Jack and I bickered on and off which culminated in a ridiculous fight on Sunday. I was upset like I've never seen before; sobbing, vomiting. Of course, he says mean things and then ends discussion. Jack is more willing to sever ties with his closest relations than to admit he's wrong. What he doesn't realize is that in any relationship (friendship, love, whatever) right and wrong don't mean much. It's all compromise and forgiveness and humility. I think I've finally come to terms with this. There is no way to fix it. He is malfunctioned. It still hurts me like no tomorrow. No sign that it bothers Jack. I don't think he really cares.
Ho hum. Yes, it appears Jack really doesn't care. He lurks, he charms, he buzzes to a strong inner core that allows him to survive the petty trivialities of life like truth, honesty, genuine compassion for others outside the projection of his own visceral desire and whimsy.
I realize that you've had to hear this crap for nearly two years. I realize that you may still think I'm singing the wolf song. Maybe. But, I've got a piece of space with a lesbian coworker and a straight simoan babe (who's into bondage/leather shityour kinda woman). It sounds great. Low cost of rent which includes maid service. Great neighborhood. No lease. No credit check. I can get on my feet and hopefully have my own place within six months. I may even just take over the house eventually.
I haven't minded being there for you Landry. You have helped me by proxy in my struggle to regain what was lost in the floods of rogue consciousness I'd embraced in the likes of that whole rock scene. This heavy dose of messianic complex persuading me I had been put into an influential office was no match for reality, either. You helped me clarify the issues by holding a mirror to the exploitative flames in my own life I had finally resolved to escape after long being too weak with misplaced sympathy and unfocussed identity gratification (usually in the form of self-loathing) to snuff out once and for all, and Jack's self-imposed exile helped accelerate just such an initiative for me to clean house, such were the powerful corrosions of these rather reluctant friendships and epiphanies. It took bold strokes of error-thwarting cross-examination over long agonizing months to reconstruct enough of that previous, more contented, abundant self I knew myself to be, was born to be and would die to recover, after being completely sucked dry of soul and self-respect by those who would call themselves my friends with their lies and their mayhem as I became in my public image the polar opposite of the original.
We are incapable of conceiving of the parasite’s mind, so we can never understand him. We are incapable of hatred or malice. We will not accuse or fail to reasonand we can’t find the cause, since we can’t understand him. So we become helpless and bewildered before him. We never accuse him, no matter what he does to us. He yells that we are selfish, cruel, tyrannical by reason of the very abundance and magnificence of our talents. And we almost come to believe this.
These past two years have been a steady scratching at the blackboard of independence as I have sought a return to the finer intelligence of my youth, my own strong and moral twenties (excepting the three years of my horrendous first marriage from 18-21), an intelligence I carved up into tiny pieces for empathy's sake and flung to the winds of aggressive discord and poisonous irresponsibility in my thirties as I lived through the dark storms of personality presenting themselves to me as cool, hip, and aimless reaction when in fact I had been fooled into living FOR others, and not FOR myself, and have as a result drunk and eaten myself into the cloaked miseries of poor health and civil oblivion. Jack however has mastered selfishness, perhaps is even hardwired for it, but instead of using this mastery of self for good he seeks the evil path and manipulates others less savvy with the methods of selfishness to prop himself up in all his own imaginary glory. Such skill to deceive, such aptitude to thwart others. It's a handsome package delivered with the gale force blitz of a strong personality stalled for reasons of its own frailty. May find its source in childhood or early adulthood when he was in prison for drug possession. Current drug use may also be a factor. But keeping to the rational, let's neutralize biographical and biological impulses to focus on ordinary choices ordinary actors are required to make in order to express one's impulses or lack of them for personal and social cohesion.
Allow me to quote from Ayn Rand:
"You think the world is essentially a mixture of good and evil, and one must compromise with the evil, and you're sick of that, so you're giving up the world? Nonsense. Evil, by definition (if we have made the right definition), is the impotent, the impractical, the powerless, that which does not work. So it is no threat to us, it cannot stand in our wayunless we permit it and help it to do so. It cannot poison the world for usunless we carry the poison and spread it. The parasites cannot exploit us or rule usunless we voluntarily agree to be exploited and hand them the tools with which to rule us.
"Let us withdraw the tools...
