to know one another at free meals like this. I bear witness to the truth of that observation. It does help us recognize our commonalities to break bread together, to joke and smirk together.

I was very vocal today at the soup kitchen backing up the large dude who was complaining about the diaretic spicy chicken swill. We would have been more satisfied with hot dogs. Holy Hot Dogs!

I even read my poem, Shoot Me Dead, aloud while the head-Christian-in-charge was reading from his bible like we were some kind Sunday School children or boy scouts.

Shoot Me Dead (shortened version)
Society is a dirty rotten trick
Call me love-sick heretic lunatic
I beat you down with my walking stick
Quick, swallow down the arsenic
Throw a brick, do the arithmetic
I impose myself as a maverick
Wipe away the lies and her lipstick
Now regicide is justified
Open-eyed nation-wide suicide
Kill the gort in Gorticide
Slaves are never dignified
How can they be so self-satisfied?
Ignorant of being taken for a ride
Doing nothing I learn to change every day
Slavery is slavery no matter what the pay
Pretty clothes and trucks won’t free your mind
Into hell the blind leading the blind
Why is my brother down on his knees?
Why does the FBI murder aborigines?
I never cared for being white
Never cared for “might makes right”
I wanna be the Great Filini’s acolyte
In the twilight I write with second-sight
Downright out-of-sight troglodyte
Don’t need another satellite
I am the bright bedlamite with copyright
Midnight meteorite taking flight
Lay her down, perform the sacred rite
Robo-cops, guards, soldiers, and hangmen
Slaves patroling slaves – so lame
Who do you think is tame?
You, not me – now, ain’t that a shame?
Kill me, bury me, save me from blame
Slavery is slavery, better do as we say
Here’s twenty-five bucks, catch a bus
Earn your wages like the rest of us
Hell no! This is my dying day
Let it be today, make it go away
Sorry, not today, never never say
To earn my pay on the seventh day
Take the subway halfway to my hideaway
Gotta stowaway and get away from underpay
I am the one who knows himself
I never put that wisdom on the shelf
Walking in woods like a Magic Elf
Mama Africa whispers to me: “Know Thyself”
We walk our prayers
We eat the sun
Don’t tell me I had better run!
Shoot me in the back
See if I care
Call me a maniac
Contrast and compare
Walking on water
There’s no miracle there
Bare feet on the green earth
Now this is my prayer
Time to unleash the Beast
Drinking la sopa, our Last Feast
I test out my Jesus Christ pose
Become morose and overdose

Going over notes from the Summer of 2003, I note, “Lunch at St. Peter’s is essential. It is a meeting place of sorts.” And yet, almost a decade later, I am determined not to go there tomorrow, at least, just because I am losing patience with the whole scene. I appreciate the food and the conversations … I just seem to have a strong revulsion against having someone read to us from a Bible.

Profile of a mass murderer: middle-aged white male, so-called “loser” – The FBI looks for someone who has suffered catastrophic losses, someone who wants vengeance against the world. The gorts detect “idiosynchrocies” – they know the guy who is a little weird, the guy who has loss his job and has given up hope of fitting in with this stupid automobile-dependent culture. My “insomnia” becomes less problematic when I am not coerced into any mind-destroying day programming for those diagnosed as “mentally ill and chemically addicted,” and when not obligated to report to a “boss” for duty.

Chemically addicted? Isn’t gasoline a chemical?

Mission Statement For Serious Comedians

Since Feste is a licensed fool, his main role in Twelfth Night is to speak the truth. This is where the humor lies, in his truthfulness. What is cant? Cant is “affected sing-song” – the private language of the underworld. I guess the core of my humor also lies in my truthfulness. No filters.

Those middle-class managers we refer to as The Zoo Keepers would love to see me in a “program” to try to make me into a moron who likes television, new cars, football stadiums, Bible Study, and cat-crap sandwiches. Psychiatry is a police force policing the intellectual levels of evolution. I refuse to be brainwashed. I won’t be a robot or a corporate drone. The only problem most inmates in psychiatric wards have is that they don’t like new cars, perfume, and hair spray. That’s why they are put away. They make the other members of society fearful.

“Every asylum in this nation is filled with poor souls who simply can’t stand cellophane, plastic, television, and subdivisions.”

