Graphic Novel

So indeed I have been writing but like masturbating into a jar i needed time to collect my ideas. So I'm proud to say I'm almost halfway through my trek. I have a plot that I'm still filling out so it will take some time. Also, the story is a continuation of my character from this blog. So when it's done i will share it with you all and find some sort of decent, cheap artist to make pretty pictures. Thank you, San Jose and goodnight!


PS I am equally proud that i used the phrase "like masturbating in a jar"

A Moment, Movement, Improvement

I sat in the park. Alone, unwanted and ostracized. Happily I gazed about me in wonder. The rain was pouring, people were scurrying quickly, and cars were making the water yell in anger. I stood up. My life up until this moment was leading up to this moment. I walked slowly, letting the water wash me of all my impurities. I filtered it all through my eyes but more my soul. I felt the water but I did not take notice of it. Most of the world is like that. Feeling but unaware.
These thoughts frightened me. Could I be coming to a logical conclusion? What is logic? The absence of chaos? The object of reason? If reason has an object then is insanity a verb? Yes, it is. That though unleashed a whole new perspective upon me. No longer was I weighed down upon by the laws made up. No longer was I weighed by the eyes of authority to do what is deemed right in their logical eyes. The park was now mine. I decided. Its a public park, I am the state. Gleefully, I ran through my drenched kingdom. This is where I shall build my throne, that tree must be gone. Who's statue is this anyway? I run up to it. An uncared for and little known green statue of a man wearing odd clothes looking what the artist deemed "heroic". I deem it not.
"Be free!" I bellow, uncaring if the unwashed, wet masses hear me. My mind is my own. No Big Brother camera to look at me. The rain blurs my vision and for a moment, a second and a breath, I see the statue nod. Amazing, I declare. The statue of the sailor/general/explorer/tradesman agrees with me. Emboldened by this I begin to climb his pedestal so I may join him. Forever to be green and a roost for flying rats.
The rock is hard at the base but the useless copper plauqe makes a foothold. I slip and slid my ten dollar sneaker onto it gripping with all my strength. I finally reach the top. The summit. Its a maginificent view from 3 feet off the ground. All I see is mine. The rain continues to pour and pool around me. I am happy sitting with my comrade in arms. He doesn't seem to be inclind to sit but thats all right.
I begin to watch the world outside my own. This small nature mecca surrounded by commerce, guilds, business. Millions of dollars flow like the water around these Babel towers. 10,000 languages all meaning the same word for money. Capitalism and and smaller world. I don't want this. I now have decreed no business is to be taken place in my realm. Then everything slows down.
I am unsure the cause at this point. Perhaps I've had an aneurysm perhaps something has kicked in. Perhaps I have reached a Buddha-like level of understanding. I could see every individual drop of rain. Every breath of wind. Every reflection of light on the wet world. This was my moment.I could take up the flag. Start the revolution. Flower Power, Gun Power, Socialism, Fascism anything was possible right at this moment.
Just as quickly as it stared, the world sped up again. An old time movie reel minus the squeal started it. Clips and disjointed images floated around me. Faster and faster more hectic and when it felt as if I would be sick or perhaps just lose myself they all seemed to make themselves unique and make it all work in a glorious symphony of sight, sound, smell and touch.
I was rear-ended back into my mind. The captain was staring down at me. Elitist fuck. I hopped off the pedestal. My body and clothes were trying to do an impression of a puddle. Squelching and slithering like I emerged from the primordial soup itself I stumbled off into the rain. My destination, unknown. One lone moment to make up for billions lost.

FIN

Recoil

I miss the way you were,
- the twinkle in your eyes -
The spark within - of passion -
- of joy -
Ever flowing times of surprise.

But what has happened now?
- orbs all sunken in -
Despair encompasses; depression
- implies -
When shall you shed this -
- this unwelcomed disguise?

