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Craft History Ch 103
Four Basic Domains of Material Objects

1. Ancestral – heirlooms
The old violin sits idly in a leather case. The case has deep red plush interior but is covered in a think layer of dust, as it has only been open twice in twenty years. The strings are ragged and have a thin layer of fuzz on them. Every few inches the catgut slips in a sharp line out the side of the strings. The wood below them is finished in a dark brown coating. It is deeply covered in this varnish. It is cut like a small violin, with a light cut in the middle of the body. The bow is long but the horsehair is frayed. It was hand made in Canada in my grandfather’s era. He passed away in 1986. The violin was probably built by hand in a small shop in the Edmonton area in the early 1950s. The violin is simply fragile. It hasn’t been touched in twenty years. Either set of strings might break if they are pulled together. The dust also alludes to this idea.

2. Bestowal or Exchange – social and familial / religious and temporal
There is a three-foot high statue of Shiva that was sold as a cheap forgery to my father about ten years ago. He bought it on eBay and once it arrived we took it out and it was a cheap forgery of the forgery it was sold as. It is black and stands on a square pedestal carved like a master. The numerous heads are stacked atop a small frame and the many arms stick out off the side, hooked together. The left set of arms is broken and varnished over as if it was made of stone. But it has been broken again and one can now see its true nature. It is made of plaster and metal wire as so to look broken and weathered with age in the photographs. It was sold at a reasonable price, about fifty dollars. The statue is an interesting piece in need of minor repair. It has an aesthetic quality of dignity or stature in life. Without seeing the ceramic and wire and plaster, it appears to be a true forgery from 1849. I believe this piece of art is a joke. The decorative properties of Shiva symbolize the eternalness of the moment while the artist is laughing because he was able to sell a forgery as a forgery online.

3. Political – Authority/Investiture/Rulership
I have an old orange t-shirt from Shambala. It signified my authority as a sober person at the music festival. Drugs of all measures circled around me. It is 100 percent cotton and dyed bright orange. The music festival’s logo is about located on the left breast of the shirt. On the back and in larger black lettering the word “Staff” is incredibly apparent. The shirt was perhaps made the same way any shirt of Canadian origin is made. The production of t-shirts is a largely automated process. The fabric is cut in to the shape of the front and back and it is sewn up the side. The neckline and sleeves are then added to the shirt to give it the final look. The t-shirt is very loud in order to attract the attention of the partygoers in need of a sober mind. This is a responsibility that was necessary to uphold. It seems to be the only symbol of authority I can find in my home.

4. Domestic Tools – Functional Tools
There is a garden hand shovel that was gifted to me as a going away present. It has a light maple handle that was about two feet long. In the end it is only about an inch round. The metal spade is wrapped around the thinner end of the long maple shaft. The spade is hammered into a thin yet durable end. Then it was polished to a shiny silver surface and eventually sold to the Princess Auto Corporation. This is evident by the sticker that is stuck to the shaft in a makeshift fashion. The handle was surely machine carved from a log. The spade was surely shaped by a large wheeled machine rolling back and forth over the cut metal to make the end sharper. The aesthetic quality this material object has is a glimmer or shine. The spade and handle both shine with the reflection of any wandering light source. This gives an impression the tool is new and yet to be used.

The Government fed me drugs so I took more. There is something crooked about that system. The issue lay in the pomegranates unique qualities and the hotel room that I couldn’t leave. They were scared minds and bad trips, horrid notice and blasted foreign days that should not be remembered. Now there is little except Schizophrenia and the notice for Dr. David Suzuki. I agree begrudgingly with the “Downside of High.” But those trips will happen to most anyone. The trick is to fall asleep trying.

The government drugs take longer to work but I thought they had the same effect. The night seemed so young but I shouldn’t have taken them. This is from the lighter effects on Vietnam Veterans. I am nothing of that sort. My life has obviously been one of delusions of grandeur and hopeless mornings wondering what I am going to do with my day. If I did more, I wouldn’t have the thoughts that I was this world’s hero.

But when I was younger the government fed me drugs, told me I had to take them and they made me dizzy and sleepy. They were psychoactive pills that changed my perspectives on things. They helped, but that fed my drug use. I took different forms of psychoactive medicine and even found different ways of ingesting my prescription medicine. This was more fun because it wasn’t allowed. Things were strange in those years and I loved all the drugs, the whole slew of them.

I burned out and quit hard drugs by 21. I fell back into them sometimes and hurt myself but never too badly before I quit. But I feel resentment towards the people who initially prescribed my particular mind with heavy psychoactive chemicals. Maybe it was my own decision and this is my vented regret for taking them. Or Maybe I would have lived without the prescription pills had I stayed away from street drugs. Or maybe I would have lived a happy and healthy life without smoking. I have grown up quite a bit in the last year as I just recently turned 25.

