Dog Poet Transmitting.......
May your noses always be cold and wet.
This is as cold as I have ever seen and I live in the warmest part of the European country I reside in. Up in the mountains it is 20c colder than here and it's -10c here, even with the bright sunshine. I went to the town dump the other day and had about ten different boxes of things that had to go into different metal bins. I'd seen some work gloves on my way out, the invisible was looking out for me, but I said, “Nah”, ...big mistake. By the time I was done I could not feel my hands. I went to the supermarket after and was in a just bearable agony, as the life came back into my fingers. Smartly, I had ordered some ski suits a couple of years ago and they are just the ticket. I'm not going to say that the cold can kiss my ass; that sounds like the wrong thing to say somehow.
It's Super Bowl Sunday today; one of those big national events, where that small margin of the culture that is enjoying the results of a concerted effort to destroy the country, are gathered to celebrate their excesses, see and be seen ...and hopefully there will be enough money left over for cocaine and a six pack of imported hookers. There's an amusing segment here from a good old boy about why The Pats are the most hated team. The last segment features a suave looking guy who nails a certain feature about human nature.
Mr. Visible hasn't paid much attention to football/sports over the last ten-twelve years. He saw the Super Bowl in 2008 and a few games here and there but his attention has been on other things. Somehow, visible has known that The Patriots would go to the Super Bowl for several months now. The last playoff game with The Ravens, who had knocked them out once before a couple of years ago, seemed to be the biggest hurdle. That had to be one of the strangest games I have ever seen. There was no rhyme or reason to them actually winning that game. In the final moments, Billy Cundiff shanked a chip shot from near point after range... inexplicable. It would have sent the game into overtime. The Pats might still have won but they were doing their best not to. Tom Brady looked like he had just been promoted from The Pop Warner league. It was embarrassing and spooky at the same time. A reader said that the game has been fixed since Myra Kraft died and was quoted as having said around that time that she wanted to see The Patriots beat The Giants in this Super Bowl. This was well before anyone knew what the results would be. I don't know about fixing games but that is a lot easier in basketball than it is in football; far too many players and imponderables, unless you get to the quarterback. Of course, the owner was a Tribe member. I almost hate to bring it up. I probably don't have to bring it up, the exception is when they don't own whatever is under discussion.
I happened by the web site of a fellow I used to collaborate with artistically and noted that all mention of me was gone from his website. The one project he left up had no author mentioned. All the other efforts were in place. These are the injuries we receive and the price you pay (cue The Boss) when you don't compromise in favor of your seeming best interests and point out the obvious; which most people don't want to know about, talk about, be in the same room with. Of course, the end result of this is a general enslavement, when literal death does not apply, to go with that matching three piece suit of the already enslaved heart and mind.
I realize that I could probably be a well paid and successful writer by now, had I played my cards right and done some kind of religious suckup dance but I was never able to pull that off. I'm a pretty good actor and made my living at it here and there but there are some roles where I just don't make the grade. I suck at sucking up. Somehow they can tell I am not sincere. Then there's that internal, electric feature that puts the woo woo into the hoodoo, even if the hoodoo lacks the apparent voodoo. That's the thing about the different color grades of magic, voluntary (and in my case) involuntary. People ignorant of the subtle aspects, invariably mistake one side for the other, based on their own innate predispositions of which they are generally, uniformly unaware. It's human nature to ascribe characteristics to others that are active or latent in ourselves. We tend to see what we most likely would do.
I think to myself that it is possible The Super Bowl halftime show could be worse. They could have Lady Gaga instead of The Material Slave Girl. Yes, The Material Slave Girl is something of a historian. She wants to go in chains to darkest Egypt, even though Darkest Egypt has been long gone these many years. Egypt was originally called Kemet, or Kermit, if you like frogs. It seems they had a few of those at one time. These days, many Egyptians call the place Misr, which I think is short for Misery, which misery has come their way via the same highway most everyone else's misery comes from these days. But, of course, even with the incredible weight of evidence that proves this beyond any and all doubt, I must be wrong to believe my lying eyes.