"We permit it, and we have suffered this long, for one essential reason: the generosity of the creator. It is our nature that we wish to give, prodigally, recklessly, because we know the sourceour creative energyis inexhaustible. Being self-sufficient, we cannot conceive of dependence, so we are modest in relation to others, we never think we are indispensible to them or superior, because we do not consider THEM indispensible or superior to us. We act as equals toward equalsand an exchange between equals is a proper, natural activity. We are glad to give because our creation is a discovery or embodiment of truth and when others respond to truth we welcome their response, we are happynot because of the good that it does THEM, not because their approval gives us pleasure or is of any importance to usbut because their response is a victory for truth, that what we welcome is their entrance into OUR world, into that world we know to be good and true.
"We see no danger in givingwe think we're giving to men as rich as we are; we think of it as gifts not alms. And whenever we come up against an inferiorthat he is an inferior is the hardest thing for us to believe; we see the evidence and we think it is a misunderstanding or a temporary misfortune that has affected the man; then we throw ourselves to the rescue, we give, we help, we let him lean on us and bleed us, we carry himwhy not?we say, we are so strong, we have so much to spare. We are incapable of conceiving of the parasite's mind, so we can never understand him. We are incapable of hatred or malice. We will not accuse or reasonand we can't find the cause, since we can't understand him. So we become helpless and bewildered before him. We never accuse him, no matter what he does to us. He yells that we are selfish, cruel, tyrannical by reason of the very abundance and magnificence of our talents. And we almost come to believe this. Almostbecause no power on earth can really make us believe this; we are men of truth, we cannot fall that far into lying; and since our talents, our creative energies, are our sacred possessions, the source of our joy for living, we cannot permit so great a sacrilege against them."
"We allow ourselves to become torn. In a vague, unstated, indefinable way, we begin to feel we must atone for something, make amends to someone, pay someone for something in some manner. What? We don't know. We can never know. We refuse to admit to ourselves the truth in a clear statement: that we are being damned for the best within us, and that the creature making the accusation is small, inferior, and truly evil. We are generous, and do not pronounce such a judgement upon a fellow human being. Hatred and anger are unnatural to us; contempt for a human being is totally unnatural to us, perhaps impossiblebecause we think and act as if we were dealing with men, and it is not proper to despise men, we are worshippers of man, because WE are men and this is the logical implication of our self-reverence. One's opinion of mankind comes from one's opinion of oneself, which is the only first-hand knowledge of man one can have. The man who respects himself, will carry the respect to his species, to others. The man who despises himself, with good reason, carries the contempt, the malice, the hatred, the suspicion to all humanity. We, the creators, cannot conceive of this. We are bewildered by the parasite's malicewe do not even recognize it as malice, because we don't really know malice.
"But so long as, for any reason, we do not recognize the truthwe are bound to fail and to suffer in the whole sphere and in all our actions where we have left this truth unrecognized. Our generosity is a good motive? NOTHING is good if it motivates lying, falsehood, or evasion. There is no morality except in an unbending, absolute recognition of the truth, in relation to everything; an absolute will to find, face, and grasp the truth, to the utmost of our capacity, then to act upon it. Nothing is moral but this cold, ruthless, rational pursuit. But we have not faced or recognized the truth about the parasitesso we fail, we're helpless, we're disarmed, and they've got us. Did they win over us? No, we won the battle for them. They rule the world? No, we handed it over to them. The guilt is ours, but not in the way they think; in the exact opposite way. The guilt is that we refused to see the truth about ourselves and about them."
The preceding few paragraphs are fetched from THE JOURNALS OF AYN RAND (Dutton, 1997) pages 399-401. While Rand is often a bit too pretentiously black and white, she offers a wide berth of gray as her lengthy journal characterizations of personalities from her two major novels, THE FOUNTAINHEAD and ATLAS SHRUGGED attest. She admits imperfection, her superman is a cold human being, a product of severe intellect and resolve, but worldly success is hardly the criteria for recognizing this true man. She is unabashedly anti-collectivism and opposed to such mundane concepts as self-sacrifice and herd instinct, of course, having been sharpened by the catastrophic blades of Soviet Russia in its rush toward dialectic materialism, escaping to America in 1926.
Writing in 1946, Rand continues to plot her book, suggesting that the great minds, the individual genius, the prime movers should go on strike:
"This last form of striking always happens when gifted men find themselves in a morally corrupt society. And such a society is always collectivist, or on its way to collectivism, because morality and individualism are inseparable. The degree of individualism in a society determines its degree of morality. In effect, the gifted men find themselves dealing with men and conditions THEY DO NOT WISH TO DEAL WITH. So they do one of three things: (1) they do not function at all and become drifting, aimless bums; (2) they function in some field other than their peoper one, and produce only enough for their own sustenance, refusing to let the world benefit from their surplus energy; or (3) they function in their proper field but produce less than one-tenth of their actual capacityit is a strained, unhappy, forced effort for them with their disgust against the conditions under which their energy has to function."