I wonder if Dr. Suzuki has ever noted the wonder and absolute manifestation of strange events and series that happens when one is in a manic state. Right there is some magical stuff. What a wondrous world filled with endless possibilities it is. All the scenes fade into some delusion of past live regression and existential angst that is suppressed and unwilling to show itself. You think you are hanging with the true royalty. And I’m sure I was. I think that is how they have parties.
They do them at the psychiatry ward.


An introduction.

Norman Shins lived in a large bland city known as Festin. It was tall and strong and grey with stunning skyscrapers made of glass but a thick fog that held them from those on the streets below. He was a bookkeeper and wanted to make an honest living. His fame came from his lies that told of two friends that really had their say.

He wrote one note that stated boldly:
“They knew of only one man who stayed in a form of madness that seemed out of place in an otherwise matriarchal household. “

This was odd in Festin, and odd for Norman Shins. He had a tendency to write aimless letters with bad grammar and more small marks from tears than of punctuation. In the factory he worked, the main platforms were brown, small rectangular rows and columns he needed to fill with minute details of the past days work. This meant he stayed up late pushing paper nearly every night.

This would have been lonely to some but he had a colleague who felt forced to keep him company in the same small cubicle. But this action was simply because the boss needed to instill fear and power for respect. He thought that nothing that truly bothered him besides the small gap between the blades of the forks he told Norman every night at dinner.

It was easier to believe in that sort of thing than tear the tormenting darkness in the world away from his inner light. It helped keep him centered.

Norman sometimes thought aloud that he was the only fair bookkeeper in this land. He may have thought he were the only fair person. Their leaders and the common folk held strange regard for those who abused their power and set this norm. It started as fear, Norman figured, but became a triumph of culture to demand people did one’s bidding.

But Norman just kept books. His boss would command to make sense of things on threat that he would simply die. It was he or his staff, in the end, as Norman and his cubicle partner Harold needed this position to keep their mortal shell. Neither had family to care for. That seemed for the best because it was how their boss had raised them. No one had a family in this land. The eerie Darkened Guards would take all children to the nearest orphanage as soon as they were born. It was considered a sin to avoid telling a superior that you were expecting a birth.

It was argued that this sped the process of growing. Studies backed by the Main Office of Ready Birth in Festin suggested that orphaned children left home and became self sufficient much quicker than those children coming from more affluent backgrounds. Norman was sure that some simply died though the official numbers that were available to the public stated clearly that overbearing parents often ceased the development of their otherwise stable and capable children. Norman turned one night to his only true friend and said, “Harold, we have no mortal shell outside this office. You sleep two blocks away and I sleep one block away. Is this what life is?”

Harold refused to answer and did not speak all night, passing even at the end of the night when Norman waved as they took their leave and headed in opposite directions from the front gate outside the building and into a hazy morning light.

So the next night Norman asked the same question. Still Harold just looked at his books. Silently and simultaneously they wondered and subliminally left the office without missing a pen stroke. By some sort of luck, or perhaps just fate, the papers moved away and they found a small grey book.

This book appeared old, as the inside cover claimed it was written in 2009. Harold read the title to Norman in a calm yet nervous manner, trying to hide his glee and shaking hands. The title was bold and black on a simple matte white background. It was gritty to the touch. A symbol neither man knew was in the center, marking a brief red outline that played tricks with their eyes.

“So You Say You’ve Committed Genocide – A Handbook For Going to Hell.”
PART 19:
Richard Channing was in his comfy chair when his roommate arrived, although he had no roommate. The tone was a hushed whisper, “Before I think to leave and travel.” His room mate said hello.
Richard glanced to his side mirror. He sold more money that day than he knew. He was no mere drug dealer, he was a world leader. Our hero loves and before the mightiest sword drawn would be his peoples. This was his true purpose.

Our hero began to ramble. “I am not the beginning of the old world. I have no remark that let them. Let the man have nothing. That is my counter remark. And let the old heathens be lit. If they never marked nothing, they would soldier on as old sorts. They had nothing to lose. The marked men who felt they met the old reason they the marked suits,” Richard heralded.

His roommate asked an awkward man to clarify.
Instead of replying he felt his old typewriter and wondered about it’s previous typist. It was a moment of reason but Richard mentioned, “Washed and marketed to a fool. The old nevermore that took the crows, sir.” But Rick Channing smiled and moved his fingers to type.

The roommate had won.

He won because heaven was waiting for the traveling few. They may not need these people who run away from the room. But he knew it was not that. And the toad knew that too, even third party members out in the hallway played our dear hero the blues.

“I would call on him, my friend,” The roommate said softly, but the remark fell on Dick Cheney’s deaf ears and he replied, “This man belongs in a world for himself.”

