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  • I Was an Anarchist in my Twenties


    By Punkerslut

    Image by Seven Resist, CC BY-NC-SA License
    Image: By Seven Resist, CC BY-NC-SA License

         Admit That It Had To Be Done


    "I had to do it," I said.

    "You don't have to do anything, you never did, you never will," he responded.

    "It needed to be done," I replied.

    "Do you even know how painful that is?" he asked, "Can you even comprehend the suffering in that single act?"

    "I didn't just comprehend it," I said, "I felt every last part of it, the tightening of the straps, the last gasps of breath sputtering out with blood."

    "Why?" he asked again, "Why? What made you think it had to be done?"

    "These things have to be done," I said, "You never shed a tear for the old women beaten down by their husbands, the children sold by their parents, the communities genocided by their nations, not one single solitary drip from those eyes for all who have suffered immeasurably more than the target of my hatred."

    "So you admit that it's hatred?" he asked.

    "Only if you admit that it had to be done," I replied, "Only if you admit that the suffering of this one human being was worth just the same as anyone's suffering."

    "Hatred is an irrational emotion that can overwhelm the mind and body, making us do things that we ourselves hate, becoming disgusted, and feeling guilty," he said, "Don't you think it might've been simply better for the whole world and everyone around if you didn't let yourself be guided by such an emotion? You remember the bodies washing up on the seas, right?"

    "Yes, I remember it, and I remember it completely," I said, "Do you remember your first year at cadet academy? Do you remember what it was like to be an officer, someone who was educated and sophisticated and respected and acknowledged, and yet alone among an army of others just like you?"

    "I try to talk about your hatred, you try to talk about your cause," he said, "I try to talk about the world around you, you try to talk about the world inside me. Where is this conversation going? Is this going to be your manifesto? Is it going to be your last, last word of words? Is it going to be your testament? You can talk to me all you want. At the end of the night, I go home to my family and sleep. At the end of the night, you're still here, in a cell, surrounded by thick concrete. I have something I need to do, you have something that you think you needed to do."

    "Couldn't it just very well possibly be the other way around?" I asked, "Couldn't it be that I did something I needed to do, and you're doing something only that you think you need to do?"

    "Why's and wherefore's," he said, "That's all you've got, while I have what's and where's."

    "Excuse me?" I asked.

    "Don't play stupid," he stared at me, "Sign the damned paper, admit to what you've done, tell us everything that you know, and I promise that it'll look a lot better than what you have here and now."

    "I always remembered thinking about the type of person who would catch me, the type of human being would finally tackle me and hold me down, that one force that stopped me from my own self," I said.

    "So, you admit that you need to sign that paper, and I accept your admittance that you need to sign the paper," he said, "So can you please just sign it?"

    "You want me to sign it, because you want me to know what I've specifically done?" I asked.

    "We all know what you've done," he replied, "You probably can repeat it to yourself a thousand times while staring in the mirror from morning until nightfall, but you seemed to have a pretty damned big problem with telling anyone else exactly what you've done. There's a pen and there's the paper. I don't see any obstacle to us getting out of here except that."

    "Except, of course, you'll be the one who's getting out of here," I said, "But I will still be here. Maybe with a different room number, too, but I will still be here."

    "Is this a fact you pondered when you committed that awful crime?" he asked, "Or is it something you're just now figuring out?"

    "Oh, come now," I smiled, "Who said anything about a killing is awful? Isn't that your profession?"

    "To prevent it by doing it," he replied, "And before you ask me to justify a position that seems like a contradiction, justify to myour position of wanting liberty and yet somehow being inside here without any of it?"

    "What was the contradiction I was going to ask you to justify?" I slyly smiled.

    "That I am opposed to murder but am willing to employ it when it serves to reduce even more murder," he said, "The death sentence, the army, that's us, that's what we do, it's what we're built out of. You feel better having me explain it to you, because I knew you could figure it out."

    "Actually, I do feel better," I smiled, "Ready to let your villages burn just to protect your castle? And please, don't ask me to explain that, because I think you can figure it out."

    "You are in so much trouble," he said.

    "What?" I asked, "We've already gotten to that point? No more rational and logical dialogue between two thinking individuals, but instead, threats and violence, and, dare I even say, hatred?"

    "You're treating this argument like a ping pong game," he said, "You're just waiting to line up the next serve. You see the bars? You see this concrete? You see this cell? You're going to be playing ping pong with them for a very, very long time. That is, if security decides that you won't be a threat with a ball and paddle, and you have no idea how amazingly specific someone can be when they're given that overreaching level of authority."

    "You want to make my life miserable, and I really can't blame you," I said, "I should be used to it by now, from having dealt with so many who are also like you."

    "The rebel who's used to people rejecting his rebellion," he said, "Finally, a suspect worth interviewing."

    "Don't turn this back on me like you just philosophically ripped out the base beneath my belief," I said, "Just moments ago you were threatening me with worsened prison treatment, with infinite incarceration, with death between thick walls of mortar and limestone."

    "I'm not your fucking psychologist," he said, "I couldn't give two shits about how bad your mother and father were to you. How badly they bruised you, how much they beat you up, how much they left you alone locked in a room by yourself. I couldn't give a fuck about it. Just think about how much it's going to get worse for you in here. Just think of what people on the inside of this prison will do to you once they know who you are and what you've done, once you've become just like one of them -- a convicted felon."

    "But, I'm not that right now to you," I said, "In fact, I'm not anything to you."

    "No, you're just another waste of energy," he replied, "Not a goddamn thing at all."

    "In that case, I don't have a thing to say until I see my lawyer," I sucked down the last of the filtered water they gave me and landed it on the photo of the man I had killed, a well-known Capitalist, known for his support of violent, anti-Communist activities.

         Emotional Issues


    "Hey, you know, the more emotional issues that you work out, the less perverted your fantasies have to be to get off."

    "Now just where's the fun in that?"

    "Where's the fun in whacking off unsuccessfully for twenty minutes to the dirtiest, filthiest porn available?"

    "I might accept that criticism, if I knew that you tried it."

         To Be Free


    "There are several things you must do to be free. 1. Escape. 2..... nevermind. There is only one thing you need to do to be free."

         From This Point


         When worlds collide, is it like two cultures intermixing and intermingling, or is it like two stone spheres ripping each other apart into a thousand specks of dust? When the swans land at their lakes, are they making small ripples that only tickle the peace of a still water, or are they tearing up an essential basis for existence into a million, tiny droplets? When the trees collapse, one against another, do we find a self-felled forest, or a self-fertilized ecosystem? When a bird flees a nest being engulfed by tall blazes and unsettled flames, does the world lose a creature with wonder, or does it gain a curious traveler in an inexperienced realm? Is there one thing born except by destroying the barrier of the womb? Is there one being who exists except by the prowess of resisting negation? Is there even one feather of one bird that has always existed, that always will exist, that escapes definition of its own time and space? Was it always a fully-formed feather, one that never had to pain itself in breaking the bitter hardness of the shell, one that never suffered the disgrace of being discarded and dried up? Where could you find such a feather? How could it even exist? Where is that grace, that beauty, that wonder, that boldness, that triumph, without it being born in pain, and without it dying in ugliness? Will you respect the swans and the eagles and the robbins and the cherubs all that much more if you know absolutely that they were never young and needy, that they will never be old and weak? Would you respect the oceans more if they tumbled less, the seas more if they glittered less, the skies more if they rained less? It is disgraceful to die, but is hurtful to be born. The universe only lives because of constant destruction.

         The stars exist because they burst asunder from greater stars, the galaxies coallesced and gathered only because they gravitated away from greater structures of celestial beings, even the universe itself is nothing more than the product of bursts and blasts and burning. As the tree tops just barely scrape the atmosphere that leaks out into the atmosphere, and as the wind whips through the oaks and the pines and the cedars, you might just be able to catch the swoon and dive of that bird, its glory and power, as it settles into otherwise unsettled waters. And from those webbed feet tredding through tracks of water, from those strides and struts of footwear lashing against liquids and humidy-ridden moss, you might just be able to catch one of those millions of drops that explode out. You might just be able to see those drops as they attach to the trees and dampen the beaches and clutter the leaves and fill the bogs and dampen the birds of feathers and dribble down the long grasses. And from one little glimpse of the universe, from one little source of explosion and burst, from one little pearl of blackness and nothingness, we have to sit here, wondering why we're wiping these droplets from our face, why our eyes so quickly and instantly detract from any burst of wetness. From a point like this, I might be able to ask myself: what would happen, if worlds were to collide? I focus on the waters before me, and wait for them to give me my answers.

         Things I Hate


    Things I Hate:

    People who use the term "The Nixon Revolution"

    That is all.

    August 23, 2005

    Update: (May 25, 2014)

    Also, people who use the term "The Reagan Revolution"

    That is all.

         Does It Count As Hacking If...


    "Found out today that I'm the most productive software engineer, by checking logs and records for engineer activity."

    "Oh, yeah? How'd you even do that? Isn't that.... kind'a illegal?"

    "Does it count as hacking if you do the simplest, fucking tricks to bypass the most ridiculous, low-level security in your own company's intranet just to look at data that leaves logs that you're not gonna delete, because you don't give a fuck if they know you saw what you saw, anyway?"

    "Soooo, that's going to be what you'll tell the court? Right, be sure to write from prison."

         No Economist on This Planet


    "Pssst, there's no economist on this planet that I don't know, dead or living, but don't let the other Anarchists know."



    Valium is the drug that taught me that wanting things is the source of all anxiety.... it definitely was not Buddhism.

         My First Day Being Homeless in New Orleans


    A group of homeless kids on the corner.

    "Need to get some spare change."

    "Hey, you know, you can always say, 'Spare change or a smile?' That always works."

    A man and his girlfriend walked by.

    "Spare change or a smile?" I asked.

    The man turned around, and gave me this ridiculously wide grin, and kept walking.

    "See, it works... people are sometimes more friendly to you for it."

         All About the World


    The War is called a World War by the both sides fighting it, because even if every country in the world isn't participating, every country in the world will be effected by it.

         Anarchist Children


         "We tried to flee from the spot of boiling water, but an army of small children had cut off our retreat by slingshotting shards of glass and pebbles at our southern flank," the military report read.

         "Child soldiers!?" the General said, "The Anarchists are brilliant." In actuality, they weren't soldiers at all. They were simply street urchins expressing their own desires which had been suppressed for so long by the presence of the police.

         Be Respected


    If you're well-respected, and one day, you decide to rally against Authority and belief in submission to hierarchy, and you publicly speak against it, do not be surprised when you're call "just another Anarchist talker."

         Failed Revolt


    Your revolt will just end up being used as a reason for your prosecution and nothing more.



    We don't want to be subordinates to an empire, we want to be participants in a community!

         Very Different


    "It's completely fine and rational for very different people to live and work in extreme proximity of each other, especially when everyone's honest."

         What Rights?


    "So, Mr. Atheist, if there is no god, then where do our supposed rights come from?"

    "Rights? What rights?"

         All About the Party


    "You'll need us one day," Ron said, "One day you'll have an issue with the local government, the politics of the region, or maybe even a national movement, and at that point when you're in need, and nobody will help you, you'll think about what the party was, and how important it is to society, and why you should've obeyed it."

    "And why? Politics! Fucking politics!"

         Fine Wine


    Psychedelic/Hallucinogen: Using these is like a revitalization process, as it helps you reaffirm the basic principles of your life that have helped you accomplish so much anyway. At the moment, the drug of choice for this category is 5-MeO-AMT (5-Methoxy-Alphamethyltryptamine). I do enjoy 5-MeO-DMT (5-Methoxy-N,N-Dimethyltryptamine), but it doesn't seem to have much mind-expansion capability -- it's like psychedelic crack; it's ten minutes of intense rushing. Salvia Divinorum is enjoyable, as a "happy trip" with little potential of fully losing your sanity. And Lysergic Acid Amides (LSA) is probably least enjoyable (it can make you go insane without any of the good aspects of going insane).

    Cocaine: Not my thing. Ten minutes of happiness with three hours of psychosis isn't something I'd pay for or even take for free. It does help me write, though.

    Amphetamine: One of my things. I prefer Dextro-Amphetamine (AKA: Dexedrine, Adderall). It may last six hours, but methamphetamine is always so dirty everywhere that it simply destroys the body and gives you a powerful, unhealthy psychosis. Personal rule: Never stay up for more than one day on this.

    Alcohol: Check.

    Opiates: Codeine is okay, so is Oxycontin and all those other Pharmaceutical Opiates. I'm more of a Heroin guy, though. It's that simple.

    Marijuana: It took two years before I ever got stoned (I'm a dedicated drug user). It was about the 101st bowl that finally got me wasted. And yeah, it's pretty good to help you sleep, but beyond that, the only use of Marijuana is to increase the effects of other drugs.

    Benzodiazepines: Valium, Xanax, Klonopin. They help you sleep. And deal with psychosis (see: cocaine, amphetamine). And it's fun to mix with other drugs (see: alcohol, marijuana). Beyond that, no use.

         What Happened To You, Philosopher?