As you can see she, like all fingerpointers and none of us can claim to be otherwise, muddies the puddle of clear passionate labels soon enough. It's like the biblical metaphor that JC will return as an avenging lion, while at the same time, we are informed that archrival Lucifer not only presents himself as an angel of light as if he were some passive lamb or man of peace but that he too, is a roaring lion out to ruin men's best intentions. How in damnation are WE MERE MORTALS supposed to figger out who is playing what field and when?
I get home. Jack ignores me. He is playing Nintendo, empty bowls in the sink. His appetite, his life, all unphased. I realize: he doesn't give a fuck. I do the bills in the bedroom, my stomach in knots. I try to talk to him but I am the recipient of grudge silence. Jack would rather sever his arm rather than apologize to it. I think: I have no enemies. I have never stopped talking to somonenot even ex lovers. Jack has turned his back on you, Gabe, and others I'm sure I don't know about with not so much as a sniff. Less than two years in SF and he already has a list of people he does not talk to. This is wrong. I don't understand it.
The basic problem with Jack, discounting his intrinsic dishonesty, is that he does not progress in the world of life and liveliness past the old thrills of adolescence. He remains a stagnated nullifying personality. Rather than change his life he changes the people in his life so that his fringe perspective can be dished out afresh, as progress is gained only in the turnover of faces and places, and he can tell himself and these new ears all the stories his multitude of “friends” and “locales” have helped him build in a world of illusive success in the eyes of others.
It's unfair to characterize Jack as a thoroughbred parasite. But let's not mince words or hide behind veils of superficial morality. Let's call a liar a liar. Jack certainly fails the truth and honesty test when it comes to pure genius, preferring to mindfuck and aggravate his closest friends while sucking up to the famed and the fortuned as an extension of his own greater self, a role I too embraced in those awful years of socially incompatible boredom unleashed upon the worthless rock scene of noise pebbles and strutting egos. But I differ from Jack. He hides behind the facade or the appearance of not needing others, proud in his aloof aloneness but he truly can't survive without the social contact of the scene. I meanwhile parade around in a foul attempt to need everybody when really I am quite uncomfortable with people of any scene (with the possible exception of my wife), and prefer my aloneness, and feel self-worth only when alone, an escape from the weariness of conflict inevitable with the approach of the smug and the self-satisfied.
Oftentimes the philosophical canvas of well-mapped minds seems painted in pure black and pure white rhetorically-enhanced pigments, but Rand is quite robust in flushing out the multitudes of gray failures in her vibrant palette of undisguised potential. She writes of the trickle down "theory of greatness in practice" long before the writers for Herr Reagan took up the mantle, using these words:
"On the basis of this beginning, the story proceeds like this: The prime movers say to the world, in effect: "You hate us. You don't want us. You put every obstacle in our way. Very wellwe'll stop. We won't fight you or bother you. We'll merely stop functioning. We'll stop doing the things you martyr us for. AND SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT. The complete statement of the strike's objective is this: We have had enough of your exploitation, persecution, insults, stealing, and expropriation. Go ahead and try to exist without us. We will not come back until you recognize and acknowledge the truth of the matter. Until you admit what we are, give us full credit for what we do, and give us full freedom from your chains, orders, restrictions, and encroachmentsphysical, spiritual, political, and moral. Until you accept a philosophy that will leave us alone to function as we please. Until you take your hands off usand keep them off. We ask nothing but the freedom to work and live as we please. You will get gifts and benefits from us such as you can never imagine. But you will not get them until you leave us alone ..."
I'm kind of afraid of his recent behavior. I feel that if left untreated, it could turn into physical abuse. I feel that he is trying to alienate me from other people. The first step in physically abusive relationships. However, I don't think Jack is the kind of person to hit women. You would have told me that if so, I think. I think he's too lazy for that. I do not like the person he's made me become. It sucks. It hurts. It's no fun. It's pathetic. I am not me. I hate him. I never thought anyone could be so, so selfish. He doesn't seem human to me. How sad for him to be so gripped in the terror of not winning; of being wrong to be willing to toss aside EVERYONE. It really creeps me out. I look at him and think, he really doesn't get it. It's so very sad.