This was an odd moment for a man of Richard’s caliber. He would one day be people’s idol. He would be a man that people could look up to and trust. People would follow his will and dance with a traditional sin. And he liked these traits of this man. Richard was not typing and was once again entranced with the Toad’s presence.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Rick asked.
“No I never have one first thing in the morning.”
“A cry is the way to be here every morn, sir.”
Richard laughed and clasped his hands.
The voice continued, “She has left an open wound that needs men of mind and words. You have none though, Richard. Where are your words?”
“Maybe his error was he quit telling lies. That poor woman, she knows nothing of men.”
“Those are no words, Richard.”
“But it is at your request. So please stand and back up. I am a man who has just finally won that thing and may I mention I’ve seen the ghost. You haven’t seen the ghost, Toad.”
“Your ghetto has been awakened in the wee hours. But I will only ask you this once, would you rather destroy Festin or the other worlds? He never acted as if this negative spirit scared him. You grabbed at this woman and fought with her arms. She struggled for a moment and he her for the last dance of the morning, Rick.”
The coffee machine sputtered in the background and an androgynous roommate laughed at Richard’s groan.

“They never had no ghost tour that knew the old and retro was a train,” he said, “I have never done that before. Maybe if he struggled more with the smaller grounds. They would all become much smaller then. We could grow stronger. We could move a little further ahead and into this new technology.”
“But I am not interested in new inventions.”
“Well now you have smoked the cigarettes.” Rick told a shocked roommate.
“I guess not,” The voice replied.
Richard continued, “And when I brushed her bangs back with a strong hand, in a gesture that was synonymous with music. I played her out of her hat. The big band put me in the mood for hard Jack Daniels. I felt that I looked like a middleman for somebody. It was a feeling I never had before. That was the time I stroked my first good looking woman, Toad.”
“Did you kiss her goodnight?”
“She decided not to kiss me that night when I left. Her breath was gross or something, I dunno.”
“And your life would go on forever in this specific series of events. So we suppose you have channeled energy from somewhere. Sometimes it’s a young girl forced to make breakfast for you, sometimes not. You will one day see it. He was a man from our persuasion. He was a man like you who had these ladies held tightly.”

part 18

Our hero sat disposed with grandeur twitching his fingers. Ill will was a reasons to say that all was well. Richard was a man from the league of sincere reasoning and smiled like a mean person. The bad tastes of cigarettes and whisky in his mouth made him say, “I’ll take your soul.” The sentence slipped out of his mouth and traveled across the mind of his friend Bob as he searched for the words to follow. It was simple, so he asked, “Why do they hold men in chambers?”
Our hero continued to twitch his fingers and began to look at them as a measure of mortal men. “Reason and virtue would be best,” he continued. He read the paper and it suggested that he would take their souls. He needed to find a connection to deal with it. That statement made him shake his head. Richard had confidence. It was the path that gave him his high.

“Matters should be recorded,” he suggested, realizing he was still standing on the corner grinding his teeth.

Richard wanted a glass of water. He would sip the rim and calm his internal fires. This is a man trying hard to look wary of the street yet he did not. More than one person saw this young man in prep school garb and held no respect for him.

With this in mind he opened his wallet to check his situation. He lied to himself that it was okay to do this, that nobody here could hurt him and that he was the most feared man on the block. This was because he sent his psychic forces out to set such repute to this city block.

He was making progress in his plans. He pulled a folded piece of paper and made a comment that he was still young. Still nobody was listening and he appeared to be mentally ill, so he was not found out of place when he took another sniff of white powder. He did the rail in a perpetual search for a better word to describe the fear he struck in the hearts of common men. He nearly fell over but let himself think that this was the drug of the kings. It was the drug of the most powerful people.

He repeated the word “powerful” to himself. It was true. He was going to be king.

The moment trapped him so he stood still in some unfinished painting for a number of minutes. He was frozen in the instant like the world was his for the taking. He could do anything he wanted, and spoke softly to himself, “Those that are making the true gains in politics are snorting cocaine right now. I know this because I am. This is the drug that makes one smart and cool. Those that smoke the stuff are below me. They do not actually feel its effects.”

He then walked to find the dealer that he last bought the drug from. Cocaine was expensive. Crack was for the poor. He was cool and he knew that his dealer saw this. He forgot the path that he was going to take. He knew that it would have been a good one, but Richard reasoned that this silence was very interesting as well.

He took a moments glance at the man selling drugs on the corner and sighed. It was his friend and dealer, a man that Richard only knew as Paint. He bought more drug in silence with a smile that was key for the man to know that he could be trusted. Richard left quickly and decided that he should go visit his friend. He could not stay here. He left and felt higher for it. He would be wiser in the future, knowing that his people existed on one side of the tracks and the disenfranchised lived on the other. Our hero knew that every day that he longed for supremecy over his peers was a day wasted, as he was simply longing for it and not truly superior.