Solar rain

We know well the saltburn sting, weaving uneven tracks,
pulled towards the center of the earth, sloppy.
Run for the low spots, evaporate and rain,
fall lightly on the ground, melt into the earth.
Crystal veins pour through viaducts of stone and earth,
tearing to the surface and flashing with muscular force;
crash amongst the rocks lining waterfalls,
and misty-rainbows fall in sheets.
Crisp maple leaves pop and crack, and fly with the summer breeze.
Drop into a fast flowing stream--
lifted floating into white water.
Surf waves around eroding stones,
carried downstream, to the vast oceans.
Ocean surf stings and parches;
great swells roll and push high unto the clear sky.
Green water by the pier- grey morning chop-
white crested rolls- and angry black seas.
Casting the sting of freezing surf,
to run for the low spots,
evaporate and rain.
Tides pull and jostle circular from icy poles,
to sweltering equator- past tropic and tepid-
and echo with life and force, and grace and depth.
Violent force of hurricane,
and smooth soft curve of slow waves push back
against the shoulder of earth,
leaning softly always into water,
with ragged cliffs, or pebbled shore-
constant dialogue between ever sinking earth,
and level seeking water.
Run for the low spots, evaporate and rain.
Land on your cheeks, feel a salt-sting,
and weave an uneven path
towards the center of the earth-
I kiss them off, evaporate, and rain.

Knight Night

I was walking at 11:15pm. No direction or purpose. Much like all of life. I had just had an argument with a spoon. Since I live in my dingy apartment by myself I needed to fight with someone. So a spoon is my choice. That bastard had it coming. The spoon is merely a focal point for my irritation at my sudden dissipation of an elevation of self.
I walk slowly in my ten dollar sneakers. Hands thrust into my cracked leather jacket. I embrace the chill wraiths of night. My head is fogged and bewildered. Street lights deny me the right answer. Buzzing and busying themselves with lighting my darkened path. I go up to one such impudent whelp and begin to harangue it. It has no right to deem me not right. I then raise my left sneaker at a thirty degree angle and give it a sound kick which results in the adjective itself.
I limp slowly down the street. Cars are but a memory. The pavement has long since gone frigid without the grind and groan of mechanical beasts of burden and luxury. My head looks up and the barely seen stars. I was told that outside the city they are seen better. But since I am outside myself and simply cannot find my way home at this point and time then It'll have to do. It's 11:24pm.
This is the night that I have chosen to wander the earth. Like the undead I roam the earth. Not in search of my soul or an unsuspecting mortal. Although both would be entertaining. Heartened by this fact I look for someone.
Sounds fill my head. Whoops and hollers. Teens. Youths in the prime of adolescence. Free in their controlled freedom. Celebrating the night. Like a hero of old on a quest, they look to slay the night. To own it and make it theirs.
I see them with my dilated pupils. There's only 4 of them. Now six. Now 21,594. I shake my head before the numbers can latch on. Clever bastards. They must be in league with the spoon. The spoon. I hid that bastard where he can never get out. My fridge. I wonder if there's any mustard.
Again, I shake my head. Getting distracted from the rail of thought. The pupils are far up the street. I follow the yellow line road. Towards the Emerald City? If their a scarecrow, a lion and a wardrobe I'm out of here. I slowly weave like a rug towards them. What thoughts must run through their heads? What unspeakable horrors must they think I am? Will I scar them for life with my dishevelled looks and rictus smile? I gleefully and gladly think these thoughts when I realize I should've taken a left at Albuquerque. Avenue that is.
I wander slowly down the street. A park off to my left. Night makes everything frightful. Wishing I had a knight in shining armor to protect me from the sanguine darkness. I'm running out of time. Why is time in such a rush? I close of red eyes and breath in the night. It's cold and delightful in my throat. Clearing. There's a clearing up ahead. Deciding a decision I go towards it.
As I lay on this bed of grass full of warmth and chemical enhancers I look up to the satellites. This is my night. This night will remain forever in my mind. I am one with universe or perhaps an ace. The universe always has a card up it's sleeve. Like that bastard spoon. My smile remains fixed while my head is broken, my body swollen and my soul fractured. But I am well. Now I must think of an argument with that conniving fork.

I'm Not

I'm not a writer. I'm not an artist.
I'm not a philosopher. I'm not a sociologist.
I'm not a professor. I'm not a pupil.
I'm not a dreamer. I'm not a nihilist.
I'm not a pessimist. I'm not an optimist.
I'm not a majority. I'm not a minority.
I'm not a gray area. I'm not full colour.
I'm not a revolutionary. I'm not a reactionary.
I'm not simple. I'm not complex.
I'm not in politics. I'm not the people.
I'm not an individual. I'm not the group.
Then what am I? Am I me?