    What happened to you? You used to be a philosopher, with mind infinitely valuable in comparison to matter, with goodness being unsacrificable and with truth being the only honest and acceptable occupation. What happened to shake those heavenly pillars in your mind and bring you crashing back down to the dirt, the grome, the wants, the needs, and the insignificant frivolties of staying alive? Didn't you used to have that amazing ability to evaporate from any situation that would threaten you or question your right to think? Where did that nimble brain go? That mind which once questioned, while it now accepts, which once tore apart ideas and rebuilt them anew -- where is that quick wit now? To what use have your put it? Does your duty, responsibility, and obligation seem to be more important to you now just because it comes from some well-established, possibly-ancient institution, on this earthly planet instead of echoing to you from the chambers of the core of the universe and the conscience of your thoughts? Have you realized how much you've made it a hahit to follow orders and agree pleasantly where once you revolted and disagreed completely? Do you get validation for thoughts that aren't even your own now -- just because some organized power or authority will listen to them? What happened to the path less traveled? What happened to solving every riddle in the universe? What are you doing now? Why have you changed so much, philosopher?

         If Lenin Was a Drug Dealer


    "Hey, Kids, Wanna Build Communism?"

    "Five doses please."

    "I gots some really nice Mao Zen blend"

    "This is the reaaaaaal opiate of the masses."

    "Trotsky Kush."

    "A smoke worth waiting in line for."

    "You guys wanna buy some Party Supplies?"

    "Welcome to the Bolshe-Smoke Party."

    "For all your party-conference, party-congress, party-recruiting, and party-party needs."

    "Hey man what you got, highs and schwag?" ~ "Nah, only mids."

         There Was Once a Time


    There was once a time when I would've looked for you, instead of you coming here and finding me.

         The Machine


         The machine. I belong to the mechanical beast which calls my name. At first, I believed the power I was developing would be more powerful than me, and then I started to believe that I was building myself, accustoming myself to tools I crafted myself, and then, as I stare at the millions of lines of code, like being lost at some village, tribal rite with all of the natives screaming in some unknown dialect, finally being humbled by the thing which took my sweat and then alienated me by its complexity, I'me overempowered and then intimitad by my creation. I build an incredible machine, and then its wheels and gears spin, filling me with both terror and fascination. Is it greater than me, its inventor, am I greater than it, my machine? I am lost, thinking of its design and evaluating its purpose, considering its functioning and fearing its ability, philosophizing its meaning and predicting its motions -- I am met with so much antagonism, conflict, and disagreement with its design and principles, its raw code and its theoretical framework, its practicality and its idealism.

         Humanity has made machines since the dawn of time to simplify and improve the eficciency of common tasks -- but what about the great collective task of us all, the Social Revolution? Why not make a machine that improves the efficiency of those working for Revolution? Could it even be done, and if so, what would it look like? How would it work? What kind of personal and technological mountains would its inventors and creators need to surpass? The Utopian Revolution is a dream that caught the imaginations of those believing in a better world, but what kind of person believes in a machine that can make this Revolution? What revolutionary is ready to consign their activity to the engineering and mathematics of a device intended to liberate each oppressed being? If those who follow utopia are considered dreamers, then what do you call me for trying to build whatever machine necessary to destroy the old world order and establish a real Social Democracy? Revolutionaries fall in love with the ideal of all people working together to establish a world where everyone has what they need; so what kind of person falls in love with a machine where every party perfectly connects to every other part, functioning in mechanical harmony and organized for social harmony?

         The Machine -- It haunts me, and yet I am its ghost. It controls me and yet I am its creator. I am the mortal person with hunger and thirst and weakness, and it is an immortal machine, with coldness and logic and steel parts. I need it, and it needs me -- the Engineer.

         The Only, Only One


         The only, only one. A building full of computer scientists, programmers, and technology specialists -- and I'm the only, only one who knows how it works. Professors and deans, teachers and teachers' aids, and I'm still the only, only one. "Your code doesn't compile," I explain, basically saying that all computers running their code will explode and blow up into a thousand pieces. "This is really simple -- just look at it again," they say, and then everyone follows the words of the professor without question. The lessons go on and the teaching continues, the lectures remain uninterrupted and the homework assignments continue to pour out -- and still, still, I'm the only, only one who knows how it works. "But let me explain! Let me point out why it doesn't work! Listen to me!" And they turn around and ignore me, manufacturing a failing grade for me. And then, the only, only one turned around and just walked out.

         The buzz and bustle inside the classrooms and offices continues without pause, the rumble of their voices and typewriters making its way into the ground and traveling underfoot. It all goes on, new students, old students, freshmen, graduates, the cycle repeats and goes on and on -- the professors get slighty more efficienty every year at giving the exact same lessions; the dean gets a firmer grip after each award ceremony's handshake. The same lies go on, the same torture is administered, and beyond all of that -- I'm still, the only, only one who knows how it all works. All I wanted to do was explain it simply and completely; but retaining all of their pride was too important, even if it means teaching lies and deceit. Being proud, unerring demagogues of the times is too important -- they are as infallible as Popes, for to doubt them means doubting their entire system, the one of organized superstition and the other an educational superstition.

         And still, I am the only, only one who knows how any of it works. I just wanted truth and honesty, only being distracted by my prejudice toward goodness. But I couldn't have my wants. And so, alone I remain, the only one.

         Machinery -- That is the Addiction


         Machinery. That is the addiction. Not merely machinery, mechanization, industry, and robotics, but thinking machinery. Analytical, intelligent, responsive, thinking machines. The kind that live off of CPUs and RAM, diskspace and wire connections, algorithms and formulas, code and programming. I'm not interested in making appliances that do the job better with lesser electricity, buffering machines that produce a smoother shine with lesser time, or casting pistons of iron in a better shape and form to increase engine efficiency and power. The type of machine that allures me is one that needs its critical analysis improved, a machine that doesn't think but itself is capable of producing the results of thinking, a machine that may not churn through the burning of an entire industrial, coal furnace, but a machine that runs one the simplest requirements and produces the most complex results. I'm an engineer for artificial minds -- I figure out how to calculate the required task, and after deeply immersing myself into every piece of detail, then I make it do the task even faster and without as much human effort. That is my type of machinery: I do not stress against steel bars and iron chambers, I stress against calculations and results, againts numbers and computation, against inaccuracies in formulas and the inevitable human error that slows up all progress; I struggle with ideas and thoughts, completing the theory and explaining its process. I struggle against machines whose thinking space is inhumanly large, the majority of their parts I will never be able to fully understand. The more I build onto it, the more I forget how the older components work. The more code I write, the more unfamiliar I become with the old code. The more I digress through functions and subroutines, the less I recall about the interaction of the computer's significant, moving parts. The more I struggle against it, the more it struggles against me. And at that very fine moment, when I've fully gripped the problem and I'm pulling with all the might of my intellectual being, I begin to ask: is it my pulling the machine, or is the machine pulling me? I belong to you; you belong to me. Our miseries are the same, and so too with the joys. The teeth of my mind's gears gnash against the teeth of the machine's gears; pulleys and levers bring the calculations of the machine to my mind; it is this being that uplifts my soul and enirches my life.

         Everything I Wanted to do After I Cured Cancer


    By a Former Prison Inmate

         So fucking what. I cured cancer. What a scapegoat that I need to free instead of kill. It's something that I need to let go. "I cured cancer, I've proved it, and all those charities, governments, industries, and political parties who talk about it as a currency of suffering are shit!" How completely, absolutely undeniably true. But, I'm tired of caring about them. If thousands are in hospitals, suffering the worst possible misery imaginable, why should I care? Did they show up to my trial when I was charged for obtaining chemicals in my experiments? No. Did they show up at my court-ordered community service, did they pick me out from the crowd of nameless, orange-clothed inmates, and ask to help me out? No, no, and no. There's no point in even asking if we should overthrow the government and Capitalist system to save one human being who did a simple organic chemistry experiment to destroy one of the world's worst diseases. No -- it did not come up. And that leads me to my conclusion: Nobody dies from cancer. They die from government. Just like nobody die from infections in the Middle Ages -- they die from a church superstition that led everyone to dub doctors as "witches" and to burn them alive when they tried to heal the local peasantry. These people strapped life support systems to themselves, costing the public thousands a day -- they cannot be cured by the hospital's medicine nor do they pretend that, but they think they might survive, like the religious fanatic. They can only be cured by what has worked in medicine before: armed insurrection against liars. So, before, when I said "an alkaloid extraction of the organic compounds from an ethanol tincture of the reagant" as the cure to cancer, I lied. Every single police officer and judge, either murder someone or made someone feel the threat of murder, when that person only sought out the cure to cancer. But why should I care? Why? If millions are feeling "patriotic and honorable" by dying on public healthcare in an expensive way, why should I get in their way? Coming to my trial would've been just a light-hearted sign of appreciation. If they want me to cure their disease, I'd have to kill everyone in government and to convince the patients of its necessity. All I wanted to do was cure some horrible disease, and the answer was always there: overthrow all systems of obedience -- disease cured. I'm not going to get any further in my illegal laboratory, and those patients aren't going to get any better at the heands of government and authoritarian, university-trained "doctors." I need to stop caring about it, because nobody dies from cancer -- they die from their willing to allow police officers, judges, and soldiers walk their neighborhood streets. They couldn't give up government any more than an illiterate peasant from the year 1000 could give up belief in the church superstitution that all medicine comes from the devil. They chose to die, and when armies of fools who want to die are told that it is not necessary, they scream loudly, and all at once, "BURN THE HERETIC!" And so, I was burned, because I wanted to save those who already considered themselves "saved as much as is possible." Every major institution from medicine to universities to government to religion are on the brink of collapse with their petty myths. For twhose who think, they are already collapsed. If I had to, I am perpared to administer the cure to cancer ot anyone I love when they need it -- if everyone else destroyed the worlds of government, then maybe everyone will have the cure, as well.­

         Cops Searching the Squat


    That awkward moment when the police are searching your squat for drugs and they find someone with a pair of handcuffs. "Oh, and what's that for?" an intimidating officer asks me. I gather up the courage and respond, "That.... is for role-playing." No comment.

         To You, Tyranny


    I grabbed the aristocrat by his collar and lifted him up into the air, "You leave my people alone! And they are all mine, even if you count some of them as yours. You're a government! You have no people! All you can have are subjects -- mindless machines, souless creatures, and demons in the bodies of men and women, but you will never have PEOPLE!"

         Political Superstitions


    I refer to things like "trial by jury" and "rule by the people" in the government as political superstitions. Yes, I know there are many people who believe in such things, holding them close to their heart, cherishing them, and at times when they think they hear these things in action, they even tremble in fright of the power they imagine to such mythical beasts. But, as any superstition, it exists only in the mind, believed in because it is the most direct explanation that can be drawn out from other people about what's happening. They ask advice from their witch-doctors, each of whom engage in a sort of barbaric war with all other witch-doctors. And, eventually, like anyone under a false belief, they are eventually convinced into behaving as authority commands.

         Stupid Joke


    Going to court next week. Gonna represent myself.

    Aw, yeah? You know, I heard that a lawyer who represents himself has an idiot for a client.

    Well, that may be so, but to be sure, I'd have to ask my lawyer about it.

         Computers: Blah


    Computers are the most impressive innovation of our era, and what we do with them today is going to determine how they are used for centuries. That is where I have decided to make an impression of my creative energies. Since I have educated myself through self-study and classes, I have learned that Open Source development really holds the key to the future. I want to develop computer technology, anywhere in the spectrum from hardware to software, but more specifically, I want to develop open and unrestricted technologies. These goals have brought me through the vast array of open source programming languages today, particularly those designed for open source Linux servers. I have found this to be the ideal workspace for my inspiration.

         Incidents Without Resolve


    "Giants only struggle with one thing in life -- how to hold a flower without crushing it."

         When I am Sleep-Deprived


         When I am sleep-deprived, I experience intensity of heat and cold intermittently. So when I am in bed, trying to sleep, I keep tossing ad truning, I keep kicking off the sheets, tearing at the blankets, wanting more but demanding less, pushing back and forth toward a comfortable medium that does not exist. Birds float along the breezes of my dreams, as bugs morph into and out of the trees, my mind ripped apart from its inner sanctum of beauty and simplicity, torn by force of my body out of that pleasantness, and brought back here, to a miserable, interwining pile of blankets, still quiet of night, and of course, myself, my sweat, my sleepiness washed upon shores of blistering discomfort.

         Tired like nothing, like everything, like a bored person who fucking couldn't care less. Night after night like this, standing on a plateau and gazing in all directions for where to sleep, but finding nothing. I can't even remember what happened recently, unless it's a painful sting that's bound to keep me awake. Only if it is a social interaction that's bound to unroll and fumble down through my memories into some sense of having failed. Life is funny, but damnit, I want to sleep. So so so bad.

         I. What a word. But it means "your brain", and nothing else.


         I swim, but sink.

         In Your Mind


         In your mind, you belong to yourself. Nowhere else are you the only one to claim yourself. That dark place where you can hang any panting as long as you're thinking about it -- or maybe I'll think of it as a place full of white light and illuminescence that dies down whene I close my eyes. Anything I want, without abstraction, since I have laid claim ot my mind and seized , by being alive.

    Writing is shit.

         I Hate Writing


         I hate writing. I'm going to quit. The only skill I've developed in compulsive obsession, and now I want to be rid of it like a curse or a disease. It is my deformity: being able to take ideas, reformulate them as necessary, and to produce a new form for them.

         What Does It Take to Win the Revolution


         "What does it take to win the Revolution?"

         "It depends on what you want out of the Revolution. If you want the fullest expression of the individual and their right to everything needed for personal development, then it must be an Individualist Revolution. If you want to create a political power that is envisioned or guided by the working people, then it must be a Revolution of Laws. There is no one true revolution that outshines all other revolutions, like some Messiah or Burning Bush, but only the Revolution by those who make it, and it will become something to them only because of how they made it."

