Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Flash, Bang Bang

Flash, Bang Bang

“Gimme all ya ‘oney! Said gimme all ya ‘oney!” July 4th, 2010.
Flash. Bang, bang.
Take it all—I swear, it’s all I have!”
Reload.
Nah, it isn’t! ‘e’ll get dah same if yuh don’t cough up! I’ll drop ‘er,’ll do it man, ‘ll do it!”
Click.
“It’s all I have, man, this entire year I’ve had nothin,’ nothin’, man!”
“’Ou dun’ got nutin’, man? ‘Ou ain’t got nutin? I ‘orked here eight years, I know ‘ou got money! ‘Ntill ya shut me out!”
“These r ‘ard times, man, we both know that”—
“No. You wouldn’t know the first thing about ‘ard times.’ ‘Ntill now.”
Flash. Bang, bang.

July 5th, 2010.
Just like the president of the United States, every mayor sits down with his administration and discusses pressing issues and threats to the jurisdiction they represent every morning.

“Well, Mr. Donald, we have a list of very serious issues to discuss,” said his aid Carlos.

“Oh?” Mr. Donald, the mayor of Brooklyn, looked expectantly at his aid over the top of his glasses.

“Firstly, the people are angry with your campaign performance.”

“Again? Write them a check. Dedicate $20,000 to the educational system.”

His aid nodded, scribbling away furiously as he took down notes.

“As for the homeless”—his aid began—

“Buy 5,000 sleeping bags to keep them warm.” Mr. Donald looked thoughtful, and scratched his chin.

“Poverty rates are up to 20%, sir. Close to 1 in 5 people in the city are homeless.”

Mr. Donald nodded, acknowledging his aid. “These are tough economic times. And tough economic times call for drastic action. Make that 6,000.”

His aid flipped a page, and continued to write. “Our team has been working around the clock to find solutions to deaths due to gang violence—”

“Put down “lower gun regulation.” The people need to have the resources to stand their ground.”

“Did you come up with that idea, sir?”

Donald looked at him, face blank and posture composed. “Of course.”

Scribble. Carlos’ pen went from left to right, skipped a line, danced across another line—

“Back to education for a second; they said we are not promoting “quality education” for kids today”—

“Not promoting it? We bought them T-shirts last week.”

His aid nodded in agreement. “Yes, but we may need to explore additional strategies”—

“Additional strategies? Those T-shirts had “Stay in School” written across it. There was a picture of a man driving an Aston Martin, for God’s sake.”

“Right, but they complained of a lack of funding”—

“We’re already sending the $20,000. Get the private school parents to start paying their fair share; everyone in public or private deserves an equal opportunity
to succeed.”

“Sir, I recommend we rather fundraise at local community centers to gather funding for the public schools”—

“No. Private school kids should be guilty of their crime.”

Hesitation: then Carlos scribbled away. “I’m assuming, then, media distortion, benevolent demand, the u”—

“Yes. Oh, and—about the homeless—make sure to get heat-retaining sleeping bags. Sleeping next to hundreds of people is less than ideal; with the right sleeping bags, I’m sure they’ll be fine outside.”

Carlos paused, looking over his notes. “Homelessness, media slant, sleeping bags…I think we got it all.” Carlos closed his notebook and put away his pen. “Breakfast will be at ten,” and left the room.

Donald reached for a remote to turn on the news. He paused to smile at a piece of paper, relishing its presence.

On Donald’s desk was a multitude of confusing papers with quick initial scribbles of ideas. He pushed a few aside and looked at one which said, according to the title, “TO BE INSTATED:”

To kill the Mind, one must make thy enemy place greater interest in common intelligence than individual.

To kill virtue, you must criminalize it.

To hide theft, you must close the backroom doors.

To disguise poverty and systemic collapse of order, you must have a scapegoat, one that is motivated by profit.

Ayn Rand was wrong: it is not good that money is the product of intelligence and of man’s ability to think; both are the grossest act of sin.

Self-reliance must be killed and all must surrender for the common good; to assume otherwise is not only birth of the individual but consequently the death of government. Emerson is a fallacy.