I have learned to grapple with ideas in solitude, a million miles away from the petty gossip and war mongering that many gorts in the Industrialized Multiplex live by. I like the character I have become … a Dostoevskian philosopher, tortured artist, authentic singer-poet-drummer, frustrated genius. I am used to opposition.

How does one resist sinking into depression? Those who manipulate the masses want us to feel we are becoming overwhelmed. They want a depressed and oppressed population for such denizens are far more easily manipulated than the coherent thinking animal being. We are in a place where spirits get eaten. How do we go about lifting our spirits, protecting our spirits? This becomes crucial in times when we face mass starvation in the midst of vulgar ostentatious consumption.

This is why I reject the animosity, acrimony, and malice directed towards me, not only from servile ass-licking brown-nosing slaves, but from certain Lumpen elements: gang culture, police culture, football/basketball/baseball/celebrity culture would like to intimidate me – the world of the school yard jail house promoted by television and Hollywood. It is enough to drive a genius insane. I am contemplating deeply the very nature of our existence, and I get judged by hordes who defer to the false authority of corporate boss culture, small-business boss culture, gang boss culture, where a hierarchy is enforced through psychological operations, violence-disguised-as-love-or-God, and brutality!

The audacity I display in simply being comfortable with my own animal being is enough to make others angry at me, personally – those who would prefer to see me depressed and suicidal in order to lift their opinions of themselves. The best revenge is to live well.

It’s quite understandable for a sensitive soul not to be able to adapt to the idiotic norms of the business-as-usual patterns of behavior of mass society. What is there for me to do but sit under a tree behind the bus station (NO LOITERING!), reading a poem by Artaud, engaged in the task at hand? I cast a spell.

“I hate and renounce as a coward every being who does not recognize that life is given him only to recreate and reconstitute his entire body and organism.” (Artaud)
In another part of the poem, a stanza shortly after this, Artaud seems to articulate a phenomenological perspective, where the Cartesian division of mind and body is called out to be a fallacy:

“I hate and renounce every being who separates what he calls his body from what he calls his consciousness or thought.” (Artaud)

It is the cowardice of the mob which I challenge with my living animal body and its daily life, which is inseparable from its consciousness and its thought.

“I hate and renounce as a coward every being who does not agree that life is given him only to separate himself from the masses.” (Artaud)

Sitting in sunbeams “in” The Temple of the Tree behind Freehold Boro Station, I find my mojo while witnessing my animal being reconstitute. Thought and Beastly Flesh become One. This personal balance is attainable via the conscious detachment from the mass-mind society through the active scorn of its wealth-warped values. The best revenge is to live well, and by “living well,” I certainly do mean kicking in the TV screen, detaching from jobs and automobiles as much as possible, eating as much fresh produce as possible, and, if need be, killing your own meat, making your own booze, growing your own medicine and tobacco – and constructing a simple hut where you can piss off the porch whenever you damn well please, as Alcoholic Ed (Abbey) likes to say.

“I hate and renounce as a coward every being who does not agree that the consciousness of having been born is a search and a study superior to that of living in society.” (Artaud)

I painted my face on Thursday the 15th. After being told to leave St. Peter’s soup kitchen, I wandered into town, but the mayor of Freehold Borough had called the police, notifying them that I was “alarming the citizenry.”

Some Set Theory: Man belongs to the earth. The earth does not belong to man.

You are reading an urgent manifesto that reveals some forbidden truths about these perilous times. When I am feeling very irritable and agitated, and someone inquires into how I am feeling – you know, we’re in this culture where everyone is constantly sticking a thermometer up your poop shoot to check your temperature – I simply tell them I am feeling distraught. Distraught … that seems to cover the entire gambit. Distraught, a kind of insanity or mania: insane, mad, crazy, lunatic, loco, non compos mentis, manic, demented, deranged, unhinged, unbalanced, unsettled, shattered, brain sick, not right in the head, touched in the head, out of one’s mind … rabid, maniacal, raving mad, wild, furious, violent, raging, raving, ranting, frothing at the mouth, amuck, amok, berserk … possessed with a demon or devil.

Demonic possession implies psychosis.

This is what I mean by “distraught.” Distraught is also related to PSYCHOTIC: paranoiac, schizophrenic, schizo (slang), cyclothymiac, cycloid, catatoniac, hebephreniac, manic-depressive, dipso (slang), alcoholic.