         "A small revolution produces a better result when guided by the needs of its participants, than a large revolution guided by some theory, abstraction, or state. But why?"

         "The Revolution must be organized so that everyone who wants to liberate themselves shall be powered to do so. All Revolutions start on the premise that some lowley, despised group depands that its chains shall be lifted off. When this expands into a matter of treaties-and-truces with each of your enemies, then the Revolution is corrupted -- and its ulimate, final demise is guaranteed. Once the rebels act like an institution, which must be preserved or otherwise external forces will destroy, then the rebels have become like Capitalism, the church, or the state. Such abstractions consume human life and only put as the most important of objectives their own preserverance rather than the Revolution. Such revolutionaries are truly lost."

         Why Coding?


    Why do I like to code? Because, code only cares that you can think it out. The particularisms of the programmer never enter into it. It obeys you, only as much as you obey the natural laws of logic. All other individuality is encouraged, because it won't enter into the equation, as long as you understand the world around you.

         The Police Broke Into My House


         The police broke into my house, destroyed my property, and exposed me to attack, because I am Atheist.

         "Jews who do not believe in god are not Jews," I was told before when discriminated against for being a non-Christian.

         "Submit a complaint to the citizen's review board," I was told by the Police Department Sergeant.

         And the District Attorney didn't say anything at all.

         What do you do? What can you do? Nothing -- nothing at all. I should have known this. I should have known all along. Hire a lawyer? I tried getting help from a non-profit lawyer's committee. "We don't help the vengeful," I was told.

         I could spend the rest of my life digging ditches, pushing carts, and working on the assembly line, thrown into a hole when I'm used up, and be happy about that as my life. But there is no true, direct way of living like honestly -- there is only Sophstry, or the use of knowledge to manipulate and control people. If I could dig deep enough to have a place to drop my corpse into, then I can become a sophist. Nothing may come from it for others, but perhaps I may be safe from it.

         Smoke More Marijuana


    "GRAHHHHHHHHHH!" I grab my coffee cup and take off with it, spinning in a circular motion with my arm out, winding up to throw this object as far as I can, hoping that it takes my rage with it. As I'm spinning, the glass shatters, with infinite bits of tacky-green splintering off from the cup, leaving me with the just the handle and its sharp, painful, and jagged edges. But I keep spinning, and the glass that broke off from it is following the handle. My body's wheeling motion is so fast that a vacuum created behind the broken handle is pulling the shards of glass behind it. I push my twirling motion to an even greater intensity, and the cluster of my broken cup is now a ball of refuge, pulling all of the papers off of the desk in my room and sucking the flowers out of the vase. The ball of garbage grows and grows, with its vacuum power pulling the drawers out of my dresser and consuming my clothing. Books are ripped in half as they bang against each other in the ball of mess, and my spinning accelerates more and more. The feet of the chairs and tables change very quickly from wabbling to being pulled into the vortex that is my shattered mug. I give more and more force to that circular motion, and finally, the nails are pulled out of the floorboards, and the panes in the windows are torn down, before the floorboards and the windows themselves are ripped asunder in the house's collapse. Now I'm dancing only beneath the Earth, that barren, brown surface, cutting my feet on tiny pebbles and making craters of mud. Faster and faster, in this circular motion, with a ball of a broken coffee cup, papers, dust, lint, clothing, furniture and a house, all balled up into this black hole. Faster and faster, and then, the oceans are pulled in, and the continents, and the planet itself is sucked into the ball from beneath my own legs, and then the planets, the sun, the galaxy, and the whole universe, all spinning in this ball of rage and pain and aggression and alienation, and SWOOOOOOOOSHHHHHHHHHH -- I let it go, flying far, far, far into the distance. Slowly breathing, I give myself a moment. Completely surrounded by the darkness, without anyone or anything visible. So I sit down, on this floor of nothingness, I pull a Cannabis joint and a lighter out of my shirt pocket, and I smoke. Just one or two puffs, and I turn the other way; there's my desk and papers! I get up and go over, discovering my plate with my fruit breakfast and my collection of books and my stacks of neatly sorted papers. Then I sit down, and I am now able to finish the last sentence of my story.

         Remember My Advice Last Time


         "Remember my advice last time? Just treat every woman like your lover and they'll jump into your arms."

         "No, no, no, I tried that before, remember? It was an epic fail."

         "In what way? You weren't arrested, were you?"

         "Well, not for that, but I realized by doing it how perfectly embarassed I should be by it."

         "So? Then don't be embarassed."

         "... good point."

         You're Such a Trouble-Maker


         "You're such a trouble-maker," the officer said, "You were young and stupid then, and if anything's changed, you're only old and stupid."

         "And nothing about this place has changed, either," I said, "Not the personnel, not the smell of the air, not how your wife presses your ties or how the guests are treated."

         "Guests?" the officer cracked a smile, "You aren't a guest, only a problem. Even if you got smarter, your heart's just as weak. If you chaos and disorder is still your logo, then you obviously didn't get smarter at some things. Some very important things."

         "Right back at you, if you still think my understanding of society can be summed up with 'chaos and disorder,'" I replied.

         "You don't have to like me and I don't have to like you, but we need to have an understanding here," the cop went on, "If I hear anything in this neighborhood, about anarchy or anarchists, then I'm going to come looking for you, and you better not give me that surprised look like you have no idea what the fuck is going, like last time."

         "That's because I was naive, and I thought I could count on some things, but there's nothing besides yourself," I responded.

         "It always goes back to nothing," the officer assured me," Just like you. But there's everything else, and that is what I'm concerned with here."

         "A real concerned citizen, aren't you?" I said.

         "You don't forget it, either," he pulled a char out from under the table really fast and creating a loud noise, as though to pertude the logic of my dialogue, "Nothing is what I am going ot hear about you. Nothing is what you are, what your friends are, what your whole so-called 'community' is."

         "My friends?" I asked, "Does this have to be so personal?"

         "I could treat you less like a person, if you'd like," the officer replied.

         "I don't see how," I stood up and grabbed my coat.

         "Indignant, intolerant piece of trash -- you just fuck up once when I'm on the beat, you'll see how I treat you then."

         "I've already seen your little show," I put one arm into my coat, and then the other, "Great fireworks, but the plotline is convoluted. You can beat a person to death, but the audience isn't convinced by your overture of why it has to be done, or even the sincerity in your voice. And as long as you do the casting, I'm sure I'll always be the villain."

         "These streets are the stage, but I'm always the director. Don't forget it," the cop said.

         "I've been trying to since I walked in here," I said, "Good day, officer." And then I slammed the door on my way out.

         Poorly-Dressed Superhero


    "I always look like 'crap.' My hair is always like fire, jutting out here and there, curling halfway and then going straight, and all around, just fighting all of the natural, cruel forces of gravity, wind, and moisture. But I like it by now. I hated it, until I started thinking about it like fire. And besides, I wear the crummiest clothes ever. By my image, I let everyone around me know that I wouldn't use anything like physical imagery, or property, to make them be convinced my message. And whenever I see someone dressed up well, I always question their motives -- why they think they can whatever their supposed to do better because they spent an extensive amount of time building their wardrobe. Besides that, I hate judgment by images, by physical appearances. Hating people because of their culture, their color, their religion, their language, all stems from having a preconceived image of how people are supposed to look, to act, to behave. But I violate all respectable, preconceived images, because I simply do not buy into the paradigm of prejudice. I don't think a person is what they look like, and I prove that by being as lazy as possible in what I wear or how I look."

    "Is that all there is to it?"

    "Well, there's also the concept of body image that's imposed up people in society. We're all supposed to look great, be perfect, and be absolutely beautiful. I'll make myself worthy of standing out instead. Especially the image of beauty that's imposed upon women, everywhere, in all films and commercials, even in music, which is heard and not seen. If I don't give a flying fuck in any slight way about how I appear, I hope others around me will make the same estimation about this fake culture that's forced into your brain everywhere you look. Then once, I met this girl, at a commune. She was generally unimpressive in any way you could imagine, and I felt that she was kind of stupid, though we had a conversational relationship. One day, after we had barely known each other for a week, she told me she had a nightmare where I raped her."

    "See, you always just wander through these ideas like a bold, poorly-dressed hero, and whatever you try to do, you always fuck it all up."

    "No, I'm still enthusiastic about liberation from all oppressive forms of control. But I remember it, because I'm not usually shocked by conversation with people who aren't that intelligent."

         Being Followed by Police Officers


         Being followed by police officers, all of them trying to look unsuspicious in their neon-yellow, cross-guard jackets. I wonder if I'll ever be able to walk down the street without being followed, and followed badly. Once in this city, I saw a pair of cops turn the corner, and one taps the other, then points directly at me. When I walked past them, they didn't say a word, and I avoided eye contact with the beasts. But now I'm just sitting at a bunch, waiting for a friend, with a yellow-blazer cop going crazy in his orders over the radio. Halfway deaf in one ear, all that makes it to my ear-canal is that radio static and a voice monotized by the frequency. Just sitting, minding my own business, as this police officer keeps peaking around the corner, and then quickly jumping back so I don't see him. I'm watching him by using the reflection of one of these innumerable pieces of metal in my city. That brightened yellow jacket reflects perfectly off of everything. And of course, through my absent-minded monitoring, I hear the "request for backup." Ah, they must mean me. I thought of the best way to get them to ignore me, and it came: I pulled a rather broken-in book from my pocket, turned to my bookmark, and then bgan half-way reading. My friend should be here shortly, and I wasn't expecting to be able to read much, but a person sitting with a book looks so much more innocent than someone just sitting. And I was right. The officer fully emerged from the bend, slowly approached me, while watching me, then he turned around and walked away, to go finish his other rounds. All from pulling out a bookand pretending to read on a public bench. I'm curious if the officer thought, "A book?! Well, he's probably more innocent than me, since I don't even read." It was some months ago, and I'm sure ther will be other incidents.

         She's Just a Playmate


         She? Yeah, she's just a playmate. I might've loved her once, but she never loved me. I might have melted into her arms at the sound of her voice, but she never melted into mine. A playmate: we had fun together without any love. I suppose there would have to be a time when the same applied to me in reverse: I was loved by someone and I never returned the feeling, though I enjoyed the companionship. Life is this endless process of being used up and using up others.

         I still picture her, one I could have loved, and her voice is like a soft hand down my back, those eyebrows breaking through that glorious skin, and I feel like I'm still in love; I feel like I did that first time, when I could have jumped into her like a fresh pool of water, dripping from my every pore with her. But those times are gone -- the person I was is a brave stranger compared to the tired old man who today talks about "getting used up." If the price of love was my soul, I could've paid it, "because there's plenty more where that came from." But the soul today is battered and chipped, and whatever warranty it had, it was voided long ago. Nobody would barter over it. Even I don't think it's worth much, and I often ask if it would be easier to walk without its burden.

         What happened to me? Why have I become like this? I still dream of loving a woman worth loving, but I'm too old -- I'm too everything. And I tried everything, with every bit of patience, with all my loneliness bundled up under my arm, but with nowhere to take it. I was pure and honest -- I believed in some kind of good in everyone. There is nothing here like that today, though. My heart wouldn't budge an inch if I met the perfect girl for me -- this heart was unwrappend and left to rot. It is past the date of expiration. Even if I wanted to, more than anything, nothing would happen. I wouldn't fall into her essence when her smile makes my soul beam -- I'd just fall through the cracks in her face, barely seeing her as a person, without just the desire of wantitg to make myself love again.

         Billions of Drops of Rain


         Billions of drops of rain. Each one of them is a word, and when thunder breaks, that's the exclamation point.

         A flood of water over your body. It soothes and relaxes, helps and loves, tires and excites. What are all of those little words saying? What phrase does it wish to whisper into my ear by drenching my hair in its entangling solvent? What idea does it wish to express using those low-toned gusts and those whistling winds? Does the sky have a poem that it wishes to tell me? I feel the rhythm of its verses -- but the abstraction of its meaning doesn't fit my language.

         It is gentle in its cooling. It is weak in its power. Great vast being before me in the skies, take me into your private chambers, and explain the purpose of it all. Your little drops of rain are curious, and I'll always want to know.

         All of Us Lined Up


         All of us lined up -- tied to each other by a 40-foot chain with handcuffs and foot shackles on it every two feet. You can't move anywhere, in any direction, because of this mass of moaning flesh-and-blood is attached to you. "Roll call!" a hollering, coarse scream echoes from one of the distant ends of the chain -- somewhere far beyond my vision. A large, thick police officer makes his way down the line, looking at me, curiously. He was gigantic, and comparatively, I was very tiny. In fact, I was only 18 years old. As he passes me, when he's only a few inches from my chest, looking like he was casually making the rounds, he stops suddenly and turns te me, pulling back his arm and swinging. It happened to fast to even think about what was happening. His fist whizzed past my nose, missing by a half-centimeter. I didn't move a fucking muscle. Then he stood there, staring at me, half-chuckles to himself, and keeps moving on. I sometimes think how he wanted me to react -- this pair of legs and arms, tied to hundreds of other legs and arms, struggling in a beating, with only a half-foot of free space between either my legs or hands.