Mr. Locke may have guided us to life, liberty, property, but he has a right to only one.

Schools with their inherent collectivism will, and must, produce “consumers for life.”

Man does not have power or right over his own Mind. Only I do.

Smiling proudly at himself, Donald turned on the news and watched his inauguration speech, watching the body language, posture, and emphasis, simply blown away. That’s how you win 51.8% approval rating, he thought with a grin on his face.

He stretched and sat back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head as he watched the speech, the 51.8% smiling, the children jumping up and down, the women screaming wildly. The camera panned across hundreds of tiny little heads and cycled upwards. It viewed blue, red, and white fireworks as they danced across the sky, streaming through puffy clouds as they crackled and popped—

Flash, bang bang.


Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The World: Abstracted

Altruism walked in the door, smelling of hypocrisy.

Self-Reliance sat down and wrote himself, seeing crowds of Crowding

coffee-goers walk out to their white, black, or misc. colored cars, put in the keys,

and drive the box to their office, another box, and he knew they’d finally go home, to

their cute box.


Altruism was not one but all of them.


A cute mechanism used to control Mind, it drew men “closer” and indeed

they were close for they were in bondage, with no mind but one, a unified thought

processer. Giving to other men quickly became a norm, and since everyone needed to

be equally considerate of others, focus shifted to those others and away from their

Mind.


As a result, Mediocrity cultivated.


When Man does not invest in himself, he breeds viral Mediocrity,

which numbs his tongue and deafens his ears, damages his eyes and their ability to

see. It is, overall, a most deprecating illness.


His tongue is numb for he does not speak up. His ears are deaf for he listens only

to others, not himself. His eyes and their ability are damaged for they cannot see

the future, goals, or ambitions. He is numb and still: he is stagnant.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Rosa and Chacha: The Moles of Truth