On the other hand, when someone validates me as a “wise man,” I take this to mean sage, mastermind, mahatma, oracle, mentor, man of intellect, thinker, luminary, shining light.
It has become more and more clear to me how to minimize anxiety, agony, and general misery. I have to take care: dress warm when cold; eat fresh vegetables and fruit when available; do not allow others to control me with alcohol, drugs, sex, or even tobacco or food; develop emotional and mental independence so that my source of strength is within my own animal body and not in some Higher Power or Significant Other, not in some Pope or President or Savior.

Micromanaging the government funds, as some good folks have come to describe this process that others call “living the easy life,” is not as easy as they seem to assume.

Something from some notes taken from David Abram’s Becoming Animal: “There are those not frightened of grief; dropping deep into the sorrow, they find therein a necessary elixir to the numbness. When they encounter one another, when they press their foreheads against a centuries old tree … their eyes well with tears that fall easily to the ground. The soil needs this water. Grief is but a gate, and our tears a kind of key opening a place of wonder that’s been locked away. Suddenly we notice the sustaining resonance between the drumming heart within our chests and the pulse rising from under the ground.”

With so many people attending churches and studying “the Bible,” I can’t help but feel especially blessed having liberated my mind from such forms of social control long ago.

As far as moving out of Freehold goes, I may stay if the People start to assert ourselves while crossing the streets in the walkways. I am not alone in being outraged by the way some drivers operate their vehicles around Downtown Freehold. An elderly black gentleman was yelling at motorists in the worst walkway near One Way and Throckmorton.

Some notes from Kerouac on “spontaneous prose”: This I believe to be the only possible literature of the future. UNINTERRPTED AND UNREVISED FULL CONFESSIONS ABOUT WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED IN REAL LIFE.

Here is a list of essentials from Kerouac’s Technique in modern prose:
1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild type-written pages for your own joy.
2. Open, listening
3. Try not to get drunk outside your own domicile.
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
29. You’re a Genius all the time.

“One of the most effective keys to survival is living each moment as it comes.” ~ Tom Brown Jr.

Be spontaneous. Forget schedules and programs! Forget 5-Year Plans. Forget To-Do Lists. Be spontaneous. Be ready for anything. Within three days, your world could become unrecognizable. You better believe it. Don’t believe the hype.

Researching “the fox walk” in Tom Brown Jr.’s Field Guide To Nature Observation & Tracking on pages 92 to 94, as well as “City Shuffle” pages 91 and 92, am compelled to include some crucial information as I continuously find myself “forgetting how to walk.” They teach us Algebra, English, Spanish, and Calculus, but did anyone ever teach you how to breathe or how to walk? I find myself forgetting how to walk, forgetting how to breathe.

“The fox is a very confident, energetic walker with an almost cocky spring to its step. One step almost directly in front of the other. This gait is worth imitating. To do “the fox walk,” hold your body upright instead of leaning forward. This way you can easily maintain balance and stop quickly at any time. Face the horizon instead of looking down. Let your feet become your eyes on the ground, and use splatter vision to take in the rest of the landscape. Take short, easy strides, feeling the ground with each step. Lift and place each foot gently, one almost in front of the other. Instead of coming down heel first, come down on the outside of the foot and roll to the inside before committing your weight. Lift the feet with the thighs rather than pushing off with the calves. The fox walk is a little like prancing, and it has lots of benefits. It is no accident that the fox walk is the walk most universally recommended by martial arts experts and practitioners of yoga. The fox walk is NATURAL. It is the way we were designed to walk.”

Rereading Tom Brown Jr’s Field Guide To Nature Observation and Tracking, I understand why this book had such a huge impact on my development when I was a young man.
From the Introduction: “We often go to the woods burdened with so much anxiety and with senses so battered and dull that we can absorb only a fraction of the messages waiting for us beyond the asphalt and concrete. Galaxies around us go unnoticed and unexplored because we have lost our feeling of connection with the earth. Yet that connection can be reestablished in large part simply by awakening and nourishing our innate awareness.”

“In a very basic way nature observation is the most important of the survival skills. A survivalist cannot build a fire without knowing where to find the necessary materials.”

By keeping a record of events, situations, moods, feelings, ideas, and even secret fantasies, I am better able to understand my experiences, better able to become more comfortable with the phases I go through. I witness a peaceful feeling I experience when my funds are depleted (and I have enough food stored). As long as rent and utilities and fines are paid, and I have some tobacco, some coffee, and a blank notebook (and ink), I don’t suffer too much anxiety being penniless.