          I had been in prison for only three days, having been arrested for being homeless after my parents threw me out, one week after my 18th birthday. Hell. That is a phrase for it. I suppose at that moment, it became somewhat more apparent that I stuck out as the only white person who the guards messed with. I didn't really think of it so much then, since white cops are assholes just as much as black cops. Those friends I meet inside were surprisingly more human than you'd imagine. There was no prison library -- let alone "outdoor space" where you could breath fresh air. So, I asked some people in my tier if they had anything to read -- they offered a "Black Entertainment" magazine, and I made a half-smile. Then one of the people I was talking with said, "I think he means a real book." Then someone handed me a book titled "I'm Gonna Bury You!" -- a Christian novel about why prisons and their system of slave labor are necessary. I read it for 12 hours straight, nearly finishing it, just as my time was up.

         1:30 A.M.. That's the time they throw you out of prison. Why? (1) So you can get picked up again for loitering at night, (2) It counts as an additional day, so the prison makes more money. I carried that novel under my army, nicely blending it into the orange of my prison suit, and they marched those just about to be released in chain-gang style again. I passed by the bunks of my friends who gave me the book -- they were soundly asleep, so I slipped the book under one of their bunks. Breathing that fresh air I had been separated from, seeing that pitch black sky, I felt like I had actually been buried and only now was I crawling out of that wretched hole. The chain-gang is a great precaution -- almost every guard on duty was asleep.

         It was good to be outside, but I was "ruined" for everything I could possibly be. I saw this one police officer walking through the holding tank. It was like a scene from the film "Soylent Green" -- bodies and bodies, sleeping on each other, leaning on each other, gangs having claimed the toilet area so they could clandestinely smoke. A prisoner with a blue uniform passed, which is an inside forced-laborer uniform. Such compulsion had its priviliges, like being able to walk in restricted areas, hence the blue uniform to distinguish from orange. One of the inmates slams a ten-dollar bill against the holding tank glass, the blue-uniformed worker-prisoner sees it, and then he enters, selling a pack of cigarettes for $10. The money had to be smuggled. All mine was taken from me, less than half of it returned to me when I left the prison. It was in this crouded, smelly tank that a supervisor walked. After a verbal argument with a prisoner he may have accidentally stepped on, the prisoner was called out of the holding tank, and beaten. I compulsively listen to detail, -- and always, from the corner of my eye, I see that prisoner; probably 50-years-old, with a sunk-in face and body from years of painful, overbearing work, and I see him limping back to the holding tank, and not hiding it so much as hiding his pain. I can close my eys, and still hear that hurried dragging on concrete floor.

         This is how I have been "ruined." I saw what everyone denies -- I experienced those bars and chains and guards and cops. Everyone works at a job that pays taxes for places like this. Everyone pays a sales tax that supports these "institutions." Everyone is responsible, everyone paid for it -- don't forget it ever. The scientists researching "cancer" by cutting off the eyelids of dogs and cats -- they live off of it. The news reporter discussing political parties and electoral politics -- they live off of it, too. Your priests and pastors, your boss and the bosses they crawl to, physicians and psychiatrists, managers and supervisors -- they all participate in awful crimes. Whatever contribution to "humanity" is made by this middle class -- they are all offset by their collaboration with this system. Great, you cured a disease -- after paying cops who beat people to near death, or sometimes further. Great, you designed a new, efficient engine -- so it can be used in a tank in the state's armies. Great, you reached the absolute epitome of arte, learning, and science -- but look at what you agree to just to feed yourself. IT is the Dark Ages, but instead of burning writers for not talking about god, they burn us alive for not accepting the state and government. Even if you could do something unique and brilliant, don't you know that your sweat is oiling the machine?

         There's Really Nowhere Else For Me To Go


         There's really nowhere else for me to go. If I walked any further, then I wouldn't have enough time on my lunch break to even sit down. There are cafes and a few stranded bench,s but their toll is looking at concrete and smelling stuffy air. I suppose I could sit down outside where I work, leaning against the building, getting lost in the clouds, and having all of the time in the world to eat my unattractive and crusty sandwich. Or maybe I wouldn't even leave the breakroom -- maybe I would just sit in the breakroom, inhaling a plastic atmosphere diluted by the smell of industrial cleaners, and pretending that one of the shades of blue in this wallpaper is a river that will carry me far, far away. Maybe I won't be back at all! Maybe I'll decide at that moment to stay in the office, hidden by the absence of coworkers, floating on time that I couldn't sell. But that might not happen: instead, I might decide to listen to that spontaneous impulse to break free! Dash past the front doors without clocking out, don't rearrange my desk so it looks like I'll be back, no comment to the secretary, no note to my boss, no goddamn memo to my supervisor, fuck the stock holders, and break through that barrier of compulsion and habit. No more of this world for me! You can take your concrete pillars, your skyscrapers, your office buildings, your asphalt roads, and you can take them straight to hell with you!

         But, no matter which direction I choose, no matter the pace I set myself to, I'd probably end up someplace like here: a steady breeze, a bright sun, and the endless sight of green up and down, from the grass to the leaves. This place envelopes me like a cocoon, flooding and overwhelming the person I was, burying that person in the coffin of the earth, and allowing me to grow into something new and different -- to rise up from the dirt and nothingness, becoming a connection in the constellation of all this green. If I broke free, why would I go anywhere else? If I chose to go back, to retrace those sunken footprints in concrete, to willing put those shackles back onto my feet and those chains back onto my wrists, then did I even really get away? Could I somehow be drawn from those forests and jungles into aw orld of perfectly-shaped rectangles, unassuming triangles, and uncharacteristic circles? The police officer I pass on my way out to lunch, the sirens that make each day's timing slightly different -- could they all have pulled me back? Did I let them? Or did I believe that I had to let to them?

         What Would it Be Like to Have Another Warm Spot in my Bed


         What would it be like to have another warm spot in my bed? What would it feel like to sleep to the sound of another's breathing? Would I be able to keep my eyes shut for the full eight hours, neither tossing nor turning, neither opening my eyes nor waking up? Would my dreams promise horizons and mountaintops and cool breezes and birds chirping? Would my mind guarantee me its guardianship against nightmares and imagined phantoms? Would my hand silde through her heat to pull myself out of those terrible thoughts? Would I look to her content face if sleep was refusing me its refuge? Would she promise me something, anything, if those stairs twinkled too brightly for me? Would the exhaling of touching her intoxicate me beyond consciousness? Would her pullings and pushings make me feel confident enough to accept the embrace of darkness? What would it be like to have another spot in my bed that was full of all that warmth and love and passion?

         Definitely Not Based on Real Life


    "Look, you've been causing problems for this school's IT department since day one."

    "It hasn't been my intention to mess with your computers --"

    "Then why did you hack the user account database?"

    "It told me do it."

    "It told you to do it?"

    "Yeah, it said that your password must consist of numbers and symbols."

    ".... and?"

    "And... the instruction to override the local component of the Cold Fusion engine... that contains symbols."

    ".... I am not impressed, sir."

         It Came to Me


    The ego had died. I did not know who I was. My thoughts ran rapidly, tracing all details that I could remember -- name, birthday, parents, family, interests, -- no, no, it was all gone. My own ego was gone. It had obliterated, dissolved into my hands, as I needed to struggle just to recall one single, embedded memory. And when it came to me, it was alien. It did not fit. I recalled my own name the way I recalled the image of a tree. It came to me as something that I imagine outside of my own self. Imagining the curls in my hair from childhood to those just staring back at me in the mirror, my first love to my last love, every single bit of it, was like the details of a character from a novel; a being who existed, lived, wanted, tried to obtain, fell through conventions and standards and defining shapes, but someone who was, above all, not me. Someone who was just a particular human being, in society, recognized in that society, valued or despised for certain traits that this society can see -- but that someone, that being, was not me. I was everything else, everything that was not the "me" to them. The ego was dead; I did not know myself, nor did I analyze or become crytical of myself. I was... unrelated to the person that people had known in the world. The burning pain of losing that, becoming nothing, is incomparable. To see the world, everything you've ever experienced, as the folly and fortune of a single person, completely unrelated to the true you, then you become nothing. You become purely and perfectly self-aware -- but of the self that exists because of you, and not the self that exists because of everyone else. It burns, you sweat, you pant, everything is lost, and you can't even remember which image in your mind was of you, or someone else, or another, or another. Everything is set on fire, and you lose it all. The ego is dead, and you are finally self-aware of your unique consciousness.

    Once you have disconnected, your life, and its details and characteristics, is placed side-by-side with all of the other lives you have ever touched or been touched by. Every personality swirls around your mind, hundreds of them, equal and yet different, and yet, no matter which one you stop to focus on, you cannot imagine the one that is you -- you cannot imagine that life that is your own. The swirling speeds up, and then, in time, it slows down. You're spiralled out of consciousness and thrown back into one of those lives, completely randomly, without any choice, without any ambition, without any wanting. And when you come to, you'll realize that you are stuck to the body. Then, you have to decide, what is it about yourself that you like or dislike, and what you must do to achieve the changes you want.

    This is what it's like to use hallucinogenic drugs.

         The Least of All Nothings


    Everyone agrees with god. Who would disagree with the creator of all morality, ethics, culture and society? Nobody. But, then why does everyone disagree with each other? How could a god have the power to create life, but not the power to accurately communicate their ideas to such life? And, while we're at it, why is everyone's conception of god more like a psychoanalytic diagnosis of the individual? Why do people become impassioned by one particular aspect of their religion, ignoring all of the rest, like hatred of sex and hatred of women, love of war and love of conquest? Why do people pick up and drop religions? Why do people even have opinions that keep changing, if they think that they agree with a being who has infinite, unchanging wisdom? Why do they think they are better off for believing that all of intelligence, thought, hope, love, and meaning exists outside of themselves? Those who think that they have everything, in fact, have the least of all nothings: religion.

         Computers Are Abstraction


    Computers are pure abstraction. The most versatile, mobile, changeable, evolveable piece of computer code is the one that has never been written. To place establish one single convention means to prohibit all ideas, methods, and forms that would contradiction that convention. To establish one variable, to write one line of code, to establish one single system of variables, codes, and programming, all of that, itself, destroys the abstraction. The thing becomes what it could have been, and ceases to be what was the essence of its abstract nature: existence solely within thought. By being programmed, the abstraction fades, and it becomes machine. Thought, concept, analysis, all of it ceases to be part of the computer design once it has become designed. For at that time, certain adaptations become impossible. They would only be implementable by destroying the part of the original that made it a machine, a physical representation, of the design's abstraction.



         1914, St. Petersburg -- the heart of all Russian Revolutions, the soul of all world revolutions -- here, the Congress of Bolshevik Communist delegates agreed to meet. It was getting late, though. The group stood outside, Stalin taking occasional puffs from his cigarette, as all of the comrades deeply wrapped themselves in their Siberian parkas. One of the comrades was taking a secret swigs from a flask of vodka, as Lenin stood looking determined and deep in thought.

         There wasn't really much conversation going on, but there was something that stood out deeply in everyone's minds: the loud sounds of two comrades having hot, angry sex clustered in some corner of the Communist congress hall. Maybe nobody really knew what to say about it, that ridged, thumbing rhythm, accented with moans or screams at the right time. Lenin stood there, probably trying to pretend that he couldn't hear the sounds.

         Mr. Etzler


    Mr. John Adolphus Etzler, Proto-Marxist :

    "The Paradise within the Reach of all Men" (1833)

    “There will be afforded the most enrapturing views to be fancied, out of the private apartments, from the galleries, from the roof, from its turrets and cupolas, — gardens, as far as the eye can see, full of fruits and flowers, arranged in the most beautiful order, with walks, colonnades, aqueducts, canals, ponds, plains, amphitheatres, terraces, fountains, sculptural works, pavilions, gondolas, places for public amusement, etc., to delight the eye and fancy, the taste and smell. … The walks and roads are to be paved with hard vitrified large plates, so as to be always clean from all dirt in any weather or season. … The channels being of vitrified substance, and the water perfectly clear, and filtrated or distilled if required, may afford the most beautiful scenes maginable, wile a variety of fishes is seen clear down to the bottom playing about, and the canals may afford at the same time, the means of gliding smoothly along between various sceneries of art and nature, in beautiful gondolas, while their ..."

    Wait, wait, wait, did he mention the gondolas twice? The first time, it's like, "Wow, a gondola, a hand-twinned thicket of twigs and branches, dangling from a cord, high above the mountains and the treetops." But, the second time, it's like, "Ugh, are we still on this goddamn gondola? How long does it take to get to the fucking grocery store?" The more I read Mr. Etzler's new-fandangled world, and his idea of how to make it, the more I realize him to be the perfect proto-Marxist. What does the world need to be perfect? Sufficient and widespread development of technology that can handle all of humanity's needs. Who cares about "who owns" the machinery, or anything like that. Once the technology is made that can satisfy all of humanity's needs, it will inevitably have to be used for that purpose: build up the Communist Party and then industrialize the economy under the tyrant's hand. You need a dictator for this situation, because why would workers want to work to build up their own country? You can't rely on lazy bums like us, no sir, you need one person in charge, to whip us into action! "To do for the workers what they cannot do for themselves..." is the attitude of every Socialist and Communist Party. It's members -- as individuals -- may be well-meaning, honest, diligent people, very well involved in many union and protest efforts, but when they come together to pass bylaws and choose candidates, they solely express that dominating attitude of the Communist Party. And, the ultimate goal must necessarily be absolute technological development, to the point where humanity's needs and desires are wholly satisfied by the built technology. Mr. Ertzler had this same idea at least two decades before Marx. "Give your body, your strength, your money, everything, to those who want to look out for your good, and we'll build your new world for you." Etzler estimated that he needed 200 million dollars, in 1833 money. Money was collected and raised, but I don't need to tell you the outcome: Paradise was not created. His message: "Give me your everything," His deed: "I'll see you in some other lifetime." And then it's...