Rosa

The epitome of office life and the key lesson-carrier in the novel, Rosa is the struggling paper pusher in the administrative office, one who over exerts herself by aligning with altruism as a justification with disregard for the consequences, physical and emotional. She epitomizes the slippery nature of altruism and its deceptive ability to entrap people into the evil of institutions, that you should “give everything,” leading to that cliché, which is self-purporting of the evils of altruism, “I have no time for myself.” Indeed, altruism should be held as a moral, though not as a principle. It enslaves teachers to institutions. It controls administrators’ work schedules. It forces people to focus on things bigger than themselves, without requirement that the outcome or reward for work be tangible. The evasive, almost mystical sense of altruism is devious at best, for it promotes an idealistic “better than you” and “better than man” mentality that service in the smallest form is better than individual investment, no matter the size. Altruism is rooted in idealism, and closely linked with religion. A concept great in theory but poor in effectiveness, one can compare altruism to community in the following relationship:
Altruism is to idealism as
Community is to failure.
One should give everything to something else (altruism) is a great moral that is idealistic, not realistic. Realistically, people will think within their own interests. Similarly, a community is a stupendous idea, but doomed to fail in most cases, based on the previous premise of altruism being idealistic, not realistic. Communities also promote altruism, and ironically most communities will not address or attempt to solve, most ironically, the troubles that divide the community. It is best (and easiest) for most communities to continue drawing in people, rather than accept reality that the idea may not be working.
Provided I head down this route, this is the key irony defining the loopholes in “community.” The administration is wrapped up, Chacha and Rosa in particular, in their own interests rather than those of their clients. I may change this to be a school. In the case that it is, Chacha and Rosa are distracted by each other, and Rosa is so swamped with work consistently that she often refers to herself as a slave, rather jokingly though it leaves a depressing taint in her wake, working away, moving a mountain, she says, metaphorically aligned with the story of the man pushing the rock up the hill, and then having it fall, and push it up, again and again and…again.
Rosa critiques entrepreneurs, in particular a student, which her advertent and often inadvertent promotion and need for gossip lead to a student being expelled for “not fitting within the social fabrics of the institution.” Though the student had violated no policy, he was expelled or, more euphemistically, “separated” or “removed,” even, from the school. Rosa feels a slight degree of guilt but the severity of the action on behalf of the administration seems too strong to be true, too extreme to have possibly resulted from her action.
Of course, it didn’t. The entrepreneur had already pissed off one too many administrators, and they too were whispering in corridors, fake smiles pasted on in his presence but dissipating into frowns in his absence. They too hate him, though they are never sure why.
Community service is a euphemism often for child labor in the most extremes. There are few boundaries in which limit community service from calling itself moral. Unfortunately, child labor is often not one of those boundaries as long as it better serves the community within reason. Ah yes, “within reason,” i.e. within the institution or community’s definition of reasonability.
Rosa, working hard, a cute girl in high school, and even cuter one in college. Something happened and she gained 40 pounds over the course of six months, leading to frustrating relationships with peers declining and to make changes in her lifestyle like more vitamins and eating less. Having to be selective about eating frustrates her. Cursed with genes that explode with obesity around 35, it is hardly her fault, she thinks, but she doesn’t know that the genes are only activated when coupled by excessive calorie intake. Too many doughnuts, late nights, and stress contribute to her increased physical growth, her normally cute, blonde face now cut to pieces by scratching at acne scars from college/high school and making them bleed due to boredom, nerves, and general insecurity that unfortunately leads, consequently, to her face as she now has multiple acne scars. Seems to imply she is young and immature. Some of her coworkers seem to treat her as such, and the office is already rife with invisible condescension towards her. She is a fat, blond, American, trapped as an administrator in a world designed to make her succeed, which doesn’t make much sense. Her body is now 4 sizes (in clothing) larger than it was 6 months ago. Tears late at night make things worse, but the ice cream from Haagen Daz provides temporary relief.