I am very much noticing the shifting of those seeking to be sitting at the tables after the tables turn. I see the sudden and dramatic shift in conscience among those where conscience is not actually resident. I see what's going on. I wish I didn't. I see the new trend that's showing up, where the culprits are not the culprits but just more of the victimized and duped and once again, no one knows who it is that's really behind it all. I always used to think that when you did provably bad shit all day long at the expense of everyone else around you and when there was major historical evidence of repeat offender status, far beyond that of any other entity on Earth, that some of the blame; some small portion of the blame? Well, that would apply to red-handed reavers to whose doorstep the evidence leads. Now you could say it's all Satan's fault, cause he's coiled up in the atavistic regions of a certain collective, reptile brain but now it appears there is some kind of detached puppeteer, shadow group, whose names we are not allowed to know, who have been responsible for all these things and likely have always been responsible for these things and everyone else is not only innocent but deserves special understanding for being used in such a disgraceful fashion against their will. I'm pretty perplexed, given that I am not perplexed, nor am I a well paid and successful writer either.
I figure that some of us are going to sleep in well appointed featherbeds, by dint of birth, effort or natural talent. I suppose like anyone, I wouldn't mind that, so long as it didn't come at the expense of some folks having no bed at all. I wouldn't mind a lot of things, as long as they didn't come at the expense of another, but we are in crowded house, dog eat dog territory. It's an expected perversion of human nature to scrabble and plot for personal gain, in the midst of more than enough for everyone.
My life and the, slowly coming into focus, image of what lies ahead, is not in my hands, it never was apparently. All the disconnected, seemingly unrelated events that compose the fractured landscape of my life, no longer seem disconnected or unrelated. It's all of a piece. I suppose it seemed disconnected, since I was disconnected and composed of several parts that got separated from the whole, by virtue of life's hard hammering on a fragile clay pot. Love is a natural adhesive and, given time and some degree of consistency and serenity, the cosmic magnetics will make the timeless adjustment into whole cloth. My heart bleeds for all the broken and fractured beings, who don't understand the mysterious possibilities of the journey of life and who bow out of the force of the wind and the rain for a compromised cubbyhole in Dreamville. There are certain features and qualities that define a real human being. Lose them, surrender them, for a mess of pottage and you're no longer human. You're in a gray area of transit, where the loss of these qualities and features is noticeable as you go. Once given up, these things are difficult to regain. It's a slippery slope, where the things you traded them for, war against their return.
I have a deeply seated desire to forgive. I am not in the same position as those who have lost everything to the industries and designs of evil men. Forgiving and forgetting are not the same things. There's a lot that goes by the wayside as the result of confusions bred in disordered times. What would seem to be the most important parts of a person, are sacrificed on the altar of disingenuous causes. Windup soldiers march into flames and explosions, with no understanding of the truth of the matter. Their sacrifice was as pointless as the unexamined lives that permitted their passage into anonymous graves. These days they simply bulldoze them into a landfill. Someone ought to be standing by in a clown suit with a kazoo to play Taps.
I don't know where we're going and very few others do either, no matter what they say, or what authority they appropriated to the purpose of saying whatever it is they are saying. I suspect that every one of us is going to learn some significant and lasting lessons soon. Some of those lessons are going to be welcome surprises, having to do with endurance and persistence in the right course. Some are going to be serious and unexpected surprises, having to do with callous and indifferent harms, given out like they were Halloween candy, by real werewolves and vampires.
We're so used to seeing the sun rise in an external fashion. It's going to be something else again when it happens in another location.
'Every Day' is track no. 11 of 11 on Visible's 2001 album 'God in Country'
Lyrics (pops up)
There will be a radio show tonight at 7:30 Central Time.