    Hello Marx,
    Hello Carnegie,
    Hello Lenin,
    Hello Ford,
    Hello Mao,
    Hello Rothschild,
    Hello Castro,
    Hello Gates,

    "Build up the perfect world, by your subordination! We'll perfect the technology that makes life perfect for everybody!" And yet, none of these people thought it would be useful at all to consult with engineers in these matters. That may have something to do with each of their failures.

         The Beginning


    Animal Liberation is an essential part of the revolution. If we still live in a way where humanity dominates and enslaves all other conscious life, we have not achieved freedom for ourselves or for others. Vegetarianism is the beginning.

         Power and Meaning


    "This hacker's good," my trainer told me, "He's hijacked our entire servers, advertising to the whole world that he controls us, but we just keep banning his mac numbers, so he'll run out of cards soon enough."

    "Oh, yeah? That's interesting," I replied, deep inside, telling myself, "Keep a straight face, keep a straight face, keep a straight face -- don't let him know, don't let him know..." But, I failed, because he turned away, and half a second later, he turned his head back, and looked at me with a half-smile, suddenly really evaluating the situation, like he knew. He must've known. I felt my pulse dropping to nothing and my skin turning pale, but I knew, that he knew, that I was the hacker -- I was the little flickering flame dancing between his hands, his gigantic, bulbous fingers constantly missing their target. As soon as they swoop in, the wind itself carries the tiny spark outside of their grasp, and then I'm free again, dancing on the wind of a digital, electronic world, putting myself into control of all situations.

    I had only been in training for a week, even though I had hacked their servers at least a year ago. When I applied for a job there, it had been mildly back in my mind what I had done, but I didn't really give it consideration. Everyone who can get hacked should get hacked, and on a long enough time line, that means everyone. Honestly, I wouldn't be able to apply for work anywhere if I avoided a job because of my involvement with hacking it.

    And what was I doing? Distribution of large quantities of legally-unjustifiable material. Part of it was revenge for what had happened long ago in my early hacking days -- vengeance, that dish served best when cold, serves well in computer systems that slow down when they're heated up. Members of a otherwise public group were arrested in China for distribution of material that was deemed offensive or threatening to their national, Communist government. The details are so slim, and nobody cares, not one human rights organization on the goddamn planet, because "they were hackers," even though it just happened that they were hacking computer systems to create spheres of free speech in a country where they didn't exist. I operated servers for that Chinese group, up until the very moment of their disappearance.

    When I say "arrested," I'm making a guess -- there was a public apology done by one of them, which was quickly censored in the Chinese newspapers, which quickly made me more suspicious. In fact, I was only able to dig it up by doing a history search of chinese websites, using archive.org. The apology note looked fairly typical for someone who wrote it while electrical clamps were attached to their sex organs. But what the hell does the Chinese government and some local, company-owned, shithole server have anything to do with each other? Because the administrators of that shithole server cooperated with the Chinese government in taking down our small group. Forever, I will be that little tiny flame, flickering up into your eyes when you swoop down to snatch me, jumping through the tiny crevices between your clumsy fingers, with grace and tact, with finesse and beauty, with power and meaning.

    You won't catch me, I'll be sure of that! "That hacker is just running out of Mac numbers, they'll be out of different network cards to connect to us soon enough." So much for your reasoning, because in a single instant, on the fly, I rewrite my driver files for my network card, giving it a new mac address! You fool! You think you can stop me!? You just banned the address 00-0D-3A-22-63-20, an address I had just written into my mac network card, that just so happens to be an official, Microsoft Mac address! I hope none of the M$ engineers try to connect to your server! But now, I'm 00-1C-3F-10-24-18, an address officially registered to the tiny, but impressive-sounding company named "International Police Technologies." Come on, ban me again, and you'll find yourself with a network card that revolves addresses every ten minutes!

    This is for my friends in Henan and Yunnan, in Hunan and Jiangxi, friends who I could imagine loving but whose names I never knew, because knowing what you don't need to know is a threat to you and to them -- this is for the nameless, the anonymous herds, who have been stamped down and oppressed. The Chinese government is a threat to liberty? My friend, I might believe that if their greatest helpers weren't the Capitalists of the West. You believers in "freedom of speech" and "constitutional rights," you are all hypocrites and liars, and I'll forever be that deviant you cannot touch.

    How dare you enter my world, the interconnection of all of the world's computers, and assume that you can carry your laws, your prison sentences, and your police with you! How dare you enter here, and think that your orders and your prison sentences mean anything! You will not stop me, and I will drive you out of my world of computers, if I must spend my entire life doing it.

         Pillars of Tyranny


    Tyranny stands on three pillars. The first, Self-Interest, looks up to the height of the hierarchy, and sees themselves as one day reaching that position. The second, Morality, sturdily grasps the downward force and keeps it steady, because they believe it is their duty and obligation. And the third, Ignorance, when asked why they submit, responded, "There's someone on my back?"

         My Own Self Worth


    I tried to make myself all for all. I tried to sacrifice everything to everything. In my mind, I pulled back from concepts of family and nation, humanity and god, and objectively put myself forward as the active moving agent of revolution. But objectively, when I look at myself, I am outside myself, I am outside of the feeling of myself -- and where there is cutting of my flesh without sensation of it, destruction of my physical body without my consciousness, I lose connection to all of it. There is no morality, where I am not a part of the world. The sense of right begins with my own sense of happiness or suffering. Where I am all for all, and I am not part of all, then the revolution for all will not include me. The moral feeling for others comes from this, our own self-worth and the estimation of the self-worth of others.

         Punkerslut and Stirner


    Punkerslut: So, Max, I've read your material, and I think I understand where you're coming from.

    Max Stirner: Almost everyone says they understand.

    Punkerslut: Because almost everyone wants to find some meaning in the passionate work you made on behalf of... egoism.

    Max Stirner: That's true. But what have you found in it?

    Punkerslut: This passage, right here, "I am indeed among other things a man, as I am a living being, therefore an animal, or a European, a Berliner, and the like; but he who chose to have regard for me only as a man, or as a Berliner, would pay me a regard that would be very unimportant to me. And wherefore? Because he would have regard only for one of my qualities, not for me." So, it seems like the one quality itself, as a focus of an ideologist's philosophy, would fail to see the individual you, but only see the spook of their mind -- that one insignificant, shard of your personality shining through. Is this correct?

    Max Stirner: Yes.

    Punkerslut: Then, you would you go so far as to say that what does indeed make up your individual you is the many details and qualities that ultimately distinguish you as unique among men?

    Max Stirner: I am unique, because what is mine belongs to me, whether my body, my mind, or my physical property, and the uniqueness is in that it is me, and no other; just as you are unique to yourself.

    Punkerslut: You said "Oh, the state, how cruel, that it talks of the dignity of man, and then executes the individual." ?

    Max: That's right.

    Punkerslut: But you're not that individual who is being executed.

    Max: No, they are their own individual.

    Punkerslut: And for that exact reason, they are not you, but only your property, and never could you ever ascribe the quality "individual" to them, could you?

    Max: They are individuals by being individuals to themselves.

    Punkerslut: But you just said the individual is unique because it is you. Since those individuals are not you, then they are not -- individuals.

    Max: Of course they are.

    Punkerslut: Of course they can't be! You pitted the humble, doe-eyed egoist against the brutal, merciless state -- you sympathize with them, and their beheading is like your beheading.

    Max: No, I don't think so.

    Punkerslut: No, you don't seem to recognize it, is exactly the thing. Your morality possesses you without your knowledge, and that is the intriguing part. You have made individualism a god -- not even Egoism, since that would exclude the Individual.

         Marxism and Anarchism


    Individualism is the philisophy that the individual ought to take the world, claim it, and to shape it with their ability. Collectivism is the philosophy where everyone is doing this. Capitalism is the philosophy that only a few people ought to do this, and that they should use their powers to prevent anyone else from having that power. Marxist Collectivism is the philosophy that Collectivism can be acheived by denying Individualism. And Anarchism, in contrast, claims that Individualism and Collectivism are mutually required.

         In Belgium


    In Belgium, a physician must study ancient Greek and ancient Latin before they are allowed to become a practitioner. And go on, ask the Belgian citizen: "What hurts you more? The suffering of children dying from malnutrition in your crowded Antwerp apartments? Or the possible hurt in pride when your doctor can't repeat back to you the meaning of 'non-sequitor'?" And, the answer you get, will tell you whether you are talking to a Nationalist, or a Socialist. Today, the meaning of these words are attached to heartless political parties. But, there is still a small amount of original meaning in these words to accurately describe the culture of an individual.

         Taoist Sex Parctices


    Wikipedia Article for "Taoist Sexual Practices": "Practitioners believed that by performing these sexual arts [of Taoism], one could stay in good health, and eventually, with some other spiritual or alchemical practices, attain immortality." If you have sex enough, you can live forever. How come nobody puts that myth to the test like prayer? "Disproving the Power of Orgy." Now there's one Catholic documentary I won't miss.

         Lao Tzu Thought


    Lao Tzu, by being abstract enough and having no fully concrete thoughts, lends himself remarkably to all ages and all cultures. "The highest excellence is like that of water. The excellence of water appears in its benefiting all things, and in its occupying, without striving to the contrary, the low place which all men dislike." (Part 1, Chapter 8, Verse 1 of the Tao Teh Ching) In my first reading of this, I he was talking about the working classes, who occupy "the low place which all men dislike" but it is the "highest excellence" because it is "benefiting all things." And, perhaps even more sadly, "without striving to the contrary," the almost complacency of the working classes found throughout the world. Oh, water... when will we begin to boil?

         The Day They Kidnapped Me


    The day they take Punkerslut away for psychological evaluation...

    Me to interviewing psychologist: "Name one book you've read by Sigmund Freud. Name just one... also, I think I'm getting agitated again and might require another injection of sedatives."

         Don't Mind the Rain


    No, I don't really mind the rain all that much. It's a bitter cold, makes the wind feel like ice, and it gives you a need to stop and change your socks. But rain, no, I guess I couldn't really mind it.

    Why not? Don't you have to come indoors whenever it rains?

    No, it's like the outdoors is cleaning itself. Everyone and everything stops, goes back home, and rests. Wherever home is, they go to it, and you're not just alone with nature in the absence of humanity -- you're alone with it in the absence of all creatures. Both the birds and the bees escape nature's vicious onslaught.

    But it's cold, isn't it? Could and wet?

    In a somber way. I accept it as essential aspects of the rain, like the morning that comes with the loss of al over. Depressing skies of gray have to be sad. And I wouldn't imagine its tears to warm me.

    Then why do you like it?

    Because as everyone goes home, I can come out -- and as the rain is a reason for everyone to break up and go inside, it's a reason for me to pull together and leave home, to experience that perfect great stillness, like I was the sky, too, making my moment by the power of water.

         Death to the State


    Some things are too beautiful to say in the language you first learned. Some ideas and thoughts sound like they're fumbled and inaccurate when they're used with words that you were taught by mother and father. There are some hopes and some desperations that sound so much more deep when they're expressed in phrases and paraphrases that have no literal meaning to us. Spanish, for example, I almost completely ignorant, except for when it comes to political discussions. Then there is the flourish of gente for people and campesinos for farmers. And what scene would inspire you with more confidence -- someone you know and understand explaining politics and sociology, or a Spanish peasant holding a pitchfork in one hand and a clenched fist in the other, screaming, "Campesinos! La tierra es nuestra!" ("Farmers! The land is ours!") Once translated, it feels like it losses some glory. I keep picturing that peasant woman in my mind, the tone of her voice, her choice of emphasis, and I feel like I've always known what she was saying, before I could even understand my own language. "La tierra..." my tongue pushes the words through the crevices of my teeth, "...es nuestra," leaving an earthy, almost smokey taste. To simply say "The land is ours" is something you can understand. But looking at that peasant, I sometimes think she invented the Spanish language -- feeling so much exploitation and oppression, she had to create the exact meaning of her frustrations. She had to come up with a way to make us feel her suffering with her.

    "Mort a l'etat!" ("Death to the State!") a Frenchman writes on a sheet of paper, next to a glass of lager. He sits in a smoke-filled cafe in Paris, editing one of the city's number of Anarchist journals. Not quite Anarcho-Communist and not quite Anarcho-Capitalist, but the self-described, "Pure Anarcho-Individualist," suspicious of any group that would try to take more control away from the person. The choice of words, again, may indicate something specific, technical, or some exact meaning, but its sound is like a melodic song, like the churning of bubbles in a stream. If the French came up with "Mort a l'etat!", then why didn't I come up with the same exact thing eventually? "Death to the state" -- it sounds so dry and dull, even if you're standing on pyres of burning cities. Give me those French men and women, who tip over police vans and throw rocks through police station windows, screaming from first to last, "Mort a l'etat!"