I'm not sure where this leads us in the matter at hand, Lynn. Most of us tend to see ourselves in the best possible light, or the worst. More typically, we flipflop on a rather consistent basis. This is our weakness. Nobody MAKES us flipflop. In our laziness and our weakness we think in terms of whatever suits our purposes of the moment, and adopt circular tautologies which reassure us that our past has no relationship to our present, unless of course we can glorify or punish ourselves as a helpless nonsensical victim of our past. That is the great lie we tell ourselves. Even Ayn Rand overestimates the ability to succinctly reverse the biological powers of entrenched thinking. We train ourselves to be weak and useless by referring to our decent motivations as signs of our goodness, of our moral strength, of our willingness to sacrifice. Piffle, irrelevant associations of the assaulted mind, useless in the arena of real activity. This trench warfare of oscillating between momentary truths rather than relying upon rational convictions is where we continually make our mistakes. And these mistakes, like firebrand molecules of self-destruction attach themselves to other mistakes, and we are rendered more weak and more useless than we were a week ago, a month ago, a year ago. Each detail of our psychology and our intellect, each philosophical concept and practical action must be analyzed on an individual basis, just as we wish to be anlayzed on an individual and not a collective, herdlike, stereotypical basis.
No doubt you still cling to Jack for the very same traits which inspired you in the first place. But you are not the same person anymore. You have been stripped of something precious, now replaced by the revolting chaos of petty lies, failed opportunities, and habitual belittlement slopping over from the other, as you struggle to bring order to that collectivism which is a relationship. It is probably a one-sided trade because of the competing natures involved. Because you are a doer, and not a mere parasite, you have inherited only the foreign, the unbridled unashamed chaos of the other. The excitement, the expansive thrill, and most importantly, even the quiet joy of living, you already possessed. The other would not, or could not add to that in any estimable portion. The basic problem with Jack, discounting his intrinsic dishonesty, is that he does not progress in the world of life and liveliness past the old thrills of adolescence. He remains a stagnated nullifying personality. Rather than change his life he changes the people in his life so that his fringe perspective can be dished out afresh, as progress is gained only in the turnover of faces and places, and he can tell himself and these new ears all the stories his multitude of "friends" and "locales" have helped him build in a world of illusive success in the eyes of others. It is these traits that keep Jack from dwelling at the far ends of the spectrum and deep into the gray of the mundane world as his genius is wasted on his desire to remain a "pampered" child, a desire I simply cannot fully comprehend, since responsibility and harsh realities were rudely thrust upon me and my organizational mind at a very early age, an oldest child of a brood of six in seven years, a ballplayer, a Boy Scout, a school leader.
hat former period I called the Yellow Years in some places, the Mustard Years in others. That and previous periods (The Skinny Years) have barely been told. Not proud, just addicted to brave, brittle, brutal honesty, an honesty that hurts so much it attacks the nervous system, an honesty one must learn, and will always have the last say as we steer through the punative shards and upsets of life, life as we know it, just as we suspect the unrevealed life extracts its own ruthless penalties from every silence right down to the roots of its own noisy vindictive abcess, no concessions required. My opinions.
So this remains your call, Landry. Few of us are pure evil. Jack is not that much fun beneath the surface, but he's not pure evil either. However, let me acquaint you with the idea that the brain, the organ of the mind is indeed as valid in terms of physical flesh as the face or the arm, and is quite capable of being physically abused. A face wound might heal in a few days. A brain wound may never be healed if the thinking process is cajoled into repeated faulty reasoning while in mortal combat with an opponent who will stop at nothing to cloud the issue and win at any cost to truth and integrity.
But in the effort for full disclosure, let's just be clear that although I have no trouble with communication, psychological analytics, or philosophical resolve, I'm nothing close to being a well-balanced gentleman myself. In terms of dirty laundry, since being a charming, disruptive, manipulative teenager myself, I have clearly proved myself to be a tragically flawed creature because I have lived through enough evil, unable to properly marshal trending ethics and civility in both postulate and axiomatic form. To my credit, as a thinking artist, I have boiled too many thoughts, lusted after too many sad acts, and whacked too many skins, thick or thin, black or white, junk or genius to act as any judge of another except how it affects my own fragile but confirmed need for playing the hand I am dealt. I have been spoiled, soiled, and counter-foiled when I had little or no chance to win. I have transformed myself into a priest or a wizard when I had little or no opportunity to lose. I have always known the difference between the two, but few I have ever known have ever possessed the power to listen to my problems with life and liberty beyond the first few syllables, and so I've often had to admit for the sake of the herd, that I'm nothing but a mute with a speech impediment, ready to crack a one liner, slug back a beer, call the punk rock bluff, embrace ritualized chaos in public, play the brute to mask my own boredom, self-doubt, and determination to overcome the sorry past by fitting into the sorry future. That former period I called the Yellow Years in some places, the Mustard Years in others. That and previous periods (The Skinny Years) have barely been told. Not proud, just addicted to brave, brittle, brutal honesty, an honesty that hurts so much it attacks the nervous system, an honesty one must learn, and will always have the last say as we steer through the punative shards and upsets of life, life as we know it, just as we suspect the unrevealed life extracts its own ruthless penalties from every silence right down to the roots of its own noisy vindictive abcess, no concessions required. My opinions. Jack is also a fan of science fiction and robotics. I wish you two the best possible...