He left thinking about a box of soap. The interest of his statements to himself and that city block left him wondering if he would rather exist as one of those actual boxes of soap. He did not make sense of this connection. He just wondered why he thought such things.

The nuisance would be to carry such an object with him. Maybe he could hire help. One of those black men that worked for his family would be perfect. Or maybe an Asian woman. He reasoned that they were used to being set in their place.

Our hero gazed into the distance and made his way back to the affluent section of town without remembering a thing that he said or did.

PART 18:

Our hero had the catchy song of the day in his head. It was a number one hit a few months back but had made its way down the charts back to relative obscurity and impulse purchases of the sorts of people Richard could not make sense of. It was a simple tune and our hero could not help but bob his head.

One day, Richard supposed, he would publish his autobiography. It would be insightful and about his meteoric rise to power and influence. He would have it ghost written, but only because other men were better writers than him. He would make sure it would be insightful and explain how he was right about everything. It would detail his beliefs and people would purchase it and learn about his wise teachings. They will keep good thoughts about him and keep him high on a pedestal above everyone else, especially those who made him an outsider. They would fear him the most, for he would have been their king.

And only those that Richard considered cool would survive. It would be a strange test, our hero thought in a lark. “Do you believe in Richard Channing?” the paper would remark. If they circled yes than they would become his class. If they circled no than they would become slaves until finally they were simply wiped out. Those who did not think our hero cool would be punished and this simple goal would be kept secret. He could not be caught discussing this with anyone.

It could be implied to those who held powerful positions and they would know. Richard knew how politics worked. They would agree with what he meant and it would be easy to become that man.

The key to being cool, Richard figured, was to be just a little badass. He once used the term that he was “In the closet as a bad man,” to explain that the common people should believe that he was a good man in a charade preformed for the mass media. His collegues were a little taken aback by his statement. They sat in silent shock when that series of words left his lips.

Richard laughed it off, as a man should do. He stated for the record, “I didn’t mean like that... It is just that people should believe in their leader because otherwise there will be too much uncertain air around the elections.”

The fellows who sat with him agreed and quickly changed the topic. Dick was unsure whether he had uttered a faux-pas or if he made an important point. Our hero knew that they had picked up his tone and suggestion. They knew what he meant.

Richard looked in the eyes of the people in the room hoping that they did not hear his last thought. It was a silent thought but he understood that his mind could influence people so he hoped these men did not know what was up.
These men were cool. They were a sort of cabal that men at midnight. The claim was that by becoming one of them he could start his quest to be the most powerful man in the world. It was as simple as coming to the meeting and discussing world events. Most of these men had fathers in politics. They were good connections and would serve him wisely in his plans.

But Richard’s mind began to wander.
He could not mention his other wishes, the ones to join crime. If they knew that he wanted to sell drugs while making them illegal for everyone else he would seem too crooked, even for this shadowy group. He would stick to implications regarding ethnic cleansing and the immense superiority of his class and people. They did not realize that he meant only the few that Richard thought were cool would survive. They would understand eventually but he would need to be further entrenched in this cabal to send this idea towards any of them.

Asylums- 350-82
Behavior of patients 520-1

So I sat here talking to some deadheads and needing a bowl of soup. Tell the men that left our head that our hero was filled with words. But we need some heroes and criminals to grow and learn and tell them an entertaining story.

I hope I haven’t left you with the impression that this book is about me.

This book is about a strange young man that lives in this turn of the millennium. This man will grow up to become the president of the United States of America. His life started with quite the bang.

“Each word is longer than the next,” he said, “So I need a drink.”
The man at the counter glanced at him and said, “There are three things direly wrong with that statement. First, you are not yet twenty-one. Second, you are at work. And third, it is noon, you fool.”
And Richard Channing stammered, “But I need a drink. I do own this hall, page. I am the first born son of the Channing family.”
“There is a beer in the fridge,” a sullen old black man told him.

When the old black remembered this event later, thinking as well of a memory. He still saw tracers from the last time he had looked at the sun.

It had been years since he had seen young Master Channing as the man had fired him for writing and singing that song. Or maybe it was one to the tone of, “Jesus, just put away their guns. Before they kill someone, I remember thinking this, so I stared into the sun. And sir, ask him if you want to keep your son.”

Somewhere around the time he was last able to sing the whole song, an awkward man in a funny hat showed himself to him as a silhouette.

The skinny black man smiled and whispered, “He is this silence, my dear friend.”

And the butler left Richard Channing; never knowing whom the awkward man was until they met again in Summerland. The young white man who fired him did not know what he had done. It was best that they had left when they did. There was little the old servant could do but smile.

Though Richard Channing remembers this day quite differently. “You are an angry teen,” he was saying to himself. He was worried that every schoolmate he passed could hear his awkward and peculiar thoughts. He grew concerned when they looked as if they did.

