The charming enduring material girl-net image:
It is Saturday morning 11:10am GMT and here i am injecting a toxic dose of pessimism and gleefully infecting the lot of you with my personal packaged brand of pure distilled cynicism. It is cool to vent a little what with all the rampant misbehavior going on, but “only as long as it lasts”. It is not cool to add to the fury anymore than it is to patiently let a friend drink ’til they soil their clothing. It is so uncool an experience watching boorish politicians trying to take cover after the shit hits the fan. Running off with our money. Taking off in some cozy little jet with someone’s wife or mistress, the jet in this case fully loaded with all the fun stuff, y’know the bottle of vintage champagne “liberated” from beneath some dirt off the coast of Normandy, for instance or the very best chocolate stashed in some fancy closet on that snug all-leather and very sedate looking at the airstrip(don’t we all know how to live, folks!!!)
Quietly living off the planet at a whale’s pace then coming home to moralize about the virtues of thrifty behavior in these hard times and our need to be conserving. “it was exactly what i needed…”, they’ll mouth off to a reporter eager for a story they can stretch out for subsequent columns. Thank you to Wikileaks and the rest of the bust-your-balls hard-nosed vigilantes, i have acquired a taste for virulent truth-sayers’ heresies. I devour with a gargantuan appetite. I have so much fire to trade, get at me. You steal from us and catch yourselves blabbing, at unguarded moments when the sun is high and the fumes have evaporated from your heads. I just think you should learn to eat your cake in private while staying cool under a good tree.
How about this recommendation here “…an exclusive collection of memoirs of an ancient thinker that is good to be read at sunset while the little jet ploughs through puffy clouds, now it’s occupants’ moods heady expectantly awaiting the twilight, to gaze at the stars while glasses clicked and someone grunted self-satisfactorily. Ah….the bliss and longing for some full-bodied hedonism!!! Lighting a Cuban cigar, while the lightning outside cracked and the plane tossed a little. A chuckle and a raised eyebrow. Back to the books: feet free of all encumbrance including sandals or socks. Bare-chested in a light burgundy bathrobe and green-and-blue-stripe boxer shorts, legs stretched across a cleverly custom-made table, (only for me), calmly thinking of the world and the folks on the ground. Waiting on a chicken dinner which will be a surprise since i gave the hostess the liberty to do it the way she would like me to enjoy it. Money is a means to certain ends.Throwing away our cares, casting our burdens according to “the believers” as though it takes a specialized skill to believe. Hurling a rock into the pond and watching the ripples. That was a long time ago. It was during the golden age of music, it will never age or go away, the beat of the eighties and true musical stardom. It was during the days of Madame Ciccone and she was queen of the “into the groove” movement. It was so cool to be alive. I pray we stay.
* * * * * *
I will close the door and draw the curtains. i will contrive to be alone, to have room for my thoughts. There will be no sleep. No rest for the weary, no rest for the wicked. every rose has it’s thorn. it’s true. “…………Oh wail infidel, or have yea no anthem?”. There is something strange about folks clamoring for more fun time, more leisure when they is so much work awaiting, fixing the system. Where’s the defiance, the cultural nonchalance, the indifference and not giving a care about the rest of them and how they live, the things they do or what they believe? By being we and what it ought to be. How about a riot, er, brothersss ? It bothers me a great deal when i remember there is so much more to life, so much to do in each new day, sooo much to live for, to wonder at!. Where did the simplicity of life flee to or where is it hiding. Maybe there is a devil, some devil lurking somewhere witnessing the passion of men’s children, now happy, now tumultously engaged in endless personal conflicts, duelling for the spoils, unperturbed in their single-minded resolve to kill each other. They used to say “put each other to death”.
Yes i use the word put the way they wrote English in the olden days. I sound whimsical but small things get me through. They’d say an executioner put a man to death on the orders of the king, penalty for stealing a poor old widows winter’s supply of corn for example. To make an example of what to do with incorrigible criminals. Afterword, the king, retired to his chambers and refreshed and feeling himself restored and once again composed for the agitated mob below his balcony, would emerge now charismatic and address the people gathered, pause to whisper with an advisor and then declare his kingly intention to honor his subjects with a feast two fortnights into the future. I strongly suspect such kings to have been doing this as a way to assuage themselves of any particular guilt in having been so rush, so instantaneous in displaying their wrath however kingly it might seem to be in the eyes of common folk. But that is something kings are known to do; it is an imperial gesture after all and loans the king public acclaim and gives them time to make themselves over. Cool stuff from the cobwebby archives.
We continue to plunge headstrong into a future hurtling towards us at great speed. Ever increasingly dizzying speed, we continue to lose the moment, so caught up are we in this spell-binding tale of the present distractions on offer. Everyone i meet is busy, they are unwilling to give the littlest(if there is such a word)of their time it is a worrying trend. Let us band together and pray the love affair ends soon. So long, comrade.
Spirits of ancestral Mesoamerica hover beyond my periphery. Wandering through the Anthropology Museum in Mexico City, I can hear their prayers aspirating among the sacred icons. This is no customary aspic collection of austere antiquity. The exhibits pulse with seismic energy. Xochipilli, patron of art and love in all its sensual facets — his head tilted up, his seated body alert — summons the ghosts of dreamers. An Olmec head, with a frown and piercing gaze, conjures the anima of its slumbering despot. Chacmool, reclining in submission, proffers himself as portal between me and valorous eagle warriors. Even the floor-to-ceiling windows, the marble parquets, the geometric latticework evoke pre-hispanic allusions. Nothing is basic within this complex. Statues, amulets, materials, balusters, and the patio are symbols of a timeless philosophy. 
bazibukatende 