She was beat up once in a while by her father. Existing eternally in the middle class, she has little aspiration to rise above or below. Trapped into the administration world, she arranges meetings, conferences, and makes sure that Scoreboard “keeps running smoothly.” A quote from her, explaining her importance at an “open house” “take your kid to work day.” The shame is that she has a boyfriend, but no family. The boyfriend comes up sparsely at work…she seems to hide him. Perhaps the shame of him (he’s a good guy, but that’s about it), or about her having a boyfriend and others wondering who the “hell would date her,” or her just not wanting to talk about why she eats so much at work and not at home. It’s because she does not make enough money to pay to cook food at home—for the both of them, anyway. She is secretly saving up money, hoping to move out and start a fork business. A tad soft, she refers to it as “cutlery entrepreneurship” that takes up a “lot of time,” which is why she “sometimes doesn’t have time to talk” (to people). A seemingly cheerful character, she weighs down the room by having a neutral expression while others make jokes about how McDonalds has invaded the world. She has long since lost the ability to genuinely laugh, and can only laugh at others, but quickly sucks in her tummy subconsciously and nervously holds her hips to get the spotlight of attention off of her. The irony is staggering: she laughs at others to make them feel bad, but being such a bitch, many laugh at her. It has a compounding effect, and her friendships decline in inverse proportion to her weight. Her self esteem is very sinusoidal; related to anxiety. Sometimes it’s up, and sometimes it’s down. You never know why, and when you ask, you get “your fuckin head bit off” (2 p.m., Jim, Tuesday, February 21st, 2012)
Her desire to start a cutlery business is highly ironic, but she keeps it very under wraps. As an administrator in the administration culture, she is trained to hate entrepreneurs, trained to dislike those who deviate from the game to find better meaning than a simple formula run by the mob out of fear of being individuals. Though secretly, she likes the idea of entrepreneurship, though not through the lens of “doing something different,” “avoiding the game,” or similar. She does it simply because it gives her a thrill, she’s kind of like one of those suburban mommies who does something insignificant on the weekend to make herself feel good. Cutlery for some reason is her thing.
Her drastic fear of attention and haranguing has led her to choose a safe job that has no reward but thankfully has no risk. She secretly wants Chacha, and notices that Jim glances at her once in a while, but feels uneasy and sometimes hates his smirk, giving it more warrant and perceived judgment often than such smirks have.
She works from 6-9 p.m. on a good day. On a bad one, she’s there from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. She often stays later because of Chacha, who likes to work late for extra money and to stand out. Chacha is a secret over achiever, though it is so ingrained in his work ethic that he hardly notices it, quite to his benefit (in terms of relations with his boss) and (in terms of social situations) his detriment.
Chacha—Chacha Bates has an English last name, but an American accent with a hint of a Creole accent. His mother was from Jamaica, who was married to an Englishman when they colonized Jamaica (check date). This has influence on his view of the world, from the racism he sometimes experiences to everyday American politics, such as the War on Terror. He is angered every time America oversteps its boundaries in other countries, and incidents like Arabs being killed by invasive, encroaching American soldiers angers him, though not enough for him to notice why. He is just a little embittered by poorly planned military action or performance. He often, through a bit of light, crafty smile and unbuttoning of his blazer while standing in his office as Rosa comes in, asks if he can stay later and Rosa of course says yes. A depressing relationship, she longs for Chacha but it is hardly reciprocated.
It would be different if she lost weight, but DQ and recruiting events prevent that. Rosa is a lover of curly fries and the irresistible Maple Leaf donuts, the large rectangular ones with absurd calorie numbers and sugar toppings. She is often too lazy to make food when she gets home, and of course has enough money for only one (herself or her boyfriend, but not enough for a meal for both). So they have a stifled, slightly awkward relationship, seen obviously when they are alone and even more so when they are in a group. The two may fall in love, and marry. Or, at least make use of Chacha’s table.
He will provide her with so much self esteem, she may lose weight to please him. However, if Chacha does not notice, for he is too much of a modest, hard working gentleman to say “wow. Weight watchers really worked!” instead just says, with a neutral tone for fear of reprimand “you look different.”
Rosa will break into tears, and say “that’s all you say. That’s all you say?” And walks quickly out of the room and closes the door a tad too loudly, not enough to be a social gaffe but enough to carry emotional weight.
Chacha’s gentlemanlike behavior, his fear of saying inflammatory things, his desire to simply get along with people, once in a while works against him. He often plays things safe, for it is the character behavior he is more inclined to do.
Rosa has heard the “you look different” or “hm” or “maybe this dress will look better” and often interprets such phrases not as nice statements, but as insults glossed over with cute wording and euphemisms. Which, having gotten nice statements about her weight, is so touchy that she has misconstrued even “you look fine” (the most severe situation) to mean “whatever, you look fat and you know it. Now let’s go.”