“You were happy,” he choked in order to stifle what he knew was coming, “You were nice… And unabashedly homosexual for three full days, but your playground superiors do not approve of your sexual revelation. So you turn black. You are pulled into a rage. You quickly stormed out of this school.” While saying this, he pushed a younger student on the stairs and spilled his books to the ground dramatically.
He also committed his first murder.

Our hero quickly called a cab from the street and takes it home to his father’s large mansion. The driver left him at the end of a winding driveway. He marched past a guard, cursing in some daze about the lush grounds surrounding his palace.

As he passed the front porch the maid had not brought the American cheddar cheese squares on sticks, so he smashed the overhead light. It fell to the ground and he stomped it with two feet sure to twist the ruins of the broken glass into dust and marking the expensively varnished wood.

Richard Channing’s grey suit pants were covered in dust and he suddenly burst into tears. The crying lasted but a moment, until he slapped his own face. “Bitch!” he screamed at himself before running inside, catching his pressed pants on a sliver he made in the varnished wood and tearing the leg up the side.
He began to do what most teenagers would, jumping towards the couch to try and break his neck. If he had truly wanted to he would have. But there our hero rested, holding a throw pillow and twisting back and forth.

So he stood from the couch and stormed towards the kitchen. He grabbed a knife from the drawer and ran back to the living room. Well he stabbed through the pillow little Rick smiled, pausing to carve through the couch on the other side. He pulled the knife through the middle of the cushion and tore the blade back towards himself.

He nearly cut his suit pants and threw the knife to the floor before running crying up the nearest stairs.

He found his thoughts in an upstairs bedroom. It was on the left at the end of the hall furthest from the stairs. It was the first time in ages that he sat on that bed cross-legged and crying. When he stopped his tears he was shaking back and forth with his eyes fixed tight on the mirror behind the dresser.

He sat there still after a moment and mouthed words at his reflection, “Yeah, man. Keep crying. Ladies like that.”

He had learned from his father that strong words make strong people. It is okay to be hard on yourself once in a while. Always be faithful. Learn from tough words. Do so with fortitude. That is the right thing to do.

So Rick Channing stood from his bed and straightened his sheets out.

He took off his school suit and began to speak his actions as he preformed them, “You slip out from here and put on a ragged tracksuit. You put on your fine leather dress shoe and stomp down the stairs. You pick the knife up off the living room floor. You stomp your way through the down remains of the couch.”

And of course our hero began to narrate, “White feathers mark the floor around the room and the gash in the couch seems remarkable. You think that you will have to blame the oldest Mexican servant for you, of course, were at school. For this purpose I smile at the idea of the woman who raised you to be hurt by your actions.”

He strolled out the front door of your family’s mansion, “This means you are better than the servant. So you slide the kitchen knife into your kangaroo pocket and begin the march down the driveway to that big black gate. When you reach the end of the driveway you step past the guard, mentioning in passing that you must get back to school…”

This was a lie but it made him feel good.
His hooded sweatshirt is grey, like the clouds above his bitter world’s sky.

He knew that he should go back to his private school. The next course was math, taught by that sexy long-legged redhead. Dick had told a few students that he had bought her dinner and jewelry in exchange for some tutoring and housekeeping.

None of that matters now. They all heard what he said. The funny thing was she hadn’t rebutted. The people at school must have known it was rude to discuss a pretty teachers history with students. The student he had told felt he had a chance with this teacher if only he kept silent. He spent most of his classes grinning. He would wink when he answered a question, quite as Richard suggested. And Dick Channing smiled his half a smile, crooked on the right of his face in such a way rumors of his health sometimes surfaced.

But Dick Channing would cringe at the thought that people in those hallways heard him when his thoughts drifted to fantasies of his father’s military brigade. The old black and white photo had his fathers face burned out. Our hero had told friend he did that in a fight with him and he regretted it. The truth was he regretted it for other reasons.

He even doubted that the classmates even believed such tales of such a redhead.

The truth was, he didn’t even know if she was cute. It came from a conversation overheard in the hallway between classes. A calm terror he had to repress made his left eye twitch once. Richard cracked his half a smile instead.

Because I figured that I had been lying about what everything I told myself, I decided to listen to this spirit who was physically doing the writing and drew a over emphasized game of checkers.

I drew a chessboard and lied that if one placed other objects on a large surface that held other objects to the same basic shapes than the effect would show that I was correct. I swore in what I believed was madness to confirm a doctrine of abbreviation; a tone and phrase that I should keep in my head.

It may have been psychosomatic.
But psychosomatic beliefs I am thankful for.

“Learning the game of power requires a certain way of looking at the world, a shifting of perspective.”
Robert Green – The 48 Laws of Power

I fear that this idea is easily transferable to all education. It quickly explains that learning is a shift in perspective. It is smart and broad, implying a variety of things including an unwritten tone sales pitch for the ideas that follow.