An example of MICROMANAGING LIMITED FUNDS: I realized that even though I still have $426.70 worth of checks that still need to clear, my account only has $422.27 available. I cleaned restrooms at H’s and immediately deposited $4.50 of it. Mission Mike be cutting it close walking the razor’s edge.

After finishing several loads of laundry I passed out on the floor for a few hours, rising before 3PM. Message on machine: Mom at hospital. She fell at Walgreen’s and bumped her chin on the floor. She may also have broken her arm. She is in the Emergency Room now. Poor old girl. Last summer she had open heart surgery where her heart was actually outside of her body for an hour. She suffered a stroke while strapped down in hospital bed. Poor old girl.

Once again, even though it is still early in the month, I am stressed out waiting to be sure checks clear before indulging at the grocery store. This cycle repeats itself monthly. This month was a little more tricky due to accumulating fines.

On Tuesday, the 5th of June, a plain clothes detective got out of his vehicle on Main Street as I was crossing the street between the traffic. He darted right towards me, and for whatever reasons, my instinct was to flee. When I turned my head ever-so-slightly, I ran full speed into something made of heavy metal, flipped into the air, breaking my lower right leg, both the tibia and fibular bones. I was charged with disorderly conduct and something else (Resisting Arrest). Surgery was performed on Thursday, the 7th. I was discharged yesterday around 5PM with just a walker.

When I got home, I discovered a letter from my landlord telling me I had to vacate the unit within 30 days. Mother Nature blew the window out and someone had kicked in the door, and yet I am to blame? Now, I can barely stand up. I can’t put any weight on the broken leg. Blood is seeping through the bandages just from me trying to get around with the walker. At least three motorists offered to drive me to where I had to go while I was walking today, but for some reason I declined. Is this just stubborn pride?

There are many lies being spread in the street about what actually transpired resulting in suffering a broken leg. I am looking into getting a used wheel-chair. I wonder how I am supposed to relocate in a wheel-chair. I will just have to squat. So much uncertainty. I can’t allow myself to become overwhelmed as I need all the courage and strength I can muster just to take care of myself and roll with these punches. I’ll just take a bird bath while trying not to fall down. I’m missing the pain-killers the nurses were feeding me at the hospital. I’m missing the nurses, period … the hospital was feeding me very well the few days I was there. I would have liked to stay longer, but I have to admit, I was relieved to be able to smoke tobacco.

Maybe all I can do is read while dropping this Oxycodine every few hours. I have no choice but to just heal. This current landlord has turned out to be an insensitive authoritarian prick harassing me when I am struggling to just walk! Many supportive looks I am getting from the local Latin American population encourages me to arm my spirit and take courage. I’m going to have to reach down deep for strength.



I first read Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf (originally published in Berlin, Germany as Der Steppenwolf (The Steppenwolf) in 1927) when I was a young man – back in the late 80′s. This is kind of an autobiographical novel Hesse wrote when he was 50.
Now I am 45, so I want to experience the novel again, to better understand the workings of my own psyche (and to explore my own “character development” as a “personality”). I want to understand my outsider status better. I want to explore how I have come to live in this self-imposed exile from the status quo, how I have become such a Natural Rebel and Original Thinker, how I have come to hate mass-minded team-player drone culture so vehemently. And so I am taking some notes this time through, a project I can continue even were I set-up and railroaded into a cage by The Establishment or its “Slave Patrol.”
1. It seems to me that Hesse writes the “Preface” from the perspective of a law-abiding obedient middle-class drone. He is suspicious of Harry Haller’s (The Steppenwolf’s) fear of the police, suspicious/judgmental of the empty wine bottles around the rooms HH rents from his mother, the cigar ashes everywhere, the books scattered about – even on the floor, his coming home in the middle of the night drunk.

2. And yet, he also has a genuine respect for HH:
“He gave at the very first glance the impression of a significant, an uncommon, and unusually gifted man. His face was intellectual, and the abnormally delicate and mobile play of his features reflected a soul of extremely emotional and unusually delicate sensibility.”

3. Where the two attended a lecture together, and the Steppenwolf (Harry Haller) threw him a quick look – an unforgettable and frightful look which spoke volumes!
a “hopelessly sad” look; “… the Steppenwolf’s look pierced our whole epoch, its whole overwrought activity, the whole surge and strife, the whole vanity, the whole superficial play of a shallow, opinionated intellectuality.”
The look said: “See what monkeys we are! Look, such is man!”
All progress —> “a monkey’s trick!”