Repair to Søren Kierkegaard's frosty titles, Sickness Unto Death and Fear and Loathing, for additional source materials.
Date: Thu, 30 May 1996 14:57:49
To: Ben Voos (in italics)
Dialing for synonyms has me spinning doughnuts around my memory.
Caught up in words they are. "work" means "making money" and free-time is meant to be for recreation. In Germany, in the mid-eighties, when unemployment was a popular dicussion, you heard of the "human right to work". This was twisty. I wonder, why people need someone to tell them what to work, they need some money thought. Well, I'd welcome NO WORK...
Yes. My wife's mother recently lectured her with this interpretation sharp on her peace-whittling tongue, and of course she was probing with ages-rich mother-in-law cynicism MY own blessed state of NO WORK. Meanwhile I indeed am blessed among men. My wife has been convinced finally (this month) I am best kept at home in the privacy of my mind and Dollhouse, her indifferent fingers but warm toasty heart. I admit I feel rather insecure anywhere else, but I drink myself into an exposion of the bickering myths of stratakulture every time I step out into the city of lights and theories of flight. I am rather, yes, busy making a contortionist's name for myself, or else in the minds of my critics, busy hiding names behind barstools and bushel baskets of cloudy arguments, you pick 'em, as they say in the sporting world of betting chances against the winds of great guffaw.
I work every waking moment. My wife complains that I cannot rest, which is only partially true, a fuzzy set, if you will. Fuzzy logic however is the grace the unequipped will never face, and for their ignorance they will perish with their lessening winds. My dreamstates are work, are tools, are just like being at the movies looking at somebody else's dreams but less jaundiced in more than a few cases. But back to the idea of work and money. My wife pays all the bills. She feels the burden of her job, but she brags about what it brings her in prestige and buying power of argument and guilt over the host of projects at our command, insecurity or not. If I bring in a dollar, I give it to somebody else, mostly her, or to the computer industry. I am an accomplice in the digital revolution, a footsoldier, an enlisted tattooed man, a homefront evangelizer as I peer beyond the garbage and confusion from my Dollhouse perch which serves me well.
Am I a hypocrite because I am aging, ugly and fat, conspiring to destroy faith in humanity's surge to crawl up from the tidal mud known as the Anti-Hip having been only to ultimately fail at being that dazzling, thin, strategically well-placed, well-pocketed and quasi-beautifully hip? The trickledown economies of Art and Finance are not dissimilar as to what Ezra Pound's crackling contentions and William Gaddis in The Recognitions have imparted.
Surrounded by mediocrity and predjudice, the greatest practitioners of liberal slander slither all around my eyes. My sockets burn sometimes with the urge to fly somewhere I can explode past meaning into the netherland of pure synchronicity. The rainy season meanwhile is driving all the Dolhouse area bugs inward, ants and cockroaches multiplying themselves and immigrating to my turf as if they "owned the joint". Fighting against the corruption of the material is the only fight worth dying for, but dying is a losing cause. I hate dying.
WORK IS ENERGY. Money is a contaminating conversion byproduct, safe only in proper prospective, because money corrupts everyone who gazes upon it. Opinions are always made about money. Even the most discrimating poor gaze upon it and are corrupted with envy and violence in strident persuasion to obtain it, or are saddled with an indifference that leads them into wretched arguments for obsessive compulsive choices as concrete as money ever was. Pure work frees man from the analysis of money. Am I a hypocrite for pointing this out? Am I a hypocrite because I love to spend money? Am I a hypocrite because I have argued successfully it seems to remain at home, supported by a woman who is hardly Artist or fraud? Am I a hypocrite because I am aging, ugly and fat, conspiring to destroy faith in humanity's surge to crawl up from the tidal mud known as the Anti-Hip having been only to ultimately fail at being that dazzling, thin, strategically well-placed, well-pocketed and quasi-beautifully hip? The trickledown economies of Art and Finance are not dissimilar as to what Ezra Pound's crackling contentions and William Gaddis in The Recognitions have imparted.