As I sit with my head pressed against this door I think these thoughts in my dingy apartment. Then I realize.

I am a realist. There's more I'm not then I am.

FIN

Absolutely absolute

Absolutist Rationality as a worldview is, ultimately, a method of extreme control over the very world one seeks to form a worldview about. That every sensation, input or observation is ultimately determined by pure ‘objective’ rationality is to elevate the observer above the status of all observed. To demand of the world; of all conceivable thought, all observation, and, at the outer levels of understanding, all truths, sensations and possible entities, to fit within the tight confines of human reason and academic methodology is a frightening method of control.
In a letter of protest, eighteen professors, including Hugh Mellor, Rene Thom, David Armstrong, W.V. Quine, and Ruth Barcan Marcus stated that Derrida did not deserve an honorary doctorate from Cambridge University on the grounds that his body of work did not meet “accepted standards of clarity and vigor”. They go on to state: "Academic status based on what seems to us to be little more than semi-intelligible attacks upon the values of reason, truth, and scholarship is not, we submit, sufficient grounds for the awarding of an honorary degree in a distinguished university."
Such an utter dependence- whether one agrees with Derrida or not- on the flawed faculty of human reason hardly befits the nature of true philosophy, or of true philosophers.
No-one would argue the existence of Paradox, [capitalization most definitely intentional] but academia still seems to insist upon manufacturing what is essentially always a false logical centre for its arguments.
One asserts an accepted logical ‘truth’, and deduces from that the truth of a related, but not yet accepted, understood, or discovered idea. These truths and these deductions only exist on paper, and are, plagiarism aside, always a creation of their author.
Academic rationality could be extrapolated to prove almost anything, and thus proves nothing. The mere existence of paradox points to rationalities’ flaws, which makes the act of logically sound reasoning an exercise in futility. However, academic truths need not be denied or refuted, only understood to be isolated to the paper they are printed on, and the minds of those who hold them.
To pursue with such obvious vigor, the absolute academic rationality displayed by most modern philosophers, academics, scholars, and the institutions, governments, and populations that support them, displays the depths to which a desire for ultimate control will sink. Nothing in this world occurs with the frequency of contradiction, Paradox, and irrationality, yet we banish these things from academia, and therefore from common debate and thought; all in the name of control.
Academia, and the society which propagates and supports it, demands that arguments be cogent, logical- and exceedingly easy to follow, if you’ve any hope of reaching a mass audience. This is nothing short of a wholesale rejection of all things intuitive, mystical, and beyond rationality. At its root, it is a deep seated fear of what cannot be controlled and quantified; held in ones hand and examined on all sides- a fear of those things greater even than ourselves. Leaving the outer edge of philosophy wallowing in existential angst; rather than take that next tentative step into Paradox, mysticism, and rational irrationality.
Choosing to create a far more cloistered and controlled world, with rational rules, laws, and finite boundaries. A place where Paradox, contradiction, and irrationality, all the places truth chooses to hide, can be left securely outside the gate.
A group of frightened little men in suits and robes and sweater vests hiding from what they cannot possibly control, and wishing only to banish these ‘unknowables’ from their presence- a futile attempt to control truth itself.
To relive a scene between Jack Nicholson and Dennis Hopper starring in “Easy rider”:

“What you represent to them, is freedom.” Jack Nicholson says, as they sit in the fading light of a small fire. Dennis Hopper responds agitatedly “What the hell is wrong with freedom? That’s what it’s all about.”
Oh ya, that’s right, that’s what it’s all about, all right. But talking about it, and being it, that’s two different things. I mean, it’s real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace. But course, don’t ever tell anyone they’re not free, cuz then they’re gonna get real busy killing and maiming to prove to you that they are. Oh ya, they’re gonna talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you, about individual freedom. But they see a free individual, it’s gonna scare em’.”
Dennis Hopper says with a quiet quiver in his voice “Ya, well, it don’t make em’ running scared.” “No.” Jack Nicholson responds quickly. “It makes em’ dangerous.”