4. This note reminds me of how, as a teenager, no, even as a child, I had committed myself to experiencing reality to the dregs, not to be distracted, not to be servile to idiotic norms, even when this meant facing down the herd, the family, the entire society, the masses: drones, robots, slaves, dupes, suckers, ass-kissers, all gorts who did not question the status quo and those who said, “This is just the way it is.”

“I saw that Haller was a genius of suffering and that in the meaning of many sayings of Nietzsche he had created within himself a boundless and frightful capacity for pain.”

By the age of 45, I have now at least come to understand what it is about my personality that disturbs some people: it is the sheer force of my intellect, the fact that I have done more serious thinking than most.

In preparation for camping out in the Tent City in Lakewood while saving for security deposit for the next residence, I shaved dome and face – for hygiene purposes. Since I will be unable to use the wheel-chair in the woods and mud, I purchased a four-pronged cane. This move seems to be insane and even surrealistic, but I will be glad not to pay one more month’s rent to dwell in this dive on Marcy Street. I’m sick of being harassed by a certain officer. I’m sick of being treated as some kind of second class citizen simply because I refuse to adapt to the mall-rat society.

My mind is well rested, but my leg, while walking with special boot and cane, is in great pain. Locomotion has become problematic … regression caused by moving my furniture out to the curb. I will be abandoning most of my belongings, including, of course, the Tama drum kit I had purchased in 1995 while living in the Tark House when employed by the State Park Service. My brother-in-law had had the drums stored in a trailer ever since my mother sold her place in Freehold when I was out in Seattle in 2010. I was able to enjoy them in Downtown Freehold since the place I was renting had a basement, but now I must leave them behind forever. I most likely will never have access to a drum kit again. Such is life for a disenfranchised serf.

The broken sink prevents me from cleaning the kitchen. My neighbor disconnected the plumbing under my sink since I am leaving anyway. He said that his sink is backing up. Now water is backing up all over the kitchen floor. I have to vacate. This is no longer my problem. I am catching a taxi to Lakewood carrying my tent, some cooking supplies, and rain gear in two suitcases.

On my first night at Tent City in Lakewood, while there was tremendous drama between leader Steve and a few residents, I was blessed by a woman with a spot near her camp and Whiting fish with shrimp and macaroni/cheese. This morning I moved my camp across the dirt road for more privacy. The tent encampment here in Lakewood is much different than the ones I was in out West. Whereas out West we were prohibited from drinking alcohol, here we can crack a forty and a fifth of vodka right in front of our tent. On the down side, whereas out West there was a huge meal every night from one local charity or another, out here we are kind of on our own except for the pizza Steve collects that is donated from local pizza places.

Yesterday I was assaulted in my tent. Rather than avenge myself, I left the encampment on foot with my face bleeding. Before I was assaulted, I was nearly attacked by a group of about 7 necks. I had been very loud the previous night, angry about my tobacco and vodka missing from my tent. I abandoned the books I had brought which included Tom Brown Field Guides, Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel, and The Mohawk Nation’s Basic Call To Consciousness. All I took with me was my tent and my backpack. Steve and his son tracked me down, inquired as to what had happened, and then drove me to the entrance of where my mother resides, Leisure Village. With the broken leg still not healed, I guess I underestimated the complications of dwelling in the Lakewood Camp.

Now I feel like I am sinking into a deep depression. Have I suffered a nervous breakdown from all the trauma of the past few months, where it has just now sunk in? My outspoken manner may be the death of me yet. I don’t feel like doing anything but staring off into inner space. I will have to focus on finding a residence since it looks like hiding out in the tent city is rougher than I anticipated. There is a considerable amount of internal strife there. That Steve has his hands full! I felt like Mark Twain’s Tailor Bains who was attacked by ruffians and thrown in a ditch.

No matter where one ends up, no matter who one is, our ANIMAL BODY is the material basis for happiness and misery. The basis for bodily pleasure and bodily pain is very restricted: it is simply health, food, protection from wet and cold, the satisfaction of the sexual instinct; or else the absence of these things. After just two nights at my mother’s domicile, my spirits have lifted. Protection from the wet, nutritious food, a chance to heal. My animal body is feeling some relief.


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