But people get occupied in a way, they forget to handle NO WORK. You know that, I suggest, but do you also know that contemplation, the force of passivity, I mean not producing, maybe on a journey? Oh, yes, you are a gardener, too. Many people have to work, to ease their artificial bad conscience.
But I work. I sweat. I struggle. I don't ask others to do for me what I'm unwilling to do for myself unless I am prepared to pay the going rate, or haggle along the hedges of a negotiating smile. Reckon I should forward you the original note Ben Voos wrote, not that the wires will become any less crossed when hung upon some aesthetic, despite what Ralph Waldo Emerson left in his own hefty will be done. By the sweat of one's brow. I still dig that motto.
If I say I am a writer, or a painter, am I less so because no iMote has called me up on the telephone to offer me a job or a contract? Am I any less a gardener if no one has offered to snap a polaroids of my roses or send me on an all-expense paid holiday to the Alpines to discuss breeding techniques? Does it matter whether I eat poorly like the beast I resemble, or whether I eat like a fat French chef buttering his own bread in Paris? The human right to work and the human right to be hip are not too far apart on the GT scale of irreducible tasks among so many and so stupid a population not only always electromagnetic & naked in the catbird seat, but snobbishly so...
But we, despite our best attempts to avoid/embrace these symptoms remain bunkered down in given ratios of human consumption or production, radix fuzzy but still redlining or drunk from the fountain of fair green frankincense, we also, succumb to the same pitfalls in one flavor or another as any other poke we like to feel superior and just a bit more enlightened than in comparison. Era of the dangling preposition, the unmangled unfangled proposition. We struggle against struggle not knowing how to slip the knot.
This right to work blood anthem as it's currently bandied about in the US is indeed best understood as some bestowable inheritance to a middle class lifestyle or bust. This is ridiculously presumptuous, debatably unrealistic, and most certainly unsustainable among a dysfunctional population such as ours.
Basically Ben, I feel most people want everything they think they can handle. Most of us don't know when to start OR stop wanting. The few who know the ropes either play them to bizarre circumstances or avoid/enjoy them with the greatest of relish. The rest of us argue ourselves into a double-edged niche, and so it becomes us, despite any makeshift theories to the contrary we or some other highly paid or dollar dead genius devises for us.
But Bob Blumstein has some paint on his birthday brush: As always arguing both sides of the fence isn't going to bring you to any conclusion of the issue. The answers are simple and abvious. Choose a direction or it will choose you (doing nothing is a direction as any mathematician can tell you on this plane of ideas). As the author of 'The Dumbing of America' pointed out on the Tom Snyder interview last night, 'We have become a nation of finger pointers' blaming everything and everyone but ourselves. If you like what you're doing continue. If money really matters that much, don't go into debt and burden everyone else with the default. Get a job, and spend only what you have, not what you expect (old English proverb). Self Control not Selfishness. Spinning gears and blaming the world is what Ayn Rand fought against, tooth and nail. Even Yoda the green mucous sage said 'There is no try, only do.'
Happy 36th Blumday! Did you go to work today? Birthday aches and pains hardly soothe the savage beast mouthing from the hip the guarded virtues of selfishness. May the shoes fit. Tales from the jackass rarely suit the prophet of no return, and so this "nooooooo work" question leaves me dry in the mouth just as does my own "self-indulgent" work leave most of you asphalt philosophers sprawled all around me wondering why I beg the question. The salty pooch of Len Bracken's Situationist rant is Bob Black's Zerowork Theory. But I work. I sweat. I struggle. I don't ask others to do for me what I'm unwilling to do for myself unless I am prepared to pay the going rate, or haggle along the hedges of a negotiating smile. Reckon I should forward you the original note Ben Voos wrote, not that the wires will become any less crossed when hung upon some aesthetic, despite what Ralph Waldo Emerson left in his own hefty will be done. By the sweat of one's brow. I still dig that motto.
By the way, if self-indulgence is such a gooey waste, whom do we then indulge? asks the phat raven of the shimmering mist. The shimmering mist replies, "Go bother somebody else. I'm busy."
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""