    Italian, compared to French and Spanish, is far more song-like and rhythmic. The perfection of the Italian vocabulary is most easily guaranteed when watching singers perform. You may become convinced that the language itself is an instrument. And it never sounds better than when played in an alleyway, between a winery and a run-down traveller's inn, with a flute and accordian player. Make it perfect with some percussion, a public drunkard hitting the bottom of an empty wine jug and the rattle of a vacancy sign's chains beaten by the wind's persistence. That is when you feel the true nativity of this region -- with a language you don't understand, but with people who wouldn't make sense speaking any other language. "Una mattina mi sono svegliato," followed by "o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!" -- oh goodbye, beautiful, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, I must leave sa that I can fight the Fascists. The lyrical quality maintains a connection to the past of Italian folk music, and between the chorus, you're given a running stream of conversation and context. You hear these words, you're told what they mean, and you ask, "Why didn't my people come up with such genuine and meaningful sounds for those ideas? Why didn't they use low and high tones in the same pattern to express that dutiful sadness -- a kind of lonely courage?" There are too many questions about all of these languages. Most of all, I know that what grows up and out of me will grow up wherever there are people. Languages, for all of their differences, brought me to that unity.

         Just Fucking Around


    How many times have I been caught writing short stories and poems when I should be? Too many times. At school when I'm supposed to be taking notes -- during work when I'm supposed to be making a report on inventory. From elementary school to high school, from working in factories to working in office buildings. U.S. Bank accused me of stealing a $500,000 check, because they saw me fervently writing on break -- and for a poor person, that obviously means I was forging a signature so I could bring it to the nearest grocery store to cash it. While handling customer service on the phone, my pen spills pools of fiction, maybe placing one word from the story into the conversation and vice versa, with seemingly little notice from anyone I interacted with. "On behalf of the United States of Addiction," to one client, as I wrote "suffering from that miserable America." Not even a mild pause or curiosity from the individual. "Sorry, I'm busy right now, call me back later, [click]." I was sent to pick up some meaningless data, maybe two or three numbers, from the computer at some office, and I started writing them on some small piece of scrap. A supervisory employee walked past me as I just reached the bottom of the page in some story, about dreariness and alienation of the breakroom. She didn't say anything, but the story was expanded into one of my favorites, "The Noise."

    I've been caught so many times, "just fucking off," "dicking around," and "stealing company time." Stern looks, glances across the class or workplace, staring from the center of the room with their eyebrow communication -- but not a fucking word. Not one single statement of "What?", "How?" or "Why?" Unless, of course, I'm suspected of a crime, apparently.

    From the Nation that Pretends to be Christian and Crucifies a Thousand Christs a Day,

         Rights of the Immigrant


    The immigrant has only traveled from one land to another, like their ancestor did once long ago. If we reject the immigrant, we are making an orphan in the family of humanity. If we reject those we cannot yet understand fully, then we are rejecting the rights that brought our families to the land we're on today. Everyone is an immigrant, or the child of some immigrant, and there is actually no such thing as a "native." Our species all rose up from much earlier life forms, and everyone exists only because of the mass migration of the earth's life. What a ridiculous fight against nature.

         Thinking About a Girl


    Thinking about a girl. Thinking about her touch, my loneliness, the world's confusion, and the irreverence of strangers. Nights when you just count stars endlessly, linking up fictional constellations with memories and cold winds with human tendency. Long, dark nights, with a shadow across this globe, and a shadow across my mind -- imagination sloshes against the glass walls of my bottle, creativity embers slowly out of my pipe -- and this night, with its ominous clouds, unspoken resentment, and inexpressible thoughts. The sky reminds me of myself -- breath and expanse, toppe by the powerlessness of a million-year old weather pattern. A smell of pine and dirt, rivers and sediment, mingles with that peaceful pipe's aroma. Finally, alone in a way that doesn't make me feel lonely... I cupped the serenity in my hands, wondered at the glory bursting between my fingers, and then I set it down. there was a thought of taking a part of it with me, but my memory of it was all that I was allowed to leave with.

         I Could've Painted


    I could have been a mathematician, a painter, or a poet -- I could have struggled with anatomy and botany, to solve the problems of disease and sickness -- I could have cried over formulas to express the genome, ripped up books in fury at the complexity of energy transformations, and grow hopeless in the face that I can't create out of chalk and charcoal. The most durable buildings could carry my design, the most involved physics named after my father, and the most sensitive poetry could carry my signature. The chemistry of perfect rocket fuel, reducing the human distance between planets, is what I could have spent my life on. To sprawl naked through a paint spill and throw myself against a white canvas, to reach up to the heavens and cry out the most intoxicated poetry, and to develop an agricultural system that provides food to anyone for two minutes of labor per day. Computer architecture and software coding could be my sole devotion, loving humanity through composing music could be my heart, and the intercourse of chemistry equations could be the reason for the force of my blood. My imagination and creativity could express themselves through film and pastels, using pencil and paper to thresh out some kind of interpretation of passion, love, and want. I could have done any of it -- anything at all.

    But what among all that could make me proud of my creation? Could I still admire the star's glory? Could I still respect my love of knowledge? What pride is there in using paint made from blood, in strumming a string made from flesh? What power could I feel if the architecture I designed was erected by slave labor? Compose the most moving ballad, but it won't sound right performed by men who have had their testicles removed. Could you really be impressed by the infinite columns reaching up to those skies, decorated by marble and glistening with gold, when they were lifted up by wars, prisons, and armies? Could you value your written work on the innate love of humanity, when it's printed in a publishing house that relies on slaughtered animal carcasses for its glue and binding? Could you really respect yourself for solving the hardest problems of Calculus-based physics, if it was only possible because poorer people were kept out of schools? Could you marvel at even a tiny, little bridge, perfectly designed and just fit, it was used for carrying humans in chains? How great could you imagine yourself to be, when your wages are paid for by poisoning oceans, intoxicating atmospheres, and suffocating children laboring in mines? How unique and genius are you for mastering organic chemistry, when your prowess lies in a system that kept better people out?

    You, or I, could have been the best at anything. We could have reached such glorious heights. But the lowly revolutionary is the only place I shall hold. For in this position, I can finally be true, honest, complete, and full. There is direction that I cannot push in, for I recognize no borders, and there is no withholding of wisdom, for I respect no restraints. But more than that, I have to be a revolutionary. Everything else is fake. How could I become a genius of mathematics and physics, art and poetry, to become an owner of the universe -- when I do not even own myself?

         Marx's Point to "Change It"


    a letter

    from: me
    to: karl marx

    You: "Philosophers have only interpreted the world. The point is to change it."

    Me: "Politicians have only changed the world. The point is to change it in a meaningful way that doesn't replicate the exploitation of the past."

         I Could Never Do Anything to Place Myself Above Others


         I could never do anything to place myself above others. What use could that do for me? When it's all over for myself, could I say that I lived a more fulfilling existence because I did not bake the bread that I eat? Could I say my triumphs were more glorious, or my trials more demanding, because I took from others what I could make for myself? Could I say that I appreciated beauty better when I paid for it from college-educated snobs? Or when wiping the stinking sweat out om y eyes after an exhausted day to catch a glimpse of a setting sun of powerful oranges and purples? Were my wants and hopes more pure and meaningful for sleeping in silk and eating off of marble? Would I feel better about turning into dust to be equal with all others, if at least for a few years, I lived above them? If I loved myself enough, would dying not feel so lonely? If I have been honest with onrly myself throughout my life, would I finally be honest with myself at that moment where I am prepared to stop existing?

         It doesn't matter the grade or height of the luxury, but it seemed like there was no honor in taking it, if it only means someone else will have to do without something that's a necessity. The greatest pleasures coming to the mind, I feel greater satisfaction in carrying honesty and honor, than to feel the weight of food in my stomach taken from hungry children. Could there really be a pleasure so powerful and encompassing that it blots the images of suffering from entering the mindh? Is there a way to feel so good that you're completely numbed to anything difficult around you? Can I enjoy myself without any thoughts or ideas on the enjoyment of those around me? Every person is uinque, but these feelings can't be too different from others.

         Anyone who wants to abandon the weak will find no problem in becoming their masters. And the justifications have end -- "if power was not claimed by me, it would be taken by someone else," "if the poor had the ambition or strength, they would do the same," "anyone could claim this throne, but only I had the ambition." To be a Capitalist or a politician is not then regarded as a duty to either philanthropy or truth. It is like a decision to be a carpenter or doctor. Doing well at the task is a sign of skill, and Bismark or Catherine the Great claimed territory and murdered families, with the same mindset of a beet farmer checking harvest, the only point in difference being the skill they applied -- one the sustenance of humanity, the other politics. A complete lack of conscience and social awareness accompanies all politics. Human beings treated like cattle, socities treated like commodities. Living off of others, at the expense of your honor and integrity, never becomes so painfully obvious as when looking at the owners of capital and votes.

         Why was a man like Edison revered? He stole inventions, like the light bulb and video camera, to say nothing of the creations of Tesla, taking from his own employees. With billions of dollars, he got up in the morning, commanded a few assistants, and "made inventions." Can you really value such a thief and scoundrel? He stole, not invented. Respected as an inventor, the way a king is honored as "protector of the people." Worthless inventionts, like the electric chair, may have been his design. This is the worthlessness of "established scientists." All the money in the world and not one useful creation. Edison couldn't have died pretending that the facts would recede into the ocean -- he could have only had the interest of profits, or he was too stupid to understand the inventions he sold. A new lightbulb, based on the works of twenty earlier inventors of the lighbulb, funded by millions of dollars? You see now, anyone could have done it, if they were in that same position. As if to steal and not work takes "something."

         Charles Babbage -- born to poverty, no scientific backing, watching his family suffer and starve, and walking to the grave in debt, knowing you outlived most of your own children. With so much of a burden, you might doubt that he invented the computer. Before electricity, Babbage invented computing machinery, and he was given nothing but pain for doing it. That man said he could have invented the first fire prevention system -- but then said, "Damn the British, let their houses by burnt!" The disastrous London fire consumed the castles and mansions of the aristocracy -- could you live in a free conscience if you had stopped this, no matter how much you were paid? Even if they have shored up piles of diamonds and gold at your feet? Not Babbage, and one day, he held the body of his dead child, dead from malnutrition and disease. "I should have bowed to serve king, queen, and god -- let me build up their prisons, slave camps, and chains, each and every last one of them, until oppression is universall -- just give me my child back!" Could you have imagined him doing that? Babbage couldn't have said this. He was smart enough to invent the computer, not dishonorable enough to steal the lightbulb. What could we believe if he ended with "I take it all back -- my honest hatred of religion and government and patriotism -- I should have heartlessly promoted these things, taken ideas from those fools -- I'll give my intelligence and will to whatever they devote me to, only if I can be allowed to tug at their leashes, and to profit by their sufferings."

         How awful to die like that -- to possess the technical and scientific skill that could prevent all floods and natural disasters, provide farmers with the science to feed everyone, to make machines that can actually teach people anything and to fulfill the most redundant tasks. The globe could very easily be converted into a real paradise, but Babbage, to repeat, was no idiot. Powerful machines that make labor worthless? That will lead to the unemployment, poverty, and servitude of billions. With the invention of the highly productive factory, workdays trippled in length and conditions became inhumane and dangerous. Only today are we working as little as they did in the year 1400 -- except we have an environment on the verge of collapse and incredible numbers in absolute poverty. If Babbage spent his time in science to the crown, the empires today would be far more tyrannical, destructive, and cruel. To be a real inventor, to know genuine science, you must be able to not invent at all. Do nothing. Strike, not for a day, a week, but a lifetime. You need not be in a union with others. Have the atittude of the involved inventor; you only need a union of heart and mind.

         And really, in the end, if you were Babbage, sitting on that deathbed, feeling that weak pulse slowing in your veins, as your vision becomes dark, and a few final memories come calling back to you, would you say his life would have meant more, if it happened any other way? Would you say he would have been happier if he devoted his machines towards the ends of state-sanctioned murder? Would you say that he would have more meaning, more connection, and more self-worth if he gave in to a proper, polished life, humoring the owners of slaves and smiling back at the state's grand executioner? A brilliant light went out in a very dark era -- he suffered with the most common, the least of these, even when he could have jumped ahead like an Edison, stealing inventions and organizing them for the ends of power, being honored by museums and other official bodies. Babbage didn't invent the lightbulb, because it already existed for centuries by the 1800's. He invented the computer and no one else could do it or esee its value and then he finally sat down to rest, forgotten and ignored.

         If you ever do anything that gets you recognized by the murderers of the people, question yourself. Are you being recognized for solving world hunger, perfecting education, or ending any type of natural calamity that befalls humanity? And what you're being paid, does it compare to dirt, bland bread, and cold loneliness?, No matter what you do, it is infinitely less than what Babbage did, and no matter what you were paid, it was infinitely more than what Babbage received.

         If you are asked to be their artists, their scientists, their inventors, their physicists, their writers, every occupation and all occupations -- iit is only because they already have enough slavemasters and executioners. If you think your idea, your brilliance, is so great and can offer so much no matter what social costs result, think of Babbage. Think of the smartest man in Britain's 19th century, laying in a pile of dirt and gravel, dying from the heavy coughs of pnuemonia. He could have had everything, but without honor. That price was too costly to buy the only real thing he could have.

         My Living Will


    A living will to all who come before me...

    If anyone, ever, takes my works, and forces them onto you, demands that you learn them before advancing, makes you understand them before being accepted, -- then you have my permission to kill them.