I intend to use this reference to explain that I found the value in learning as much as I could. When I was prescribed psychiatric medicine I lost the world that surrounded me. There was very little introspection in those days. I slept too much and went days without music and weeks without writing my ideas. I do not intend to blame the medication for past woes. These mistakes were mine. Members of my circle decided that I was going in a different, spacey and artistic direction and decided to be what they wanted. This hurt, but I learned later that we had been friends the whole time. That was heroin withdrawal at 15.

When I was stressed I took a pill. When I wanted to sleep I took a pill. When I woke up I took a different pill. Before I drank, I took a pill as so the other three would not make me an antisocial lightweight. But I was cool, for what I had done before this point in my life.

These must have been classified as depressants. They make me slow moving and paranoid. They were there to make cure me of this affliction but I don’t remember having that one any time before or after the use of psychiatric medicine. Either way, at the time I was too paranoid. I feared nuclear war caused by a conflict involving the USA.

I was having dreams that my floor was filled with hornets and if I were to step over the edge of my bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly. I tried to avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an out of place earthquake could bring them down. I do not remember ever being so afraid of the devil.

But I don’t want to hold any grudge against the people who prescribed me this medicine. They didn’t realize that I had been aware of my own situation and should have devised a plan to keep it to myself.

It was that people with mechanical minds don’t know much about Niberu, a planet that is said to show up every three hundred thousand years or so. When I hear of this legend I consider a scene from Independence Day, hope that it is not that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to work.

People like me wonder if it is just a phenomenon. Perhaps legend has it that every three hundred thousand years or so something like both Bell and Gray inventing the telephone simultaneously happens and the world is in better shape because of it. This may have been represented as giants blessing kings. But the servants where blessed and brought to the king.

Maybe it has been that long since the invention of steel. This could give credible thought to the development of the various ages of human civilization, (the Iron Age, the Bronze Age, etc.)

We have just gone through a series of incredibly fast technological developments.

Robotics has made of science fiction every day use in just less than 40 years. Yet the Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet that crosses our path in an odd elongated orbit every so often. This seems similar to the personification of lightning by our ancestors. I reflect next to my computer about what wonders we will be blessed with.

One can find out predictions by looking into a sort of mirror that appears to be filled with webs. When looking closer one can read that by using a certain attachment a person can see a modern looking glass. Has magic always been this sort of technology? Is it that just now we are beginning to understand those ways of thinking?

Perhaps this time these chilly space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again. The mystery is if it will occur before or after our dire impending apocalypse.

If you are unable to reach a computer, yet you have a debit or credit card, you can simply drive to the coffee shop and borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you are unable to find a car or Internet Café, you could fly to a region with these resources at hand so you can see these intriguing movies.

But I recommend learning in any field. It is also important to read and watch creative works.

With this in mind and dissertating a video about the subject of Niberu, I rebut. Perhaps this is simply a phenomenon, and certain people choose not to believe in irony.

To lose track of this thought, is the study of irony somewhat like the study of creativity?

They both seem indefinable.
But I have an actual book for you, too.
I am proud of it and hope you will enjoy it.

True man laughed at him and the others watched his horrid dreams with token, clear, still nights. But that was just fine. His family had been living in Houston, Texas for a while now.

The name she spoke was one that reminded her of the man she lived with in a false castle in a deep before confederation south. She had always been spiritual. That’s what he loved about her, and it didn’t need to be a statement. It just needed to face these opening words. He found when he share these words she would at least get angry. When he did not she sat silently and drank tea.

Their engagement was considered their modern dilemma; a mindscape scraped and studied, opened to a point of desired submission and truth in scientific study. They will take lives from those who spoke lively of certain situations. He knew she did not understand. That was what he liked most about her.

And for those reasons specifically our hero had never wanted to kill in his life.

So the woman decides it is best to walk to her sisters to talk. It was a lively afternoon marked with dancing shadows caused by trees. Big poplars lined her stone tile walkway and they always shook in the wind at this time of year. Otherwise things were soft and calm house around the house that day.

The fourteen who answered the door was excited and shouted, “Aunty Alice, is Richard here?”
“No,” Alice replied, “I need to talk to your mother.”

She was let in the house and her sister came to the corner of the door. They greet each other politely.

The woman stands in front of white lights. Her forward leg is bend at the knee and high in the air in front of a flashing behind her. The surrounding yard reflects her motions with long narrow shadows the people in the doorway.

She smiles, “I’m losing it, sis. I need to settle down.” The niece shows her protest and is motioned inside the brown suburban home.

“Talk to me, Stanly,” she says. Alice’s sister used to call her Stanly often. It came from a game that they would play together. It was one that needed those silly hats and cardboard boxes. She kept it secret until later but began to call her younger sister by that at sixteen. It was just what she needed.