So, to no surprise, Rosa breaks into tears, ruining their second and making Chacha wonder what the hell he did wrong. Applying intellect, he sees her as a sensitive bitch, not a nice girl turned into a sensitive bitch.
They don’t see each other again. Though for the need of a happy ending, she smiles at Chacha as he walks into the elevator, and he smiles back. A second chance for both of them, perhaps. Though the reader will interpret it as a future date, a new future. Perhaps symbolize this with leaving the workforce, a new life, filled with happiness, rather than boredom and “goddamn wallflowers” “buzzing Buzz Lighters” and the lot.
Chacha…he is sometimes bored, though he never knows why and never acknowledges that he is. He stares off into space sometimes, sometimes at the wall, and sometimes cries. He doesn’t know why. And he quickly wipes the tear away, for that is weird, un-gentlemanlike (unless a woman is near to wipe it for you ), and hardly is who he wants to be, what he identifies himself with, and yeah. Chacha cannot determine what makes him cry, and blames it on allergies. He is dealing with allergies, and it makes perfect sense. He does not suspect the real reason.
Chacha often gets the feeling of being “stagnant,” of moving nowhere, of doing nothing. He hates it, and this is why he cries, because he is too charming, too high a level of self-awareness, too able-minded at his work to not be able to anticipate what driving along the 5-20 will be like, arriving at Scoreboard, briskly walking by Rosa with a curt hello, not short for it to be a social gaffe but quick enough to carry emotional tension, he hated knowing he would sit at this desk like he’d sat at it since Monday, he knew what the lunchroom would be like, how to work the entire room in his favor, get the boys to like him and do shots with him after work hours, or hell, any time during work…
Provided I integrate this with the story on high school,
He was considering doing yoga, and very privately looked at yoga classes. He was unsure if he wanted to join, but doesn’t know what is holding him back. He suspects an ancillary fold of his gentlemanlike characteristic is holding him back. Though his respect for different religions and cultures will override this hesitancy, coupled with a desire to see the world in the present, and perhaps, through meditation, see that “invisible person” he senses who laughs at him, always laughing, at his every moment in that office, doing little more than laughing, and never stopping, as though there was always something else, and forgetting about it was out of the question…
Who gave a fuck if he pushed paper around, smiled at Hal, and made his 250 K? It was all a joke, some guy’s prank, to put an intelligent man in the midst of mediocrity and watch the chaos unfold, what a good practical joke, and indeed it would be entertaining, can you imagine, objectively watching the equivalent of two people speaking different languages, occasionally being offended by the impressions they make of what communications the other is sending, and watching the relationships build and then fall, fall like they had never been built in the first place…there are soap operas in America built quite literally off of this script, though of course made in a different theme though with the same intention of cheap entertainment, yes, that was it, that was what bothered Chacha, though he as a person still does not know, it is that the world in which he exists is as “real as a Twinkie,” and as “dramatic as a soap opera,” and no one, not a single person, can see this but him, as he zones out in team building exercises and Snack Wednesdays, watching Rosa sneak a second donut when no one was looking because everyone had seen her do it every Snack Wednesday…Rosa eyeing him like he’d give her a chance, though he would, simply for the entertainment of it, the satire, the bleeding nature of hell, that one hopes if he engages in “the game” of life enough, eventually, he will learn to like it, and, coupled on that, it provides him the entertainment for what he does not understand is that (at least) the primary objective observer that laughs at his life is him, his own mind, not necessarily polluted by an ultra-powerful God, but his own satirical image on the world…that yes, if he had sex with Rosa, he would be “crushing it,” he’d be a “stud,” and “all the boys would like him (for a week)”, and he at the end of the week would sneer at the irony of it, though fortunately, and unfortunately, no one would join in on entertainment. Fortunately, he does not recognize the unfortunate nature of living a lonely life, and thus, he will never regard it as lonely.
Men like him…see the recording device for a 15 minute info audio recording on this. Men like him don’t fit in and were always harangued. Though a gentleman turns the other cheek, or in the most cliché situation, strikes the infant with an umbrella and struts away with a plethora of anger!
Of course, not the pair of leather gloves. No, that would be far too stereotypical.
Chacha, post the elevator scene with Rosa, might leave Scoreboard to “start something new.” Hal might offer him lots of money, but Hal will never understand, for it isn’t about money, it’s about passion, and following what he loves. Maybe he then marries Rosa and they leave the institution, in part out of passion for something else but also because they find it stifling. “This is something you will never understand, Hal,” and Chacha walks out of the room, an air of swagger to him.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Mycorrhizae