    To be forever recognized throughout perpetuity,

         How Pathetic


    How pathetic -- all of us, sharing space, air, and noise -- today and tomorrow, we might get the same pile of dust. Now, the molecules exiting my nose flow into the room's circulation, entering the lungs of everyone around me. Eventually, our final remains, dust and ash, clump and collect together. And what was my eye, after years and decades of decomposition, may be resting on what was once a girl's hip, and if my lips worked and could connect to my brain, they'd probably say, "You see -- I couldn't help staring." But here, in the year 2011, our immediate demise isn't so apparent. We still sit, breathing the same oxygen, exhaling into the air we intend to breath. A professor goes over a homework assignment in a perfectly monotonous tone. Most of us are here because attendance is required, and for no other reason. Dust fills his lungs in his fake excitement. I wonder if parts of my body and mind have already turned into the miserable carbon heap that they're bound to become. Continually, "the axis of origin," "a complimentary angle," "the hypotenuse over adjacent," etc., etc., without a single human being giving a mild care. I doubt this is what advocates of universal education wanted. A drone voice, preaching for pay, and a drone audience, listening for the same reason. Education as profit. Not learning, but "profitable education." All that blood, all those tears, those dedicated reformers who wanted everyone to think, only to create the worst system of unthinking, like the educated Bolshevik Revolutionaries, not giving bread and dignity but requiring obedience to the schoolmaster's authority. American education is little more successful than Napoleon or Stalin: it's not their failures we are bothered about, so much as that they could deliver some of their awful promises. And I, as an individual trapped in this game, must wriggle through. Stalin and Napoleon at least lived like they would be dust someday. What the fuck am I doing in this classroom? What is anyone doing here? They'll all know that we were idiots someday. Why are we here pretending that some day we won't die? Why can we sit so calmly imagining that we won't fester one day, our intestines boiling out of our anuses, as our shin melts off and our hair clings on, being consumed by a thousand different bacteria? Why can we pretend that we won't be a pile of ash and dirt, buried throughout our planet, with little to distinguish us from the rest? Why do we pretend that someday, a civilized people will look for those who have passed before us? Why do we imagine to be goodly saints for ending such an ignorant, controlling, and fierce society? We will be looked at like cavemen who accidentally found science, and being so completely inferior to what they thought they possessed, they will turn it into a deity to make sacrifices before.

    Why do we sit here, pretending not to be alone, hoping for something more, and without any impulse for change?

         Did You Die, Too?


    I raised up from the slimes of the most beautiful beaches you will never see. That was at least a billion years ago, and since then, I've taken a thousand forms, and in the future, I'll take a thousand more. You, too. You can't escape your physical form, what it has been through, and what it will go through. You're stuck on this planet like a piece of dust is stuck to a child's marble. Sure, an accident and unwanted, but everything is an accident and unwanted. The point is how you're going to live with what you're given. The question is not what you could have been given, but what you're capable of doing. Don't ask why you have to be here, on this planet, but ask why you, as an individual, might ever care enough to ask that question.

    Like a fleck of dust, you sit and watch, like every one has, and you take it all in without particiapting. But now you understand, your "non-participation" was as much participation as any piece of dust. Do you pay taxes? Do those taxes go to wars and prison camps and torture chambers? Do you buy products? That is, do you buy food and housing, like every one else in society? Then does that money end up paying the wages of overseers who whip children in sweatshop factories? Is that food produced by the slaughter and mass killing of billions of creatures? And is it served to you, only after so many millions have been imprisoned, exploited, and oppressed? It comes off of the tray that the slave serves, but now that slave is in some Vietnamese or South Congo sweatshop. And now, that servant is a lowly paid service worker in industrial america.

    It seems like the American Civil War had nothing to do with ending slavery, since it still goes on, and since American business interests still make an interest off of it. But you -- do you live off of? Do you benefit by this foreign exploitation? Do you take part in using those of foreign nations, so that you can live life more easily? And when you're gathered with your fellow workers, ready to start work, do you ever discuss how things could be done differently? How maybe you could live, and work, in a way that produces enough for you, without maintaining itself on slavery? Probably just as much as you ask the same questions about the products you buy.

    Does it come out of Capitalism? Is it burrowed out of the mines that little, African children must work to pry diamonds? Is it from those who have been beaten by police, shot at by the military, and neglected by all of humanity's "professional and educated"? Is it good? Is it beautiful? Does it love? Does it want? Does it grow out of nothing and then finally into something? Does it take nothing and give all? Does it love, and not hate?

    Is it capable of producing the society where nobody hurts anybody else? Can it make a world where no person must beg another for their rights? Can it come into my life, help me understand these walls, and then finally tear them all down? Can it destroy everything, and in that moment of glorious power, make everything that everyone has ever needed?

    There are too many questions haunting our consciences. And for each, we must demand answers.

         A List of the Dead


    "Come on, let's do this, only full names only. Emilio... Fabian..."

    "What about half names?"

    "If you can't make out the full name, we'll just drop the name. It doesn't seem too respectful to list someone as John D., dead and buried here."

    "But then there won't be any recognition for them. And it wouldn't be fair to just list a number."

    "I'm doing the best I can with the information I have at my hands. Why should I include a part name? It's a list of the dead, not a list of the... could-be dead, or might-be dead. John D. means John D-anything, could be dead."

    "They died like everyone else. They have to be in the list somewhere."

    "I know, I know, but I just can't think of what's right to do in place."

    We stayed up arguing that night, about the list of the dead. We never found a way to make it right.

         Fine, Metallic Dust


         A fine, metallic dust fills the air, like tiny little stars, glistening and glittering. That hacksaw repetition -- click, click, click -- going back and forth. Both hands tied together by a chain, and every second, that chain's thinnest link gets thinner and thinner. I imagine all of the awful chemicals I must be inhaling: magnesium coated in lead, iron coated in rust. Every now and then, a cloud of the dust fills my noise, singing my nostrils in its burning heat and acidic smell. Click, click, click -- as I move my hands forward and backward over this nail file that I'm propping up with my legs. A burst of the hot dust blows into my lungs and I go into a coughing fit to expel it. I start to think about the disease you're likely to get by trying to free yourself. Lung disease first, either as a cancer or as a large, puss-filled absess that grows until exploding and drowning me in my own body's liquids. Cancer of the asophagus, neck, throat, head, brain, followed by the heart -- and as I've learned from life in confinement, the heart can't be too far away from the mind. It has to be absorbing those millions of tiny toxins in the air now, just as it absorbs the injustices inside this prison. And like before, I take it, because there's no way to live otherwise -- either as a prisoner with no escape, or as a prisoner who makes for themselves that golden opportunity of liberation. Suffer enough for it, and you can have the latter. Click, click, click.... tink!

         Organic Society


    We want an organic society, because our relationship with the physical world depends on how we decide to react to our interest, instead of how some capitalists decide to exploit our interest in building up a society for us.

         Give Me That Winter Again


    Give me that winter, again. Return me to those days of standing in slushy streets with rosy cheeks, burrowing my toes into the soles of my shoes and gnawing with my fingers at the holes in my gloves. Just waiting for something, maybe someone. I was devoted to making myself into a statue there -- to never leaving my one little, faithful spot. Uneven, brick sidewalks and the blackest sky you ever imagined, occassioned by a cloud or two of the condensation of human breathing. Give me that winter, that snow, and those cold nights that would never end -- give me that feeling of loneliness with hope, or hopelessness by myself. Just let me remember that there are still special moments in society, where nobody can just keep doing the exact same thing.

         FCC Rules


    The FCC rules clearly state that when a medium for communication is limited, it must be equally shared. Radio and television are legally required to offer "opposing views." Why? Because all of the media is owned by a handful of people who abuse it to their own ends, and with a limited number of bands and channels, not everyone can own a radio station. It's the same with IP addresses and click-to-purchase patents, which make it illegal for Wikileaks to buy the same exact service ANYWHERE ELSE ON THE MARKET. Are you familiar with Amazon's patent that makes it the only legal online retailer, often called the 1-click patent? You should investigate it, instead of assuming it doesn't exist.

         Like Mules at an Auction


    The cure for cancer is in the Marijuana plant and the world governments censor this information. Then they tell you that it's safe to put carcinogens into your stomach and mercury into your skull. It's easier to believe than it is to fight back. But that doesn't make any sense -- believing in it means watching your family, your loved ones, even your children, waste away and die from a curible disease. The studies confirming Marijuana's use as an anti-cancer drug are well-known, with the first reports as old as a thousand years, and the newest no more than a few days to a week old.

    Then why are we, as a society, wasting all of this money, sending more middle-class youth to colleges to learn latin and calculus, to get their degrees in oncology? Why is it that only a handful of them have spoken up against the cruelty of this system? Why is it that the majority of them are doing studies intended to obscure the truth? One third to one half of all studies conducted are done by someone who stands to benefit from them. Even the medical institutions, like non-profit organizations, are gearing research funds toward projects that will go nowhere. Millions of dollars are spent torturing animals in confined spaces, to find a cure that already exists.

    These "charities" beg governments to stop funding the food stamp programs, to stop providing shelter for homeless children, and to stop providing benefits for single mothers. "Don't give them your funding! They accomplish nothing, but we're a research foundation, and we can cure cancer!" Funding is exchanged, from the poorest of the poor to the richest of the rich, to find some hocus-pocus solution. Somehow, the cure must be found deep in the flesh of some bunny rabit, if only enough of them are cut apart.

    Where does the funding end up going, after that? Some of it makes it into the pockets of researchers, sure, but much of the equipment purchased by "charities" was made under slave-like conditions. Many of the factories of Southeast Asia today, for instance, expose their workers to toxic chemicals that significantly increase the risks of cancer. In this attempt to save human life from disease, the charities of the world send their donations to overseers that abuse, exploit, and even rape their workers.

    So, there's already a cure for cancer, but it's not patentable or ownable, because it grows naturally. Instead of saving the planet from a costly disease, governments cover up the possible cure, while scientists and medical researchers conduct studies to prove how much we need to love their employers. In this attempt, they take public funding that is intended to provide food for starving people -- which is one out of every six Americans according to the 2009 report by the US Department of Agriculture. Instead of using the money to help investigate cannabis as the cure, they buy products from factories that dump cancer-causing chemicals into the water, the ground, and the air. Also, to justify their work, they need to take the lives of thousands of creatures, "for experimentation," when their conscience prevents them from even looking at a plant. The cure to cancer gets buried in more paper, hungry children get hungrier, useless scientists get richer, and the charities keep getting their donations.

    There are no meaningful issues in society that are not deeply political, economic, and social. Marijuana might not even be the cure to cancer; only every single, honest report on it has confirmed this, and doing a google search will tell you as much. The real issue is this... everyone, from the most educated of the universities to the most powerful of governments to the most trusted of charities; everyone, every single person, from beginning to end, who holds any type of responsibility for this system -- they have all been bought out, sold to the highest bidder, like mules at an auction. But the life of someone who is dependent on dictatorship is not very meaningful. They will be blown over by the winds of revolution, like they were made of paper.

    Capitalism and government, worker exploitation and animal exploitation, domination of the media by the few and ownership of the schools by the ignorant. We are not here to reform anything. We want to tear it all down.

         Our Purpose


    Our purpose is fighting oppression and exploitation. Whether in the name of government or religion or capitalism, all forms of domination are opposed to the general happiness of society. The inequalities founded on difference of race, gender, or species, too, are based on the domination of one part of society by another. We promote ideas that may be considered Anarchist, Syndicalist, Socialist, Collectivist, or even Communist. But these ideas do not capture everything in society, so we also fight for freedom of sexuality and speech, liberty for every culture and every ethnicity, and equality between all, regardless of race or gender or species. In this sense, we promote Vegetarianism, Feminism, Anti-Racism, and Gay and Minority Rights.

         The Truth Asked Me To Do It


    The philosopher grabbed the torch from its iron case, and lifts it up as high as possible. "Now that I have reason, the ultimate light of truth, everyone shall have its light shine on their face."

    "They could see it just fine when it was being held in its cage," the revolutionary responded, "You can make people more and more aware of truth, but that's not enough."

    The revolutionary took the torch from the philosopher, and knelt down close to the ground. It is offered up to the nearest building, which catches fire. The flames jump from house to house, until the entire city is lit up. Everything burns in the heat of truth.

    The fire drives people away from their televisions, out of their houses, and throws them into the streets, where they are filled with the mixed passions of desperation and agitation -- life is risked to save loved ones. In a moment, the illusions of what is a real threat to them evaporate, boiled under the heat of this flame. The entire old world will be torn up and ripped out at its foundations, every single last piece of wood, concrete, and glass, if it keeps any person held down. With their bare hands, they dig at the rubble of their former empires, their former cities. In skyscrapers and malls, in stores and apartments, millions are buried under the crumbling pieces of this system. The air is fill their pains as they attempt to scrape their way out of their graves. Everyone digs to get to those begging cries, to finally reach those trembling hands grasping for some help. The police interfere, and hold back the people, because of the sacred right to private, and the unbreachable power of the law. But the people behave as though it does not even exist. 'This is a privately owned apartment!' screams the police officer, as mobs ignore the cry to tear down walls and excavate the crying victims. Neither law nor property exist, and while one part of the polcie are pulling at shirts and battoning heads, the other half has joined the unruled mob. Law and order breaks down, as every human being is motivated to do whatever is necessary to pull any living, suffering creature from the depths of a drywall-and-steel hell. Yes, the fire just burned the city, and the people are just working to pull their loved ones out of the crevices, but the revolution now burns in their heart. Every child in every sweatshop, in every mine, in every manufacturing plant; every unemployed youth begging for some way to live; every living, breathing, human being who does not have what they need to reach the full potential of their existence -- everyone must be pulled out of the depths of the crushing atmosphere they suffer. No longer shall there be any human being bonded by orders of state, by exclusion of property, or by superstition of laws. The overwhelming will of every human being to have compassion for every other person shall be our fire -- and it will recognize no boundaries and no limitations. This is when that glorious light was moved from the heights of mountaintops, to that lowliest place, the base of a simple house. Truth was no longer a distant star, but something that exploded and spread among the people. While the light may have been tended by the philosopher, it was the revolutionary who brought it down to the people.