Alice’s sister had stopped using that name again by eighteen because she got into the club scene. This was the first time in 20 years that she made that snide reference. It makes her smile.

“It is that the minds of reasonable people are never influenced by outside forces that meet men of former glory.” Aunt Alice began, “If men of words and men of action are taken in distinct directions, and men of face are sent for glory than the only man of face that exists is some one true God. The one that the Gods all claim is their God. He was lying to us because the one that hides so far behind a tree that you could only see layers. These are of the beings followers but they guard you as they show you that the creator is behind them. And you know to trust these men. But martyr beware, you do not know one space from the other. The other that left us open, sister. That one. Richard was wrong.”

The sister listened politely and asked Alice inside. Alice politely declined. She wished her family a good night, making the best smile she could and walked down the shaded boulevard.

The road was beginning to face the end of summer now. There was only one word to feed that hymn. And she thought of another benefit to bureaucracy. Commoners appreciate the security in one million people between you and the man you made the law.

the book read like this:

The book read like this:

I walked through the dense forest on a beaten path. The moss on either side was hanging about three inches from the dirt so we stepped through to find the lake. The tall evergreen trees surrounding us were all a foot in diameter and the underbrush was thick with green bushes. And we saw a small yellow flower growing through the moss covering a trunk. So I reached down to my belt and pulled a flask of water to her lips. She asked me to fill out a form.

What do we know about Whitey the Crime?

What is his/her name?
Emily Grett

Favourite breakfast food.
Those small apple cakes you can buy at the store.

Where does he/she live?
She lives about 6 blocks from the bay, in a small cottage with a cement garden. It has been over grown for years and the lush tree hanging over her circular rock garden in falling towards the grass.

Open his/her fridge and list what you see and smell.
Ice and mist. The white metallic box opens from the top.

Look under his/her bed and list what is there.
Dust, wood flooring and paneling that is darkened red.

Open his/her medicine cabinet and list what is there. Of course you would never do this in real life, would you?
Placebos of various shapes in marked prescription bottles.

What books and magazines does he/she read?
These old dusty books, with black covers and faded letters. She likes them with rounded edges.

What lie does she/he tell about self?
That she deserves this.

What secret does she/he hold?
A gem, red with a cross on the back. She keeps it in a cigar box in a desk in her basement.

What is her/his greatest desire or ambition?
To see paradise.

What gets in the way of achieving this?
Meditation, prayer.

What does s/he like to do while alone?
Read, write, play her small brown piano.

How does s/he move? ie. degree of tension.
She is calm with no need for disguises. She is in denial of her self so she remains very respectful of her superiors.

So make up your own question and answer it.
What does she do for a living?


Although we know more that this about Whitey the Crime a simple silent moment that one has alone with or without a reflective surface can send numerous thoughts towards a sovereign people who refuse to believe what they are told.
This is an unintentional dissonance.

The idea that Whitey the Crime’s beliefs are better than someone who disagrees should be read as an ironic statement about the balance of the universe. Everything seems to have two schools of thought, those with it and those against it.

The wise understand that the equilibrium of these meetings is apparent in every day life. Repression causes violent outbursts in the most psychological sense. Perhaps this idea embarrasses us. But repressed memories of our past do come to our minds from time to time. These embarrassing secrets challenge our code of behavior, as it seems we wish we could be altruistic in our convictions. Dr. Phil taught me that, amongst other things.

Due to understood and misunderstood circumstances, or perhaps the content of my early writing I was told I was under the influence of the Devil. In my most altruistic tone, perhaps to explain that I didn’t feel I was.

I feel by now he was trying to save my soul, as people do. For a number of reasons, including this rude statement and the form of poetry that I was writing, my claims of reincarnation, philosophical questions other art that were deemed notably out of place, stupid, insane, wrong and preachy.

I eventually felt the need to leave and I grew up.

... what i have been trying to write. now i can move on.

It began as a pivot point. It was a dichotomy that I could not get away from.
I want to be writer and that thought places it out of my reach.

These words are not motives but I cannot grasp why I have trouble with them. I wanted nobodies help, but I needed an agent. Yet I only wrote a couple of pages a week. I told myself that I was famous and loud. I convinced myself that I was making a difference.
And then the Doctors told me I was. It was like finding out that a joke is a lie.

Youth is something that takes a long time to go through. The days seem to last forever while one is young. Later in life the days go faster and one has to grab tight just to catch up. This was the issue with my role in show business. I hadn’t toured nor played shows.
It was a simple metaphor and I motioned towards some grassy plain that led me home.
The trick was to find what was necessary.

So while smoking a cigarette I choose to reflect on my working life up until this point.
I am happy. Mental health nurses suggest that I am an acclaimed writer and musician and sometimes I take that to me I am a crime-solving Norse Devil requested who invented the clock. You know, some gonzo journalist of manic non-fiction.