In this piece of writing, focus on the things that you carry. Explore those things, their meaning, and how they are significant to you. Are they positive influences and values? Are they negative? Why? Finally, what do these things reveal about your identity?
The tone of this piece is entirely up to you. You might be serious or lighthearted, angry or calm, etc. Use this chance to explore and grow as a writer! Be intrepid and creative!
Guidelines:
Three pages
Title specific to your piece of writing
Pay attention to ideas, organization, syntax (sentence fluency) diction (word choice), and conventions.


Welcome to different. Welcome to life, liberty, and happiness. Yogic teachings embody designing a tree. The root of a tree is yama, basically common sense principles, very similar to the Ten Commandments. From the roots are various components like moral principles, sensory detection, concentration, and discovery. My mind is like mycorrhizae, an ecological term referring to a symbiosis between roots and a plant that benefits an ecosystem. Metaphorically, my mind is a network of ideas spreading throughout soil to connect trees and protect against pathogens by developing antibiotics. To beat a dead concept, or more to develop premise, social conditioning inherently prohibits creativity. Another premise is that teenagers, as they are (pun not intended) in their adolescent stage of development, habitually bully different people in many forms. In addition, teenagers are susceptible to the concept and implementation of a Crowd, as Emerson would refer to it, which a Crowd by its very nature inhibits creativity.


The Crowd is as unintelligent as it is strong in size. I’ve learned many lessons from The Crowd, the most integral one being gratitude. I have learned how to thank those who disapprove of me with satire, humor, and success. Many will critique the Crowd, but the Crowd has an ironically useful characteristic. People arguing the negative makes you want to prove the affirmative that you can be who and what you wish to be. It’s a very simple idea, so simple it is suffocated by clichés and generic statements, which in itself emphasize how entrenched an idea it is in this world. The Crowd drives your career, like it or not, for better or for worse. I would not work nearly as hard as I do if I didn’t want to sit at the same level as those who harangue me. Provided one knows how to harness the Crowd, it will promote your reputation, popularity, grades, personality, and character. It really does take your career to another level, and for that reason you should thank them. In addition, the mediocre make the moderately intelligent look brilliant in the classroom, workforce…everywhere. Indeed, the perspective on “intelligent” and the subjectivity of being “good at something” is not just relative, but it is lowered, so all one needs to do is work with due diligence, and you will far exceed your peers in the desired eyes.




The Crowd has taught me to train my mind in a way that allows me to identify the movement of a stream and flow with it, while simultaneously pursuing self-interest independent of others and to no one’s detriment. I have become introverted in my ideas. I wait for everyone in a classroom to voice their opinion before muttering mine. I primarily ask questions after class. I pursue my extracurricular endeavors in secrecy. I contribute what is required to a social dynamic, but not overstepping commitment, for as I have seen anyway it results in high consequences. I talk intimately with Friends, but not with friends. I trail my voice off at the end and imitate the mannerisms of my peers for convenience. I laugh at my own jokes, which are generally mocked or simply not understood, or mocked because of general incomprehension. I deflect insults with smiles. I compete with myself, to excel beyond my perceived potential, rather than compete with others. I spend less time developing counter-arguments to people calling me a “fag,” “white,” or similar, and simple accept the phrase “such is life.” I acknowledge that the world is a large place, and that the domain of perspectives in a classroom does not reflect a worldly perspective. I also try to enjoy life, and remember that being dedicated to academics is like selling creativity for 4-8 years to buy 70-80 years of freedom and excellence. I also remember that the word “reality” involves the word “real,” so certain things are not worth analyzing or philosophizing; it is the frame of life in which you live. I have learned not to impose myself on other people, tying back to my first point on becoming an introvert. The benefit to being “shy” is that you have no pressure to perform. You can learn, laugh, and socialize, etc. without external, or more importantly, internal pressure. You have more control over yourself and your life. I used to feel a compulsory need to be remembered with certain characteristics, but a personality is a tool to be turned on and off voluntarily and independent of anything else. Anything. It does indeed become annoying when people slouch in front of you, bored from their day, and demand of you in two short words implying nothing but a demand: “entertain me.”
I have also learned to put little stock in people’s words when those individuals do not place value in their own words with a few rare exceptions. In addition, I’ve learned that my natural need—it is not a want, but a need—to stand away from a Crowd, often physically, is as acceptable as it should be. I’ve learned that the most important person (relative to yourself) is…yourself, family, and friends, in that order, followed by a subsequent order. I’ve also learned that teenagers are inferior to adults in respect to power, money, rapport, and so forth. They will be treated accordingly by the greater population, and acceptance of that fact will lead to assimilation, which allows one to identify subsequent loopholes in the hierarchy and benefit accordingly. The primary benefit to being an adolescent is one’s prematurity. You have the freedom to explore your perspective and admit when you’re wrong. Quite obviously, there are parameters, but there is something to be said for trying out new philosophies, being harangued heavily, and being able to cite one’s age as a true factor (some would say excuse) for a poorly formed idea (others would say stupidity).






