Everyone is an object
Ginsberg tells me everything is holy
holy shit holy orgasm holy Anatole France's moustache
High at work is holy
Walking up Calvert or Fayette, all the way up, having done that a few times has opened my eyes but not in the cliche' american "damn dude poor people exist!?" type way. It was more like realizing you had been stabbed in a gun fight.
Everyone is an object indeed but some vastly more than others. Others spend their slow reality looking into 3rd story windows at crazed youth banging on drums like cavemen in the most primitive manner or stumbling around in a junked haze like an android realizing he can do everything a human can, only better.
Yet others still walk about, noose on neck, blood in wallet, interventionism in briefcase. Knowing well those who walk among them but denying any commonality. This is due to an apparent lack of reflection. Seriously. Who has the time for that anymore?
"...severance from reflection costs speculation itself dear enough."
Quick, look around the room to see if anyone sees you stopping but not to look. You have to be able to look without looking. To me this sounds like the bourgeoisie took the chinese proverb a bit too literally.
What happened to a left? Where is Bernadine Dohrn or lucy looking at the stars for the first time and seeing nothing but ourselves? Where is "It is ourselves we are defending"? Where is 1968? What happened to Bring the War Home? It is not a question of whether we lost or not. We indeed lost.
I'll tell you a story. "John Wayne stands aboard the USS Pax Americana and looks over the port of Alexandroupoli and says to himself 'finally'." Do you know what I mean? This is what I am scared of. Not even because it's me who is being invaded. I am a conscious objector gear in the android. I fear there will be nowhere left to run to. No base to fall back on and plan for a new plan of action to relate to the ever changing times.
We don't have the funds necessary to stage a revolution. It's also not friendly enough to sell at wall mart. To you, ma'am or sir I say this: When the young derelict who breaks into your home to steal your mass produced dvd player made in east brownpeopleistan hits you in the back of your head with his pistol remember this, Turn off the light at the end of the space tunnel. It may be your only chance!
This may be a bit of despair but pessimism is similar to realism and thoughtism and orgism and artism and life the ism and that holy fuck Ginsberg and especially Chris and Mike Taylor. The ruling class crisis brings us together in lit joint in dark alley in deep silence in seeing while looking as well. To you I say "sauve qui peut".