But this is schizophrenia. Thus I took part in creating a man of limitless creative fodder.
I needed to be sent forward in a Martian landscape. I needed to try something new. That was my state of mania.

Ten years ago I thought that life would be much different than it is today. I thought that I would live perhaps in New York City, although I would have floated around asking some questions and I may have been eaten alive. This small town has continued to challenge me. I have many questions for the young and still relevant.

At 25, I get lost and depressed because I have not impacted the world in a positive way.
When payday comes around I wonder why it is I stay at this God forsaken coffee shop with manic friends exclaiming the invisible is to be trusted and those teachers at the psych ward are not.

In my mind, I am not successful. These teachers comment about how I write and laugh at the symbols that I leave on stages. These symbols are not seen, though when I transpose them to paper some find me enchanting. So the forces tell me I am successful at written words and music. I feel it is hard to write for nobody.

So it begs the question: Why do I act the way I do?

This is hard to answer because I cannot always be sure of how I am acting. I have a tendency to attribute traits to people and this reflects my affliction. I become embarrassed when I need to rescind these ideas. They are reflections of what I am doing at the time. This is sometimes a good thing because I create epic landscapes under the guise of someone I am not. The truth is I remain who I want to be.

But to be fair, I am not anyone special. I did not have puppets working for cameras as I took three weeks to paint the windows on a church. I was dancing around raising money for legal defense and charity with every intention in the world to save humanity.

I don’t know what the man who fired me saw, but I never got a job with him again.

So I played music instead. I fought impulses to drink because I knew that I was the only fool that could see that in me. But I told myself that I wanted to be a hero. I was not lazy. I wrote and played music all day. It became the woe of man. I had nothing that did not seem unreliable or partially faked. And I wanted to write, but I didn’t.

It began like this, but in the same breath these statements of guilt are usually crassly shouted at the innocent. Is this because it is easier to blame people that will fight back? Why do I allow these thieves into my space in the first place?

I have a tendency to postpone things that will make my life better and take the right way around the mountain while the hard worker will be the man who walks over it. The better sentence cannot be found by paraphrasing greater writers than me.
A wise man says, “He who does not imitate does not create.”

So I light another cigarette and wonder why I am happy with my accomplishments.

The silver lining on these clouds is apparent when I realize that I am doing everything right that could be done up until now. My goals have been met and I have reasons for stubbornly hoping that I am credited in my own time for my artistic work. They say that even Pablo Picasso needed to burn his own paintings to keep warm. I have no right to complain because I have everything I need.

But I jest because this topic warrants strange impulses towards a backlit porch I imagine. Unclear anarchy is not what I want to be remembered for.

The misplaced memories were self-induced thoughts that made this change of wind in my sails. For as long as I can recall I have wanted to be looked back upon in a shining light, doing something as important as inventing the clock. Is this my lack of hard work or do I not think highly enough of myself? Am I making a difference?

Hope is an odd emotion. It is as odd as thinking that there is life after death and you are on the latter’s side. You still exist in a world but all your work, friends and lovers are still sitting in the old world.

These works are not at issue now and I am glad that I have practiced my trade so much. I know that people do not need to read the ramblings of a loon unless he is claiming to be someone special. When I am writing about the sort of mind that I have, the inner trials of my long running and untreated schizophrenia, or the workings of my subconscious I soon repent and claim that I am not interesting and nobody cares.

But someone is reading it. And they will recall me as a hero of lighted strange paths who can help them through troubles by being insightful and leaving a trail of paper in the past. Have I done lots of writing about strange hands that lead with a loaded discussion? Or am I the turbulent man who said something that needed to be recorded with strange valor?

I am nothing but a Signal Hill reject and a member of Fancy or Jabberwocky or other such groups that I have heard about. The answer is that eternal questions should be thought about on Sunday and the rest of the time I need to be either typing or on the phone. I cannot be sure where I would be without my manias and it is best not to look.

I wish that I knew that I was some certain relocated old saint that had marked my mind with that pen stroke. It is a classic example: I am writing over these words in my mind because I think I’d be better off. And I have no right to complain because I am able to do this somehow.

But I was painting a church, not on television.
And what did I do to be murdered on stage?

These are delusions that I have gained critical acclaim and lost jobs for.
These words are lines that leave a simple platform. They mark my working life. I am a diligent worker. I hope that I one day will be what I want to see through when I watch while I grow. These changes are better than any of these edited lines that are marked and taken out.

If these poetic little pieces of nonsense are motions of old hearts somewhere then perhaps I am better for it. I am unsure if schizophrenia is a curse or a blessing. There are many reasons that I want to be like the rest and just accept work as something that has to be done. But I have just as many reasons to write and play music.

Sometimes I think that I should just pick one of my hobbies and make it my vocation. And other times I think that I have.