I have learned, thanks to the Crowd that this is a dog-eat-dog world. I’ve watched my peers destroy me to inarticulateness and give them smiles in return. I’ve learned the difference between friends and Friends first hand, those who will help and those who hinder. I’ve learned that to integrate with enemies, and accept the blended between Friend and friend, between Friend and Enemy, you must understand them. The most hyperbolic examples are the ones you must understand from the inside out, comprehend their motives, their self-interest, reasoning, thought process, background. You must understand their voice tone, their hair style, the way they walk, how you walk, who they hang out with, their contradictions, imperfections, their love for hate, their acceptance of intelligence, mediocrity, and maybe stupidity, which love for hate is by its very nature stupid, for it leaves not a man alone on an island, but a man in civilization destroying it from the inside out, a man who loves hate and is good at it will friend you and take your time, money, and given neither back, for it is the satisfaction in holding it from you was the real reason he became friends with you initially. I will not give examples, for the names do not matter, for there are too many and it is the principle of the individual personality one should be wary of, not the individual holding it, for assigning it to an individual indicates a passionate link to solving the issue, and the issue cannot be solved, for some people in this world were designed to test success, to determine failure by wringing creativity and passion and character out of people and only the strong will survive, the weak, faltering with jealousy and subsequent anger at those who succeed, those who understand the works of this world, those who were born with grit determination to win no matter the friends—i.e. hidden Enemies—that stand in their way. The successful will be the ones who leave a wake of green and red anger in their wake, a mixture of the two that results in a putrid look of puke, a hybrid of jealousy and anger that is as unproductive as it is toxic, as toxic as it is costly. Though the ones who obtain a type of success that cannot be identified as such are those who are too modest to admit they have found Success. They have achieved their greatest desires, but the greatness is something they acknowledge internally, for externally in any form the Crowd would roar with anger, cringe with green and shrivel in red, twitch on the ground like a deadened fly, waiting for another light to shine so they can fly to it in the hopes of taking energy from it, but singeing itself in the brilliant hotness of electricity, and fall, unsure what to do next, but wait for the next light, and the one after that, with no altering course, no memory of the preceding failure, or perhaps, no desire to remember it, or no ability to alter its course, or all of the previous factors…






The Crowd has crafted my success, molded my rhetoric, designed my ideas, and has led my life by inverse action. Primarily, it has allowed me to explore differently. It has granted me life, liberty, and happiness. It has granted me freedom. What the Crowd does is typically the opposite of what I do. Either that, or I join with the Crowd and satirically make fun of it. I am similar to Dominique Francon in the Fountainhead in certain respects. These truths I hold to be self-evident. Man was born free, but everywhere he is in chains. I thank the Crowd for showing me what those chains were. For indeed, seeing the world without chains is like hearing the Civil Rights Act of 1964 passed. It is exuberance, a new mentality. It is like seeing watching the new world order unfold post WWII, watching entire power schemes shift. It is not colossal, it is not an adjective. It is like historical events, for they happened in the past and they are significant, and will be remembered for their significance not named by adjectives. They will be cited—for example, how does one describe the value of diplomacy? The value of diplomacy is like the Camp-David Accords. No adjective can be assigned for the power is too great, the magnitude too large.
The Crowd has made me develop a great sense of humor, specifically satire. No one gets it but me, and that is why the sense of humor is so great, for there is no need for external confirmation, for conformity. It is just me laughing at a concept in ways that I want no one else to understand, for that is too risky…it risks security. Security of ideas, security of strength. When one tells a joke to oneself, he finds it funny, but telling it to another, you must adjust the joke, and telling a joke threatens the security of its inherent funniness. So, in a way, I have developed a crowd much larger than the Crowd, a crowd of ideas, mycorrhizae spinning off in wild directions with jokes only I understand, for that is the only way to be larger than the Crowd: it is through the largeness of creativity, of your own mycorrhizae.