    The philosopher said, "The truth used to be high in the sky, where only people like you and I could reach it. Why did you take it down and spread it among the people, turning a spark of brilliance into millions of common, brush fires?"

    The revolutionary replied, "My friend, perhaps you have not been listening. The truth asked me to do this."

         Thick, Cool Air


    The thick, cool air of the ocean rolls in on a chariot of fog, as a freight ship fires off its blow-horn repeatedly, in an mechanical, uncharacteristic style. A few small drops pelt against my face, part from the turbines of the ships coming and going, and part from the drizzling of an uncertain rain. I sit on a wooden bench, pierced with a thick, 40-pound iron hook, attached to a rusty chain of double that weight, leading off only a few feet before it obvious snapped. The wood of the beach depicts light, dried colors where it is constantly exposed to the sun, mixed with dark and damp areas, which turned to mush if you if you leaned on it, often uncovering a hive of tiny insects. Of the few people who passed us, very few were speaking English, as I could make out French, Spanish, and what might have been Russian, Polish, or some other Eastern European dialect. But beyond all that, there was the endless ocean.

    "What makes you think this would be a great place to go to get high?"

    "What are you talking about?" I replied, "This is the perfect place to smoke a joint."

         Trapped With Music


    I can close my eyes, and see in my mind: those dark and smoke-filled rooms, where the furniture and tables vibrate with the pianist's pulse and drive, the thump of a steady foot rhythmically bouncing, only intermittently interrupted by someone's coughing fit. Those fingers fly across the white and black planks sticking out from the mechanical, inhuman beast of tune and sound. They move so elegantly and quickly, as though I am watching the summer's wind carry a flower's seeds. Careless but deliberate, chaotic but symmetrical -- power without command, meaning without words. It is the essence of Jazz, and everytime I feel someone banging out their loneliness, despair, or love on a musical instrument, I close my eyes, and return to the friend who sympathizes with me -- the piano-player who is always ready to speak with me.

    "And what about me?"

    I open my eyes and am brought back to my present life -- a girl, in my bed, without her shirt on, fondly but only half-consciounsly watching my meditations. A jazz record plays on the old turntable, Duke Ellington and John Coltrane in "In a Sentimental Mood." A small river of smoke floats up into the air from my lungs, forming its tributaries in small, dissipating plooms. The ember of a rolled, plant substance sits idle on an ashtray -- the mountain-top source of the river. The smoke fills my lungs and the taste coats my tongue... and in the moment's release, my mind floats with the smoke, as my cares fade away, and my consciousness no longer fears expansion. My eyes water and I'm left trying to clear my thorat, but I'm still polite enough to pass it along to my lover.

    "What do you mean, 'and what about me'?" I finally gain the lungspace to speak.

    "Don't you think of returning to me with these sounds, and not your piano-playing friend?"

    "Yes, when I'm alone, every time," I reply, "Maybe it's just wanting to celebrate the music with the music maker, for once, when I'm happy. Every other time, when there's nobody else, I'm always cursing with the man. And no matter how much jazz or rhythm or ska I put in front of him, he only plays Blues. I don't even know if he's my friend at that point -- I just know that I can have a beer with him, and get along well enough."

    "So, do you feel trapped by music, only released now and then?"

    "No, more like... I'm trapped with music."

         Anarchist Revolutionaries


         A revolution has always meant a real change in the organization of our society. It has always meant striding forward, toward new ideas and new understandings that better serve the happiness of the people as opposed to the traditions that enslave them. Phrases, then, like "The Fascist Revolution," or "The Nationalist Revolution," are often misapplied. The seizing of power by Fascists and Nazis has been "the reaction," -- those who always believed in the traditionalism of the church, the state, and property, but are now "reacting" in a new way to this new threat against their tradition, and that threat is Revolution. There is no peculiarity, either, in the fact that Lenin's Revolution produced a system nearly identical to Hitler's Reactio -- and Mussolini's Italy was just as oppressive as Mao's China. One must not search hard to find the underlying trend in these social organizations: authority.

         This is why we simply cannot call ourselves Socialists or Revolutionaries, but Anarchists and Anti-Authoritarians. The wide Left Movement has accepted so many principles from so many smaller movements: equality for all, regardless of sexual orientation or gender or race or belief, the unionization and unification of the workers, equality among all peoples, an education that uplifts and enlightens, protection of the environment, feminism and animal rights, religious tolerance and human equality, and so on and so on. But Anarchists, for being part of "the new ideas to reorganize society," are the only aspect that want a Revolution and a world based solely on liberty and voluntary association. The rest of the Leftist movement is somewhere between valueing the state somewhat to desiring its greatness and power. Marx spoke so much of government and politics, not for the purposes of honest evaluation, but to punctuate his points of social justice: "...and this is why we must seize power," ~ "... a situation that cannot last, unless the bourgeois maintain authority." ~ and so on, and so on.

         As Anarchists, we do not want to break from the concept of a Social Revolution -- in fact, this is the premise of Anarchism. We do not see government as just an evil, but as an evil uncomparable to the rest of the world's difficulties. While we may feel the same about hatred for Racism, Sexism, War, and Capitalism, as the other Socialist Revolutionaries, we cannot assent to the establishment of new authorities, or the power of "old, but different" rulers. In worker together with other Leftists, we risk creating or empowering government -- in creating a new, authoritarian distinction in society based on exclusion of the masses.

         Sexism is the authority of one gender over another, just as Racism is the authority of one race over another. Capitalism puts the worker in a situation with no choice or power, environmental destruction is done by possessors of wealth, but not with the many's consent. Now there is the new class, the governors, who control all. Like the other forms of authority, it excuses itself as "necessary," and then it becomes violent, ignorant, and uncontrolled in its application of force. It praises itself as the noble guardians of order fighting the savages of anarchy -- the exact view of the White Supremacists and the Nazis in in their hatred of other races. Like Racism, Sexism, Imperialism, and Capitalism, Statism has built itself on the monopoly of media and communication. It has filled the peoples' minds with its form of "truth,": without us, you would not be able to live. And so American slavers justified themselves: "It is better to be a slave here, than to be free in the wilds of Africa without any certainty or law."

         The peolpe, wanting their revolutions against oppressive institutions, have had their revolts and insurrections. But if we are going to revolt against authority, we cannot work side-by-side with those defending "a new authority" as being better than "the old authority" -- like serfs who revolted to become wage-slaves. If an old abuse is removed, any new form of authority would fill its gaps.

         Voluntary, free, uncoerced cooperation: this has been the solution to past injustices, and so it shall be to others in the future. But it really means a Revolution against the state -- it really means Anarchy and Anarchism.

         I Enjoy Our Precious, Little Moments Together


    I enjoy our precious, little moments together, no matter how short they may be. In a moment, I may look up only long enough to make eye contact with these creatures, before they scatter or flutter off -- quickly and spontaneously.

    Quick moments, away from everyone and everything. Well, everyone at least. Excluded so that I could be at one with everything. I am surrounded by the all-enveloping green, twisting around metal fences with its coils, piercing through the sky with its arms. Just me, the world, and nobody else.

    I stand listening to the forests breathing, its sighs, its gestures. When I enter, it is as though I am a stumbling alien amidsts the streams, trees, and endless fauna. All is unncertian about me, this being to have emerged from the jungle of civilized humanity. The birds flee, peering eyes disappear, and some ruffling noises echoe off the canopy.

    But then I sit and rest. The sooner quiet returns, the sooner I am forgotten about. It gets real quiet -- I can hear the creatures moving, their light footsteps crushing decayed and dried leaves. Now I can understand how when I come through, they all become aware and conscious of my presence -- they must be obsessed with it, because of the typically violent or ambiguous nature of humans. You could walk forever in this forest, and only see a few birds. If you don't sit down so you can listen, you will never experience it wholly.

    Writing here seems to capture my mind entirely, as though I'm no longer even conscious of my body. I am stuck on the idea. I was very pleased when I slowly learned that most creatures are not startled by the sounds of my writing. Upon the glory of completing the written form of my emotion, I often look up from my paper to ingest the immense inspiration of this world's beauty.

    Rabbits playing with squirrels and a presumably young moose gnawing on evergreen trees. It was six AM when I saw this. After examining his fur and dark eyes, his hooves and enormous form, he scampered off -- even though he appeared to be at least a foot or more taller than me. A young deer, not startled by my writing or staring, similarly seemed to be without concern. But then she jumped from view into the bushes, without a single indication. In some cases, the experience lasts no longer than a second, but in others, the encounter is at least a minute. It requires patience and a willingness to listen. It requires what so many wild creatures have, but what few humans can understand.

         Call Them the Upper Class


         Call them capitalist or politician, aristocrat or bureaucrat, nobleman or priest, they are all proprietors and exploiters, from one era to the next. No system of domination has allowed the people to live as they choose. I do not want to change the Capitalist into any other form -- I simply want to abolish the system that allows them so much unchecked power on the lives of everyone.

         The Anarchist philosophy is based on such simple desires: bread, land, liberty. To be my own master; to need no one's permission to work, to conusme, to be who I am. Any system that keeps the form of Capitalism, but changes its name, is still Capitalism to me. I do not consider Cuba to be a "degenerated workers' state," as some, optimistic Communists and Socialists have done. I call it exactly what it is when the wealthy and propertied use their power to explait the masses: Capitalism.

         There are many who have adopted "the simple, but pressing needs of all." Nationalists and Liberals, Fascists and Communists -- everyone talks about bread and opportunity. They just call themselves different words; they need something to appear as though they are not identical forces. Each system intends to design itself by the few who possess the most wealth, and each is its own form of Capitalism. And so, it seems rather odd that I should link bread, land, and freedom with Anarchism. The main distinction is that Anarchism does not introduce a new class into society -- it expects the people to order their lives according to the will, interest, and motivation of each person or association of persons. Socialism fixes Capitalism, by making the Capitalist into a member of the one-party government; Nationalism fixes Capitalism by making the Capitalist into a patriotic industrialist; Liberalism fixes Capitalism by making the Capitalist into a regulated or public industry... it has all been tried, and the results are readily available.

         Anarchism fixes Capitalism by making each person into both Capitalist and laborer -- by abolishing the distinction of classes.

         Remember Consciousness


         The phrase "I Remember" always evokes and precedes some emotional confession. Recalling memories of old lovers, and passion and affection of the past mixing with the morose and longing today -- and to remember it is to bring some regret, some happiness, and a little hope to your heart. Even when the discussion does not become sentimental about previous intimacies, remember always comes with some deep feelings that cannot always be distinguished; some feeling like loss, and want, maybe something reaching toward satisfaction and acceptance, but not quite touching it -- only able to reach resentment and confusion. Like old men who talk about their experiences in the early days of their generation: their pastimes and recreations, their hopes and beliefs, the prices of commodities and the norms expected in society.

         Memory is not the distinct aspect of consciousness. There are many who are self-aware and have nothing but knowledge of the exact moment they are experiencing. Still, memory acts as a kind of catalyst to the range of possibilities in human emotion. Those without memory but rich experience will have the large multiplyer of their activity, but the shallowness of their purpose will not allow their happiness to reach exponential levels. But considering it another way, those of virtue and purpose who know why they live and accept it, will similarly have a deficiency in their happiness. Though they know the perfect and absolute principles of goodness, there is an echo when they speak; and so without memory, those principles and ethics are capable of instilling the same passion. All of the Enlightenment philosophy of liberty, without a profound knowledge of human society, is incapable of experiencing itself.

         Eyelashes and Eyebrows


         Eyelashes and eyebrows. Just one of the many, tiny details of my lover's face. Just hairs that grow out in a row, of a particular bend, to serve some biological function of sight. Something so minor and insignificant, but if I could not think of them, then I would never be able to picture her face in my mind.

         There is a softer hair, like the fuzz of a peach, either skin-colored or colorless, found throughout the map of her skin. In my mind, I see it running from the back of her neck to the bottom of her spine. Without those millions of tiny follicles, I would not be able to recall what she felt like -- before I was in love with her, my fingers were too insensitive to recognize that small, clear, soft fuzz.

         Multiple it a thousand times over, from her face to her legs, from her neck to her arms. Those little bristles break through every part of her body that she uses to touch the world. Sometimes unkempt, sometimes trimmed, sometimes shaved, but I could not remember those experiences and this wonderful person without every small and almost insignificant detail of her form. All of these details, meshed into and through themselves, becomes someone that I can admire, cherish, and adore. Some I can love.

         A Lover with Hair


    Eyelashes and eyebrows. Just one of the many, tiny details of my lover's face. Just hairs that grow out in a row, bending a particular way, to serve some biological functions of sight. Something so minor and insignificant, but if I could not think of them, then I would never be able to picture her face in my mind.

    There is a softer hair, like the fuzz of a peach, either skin-colored or colorless, found on the map of her skin. In my mind, I see it running from the back of her neck to the bottom of her spine. Without those millions of tiny follicles, I would not be able to recall what she felt like -- before I was in love with her, my fingers were too insensitive to recognize those small, clear, soft hairs.

    Multiplied a thousand times over, her head and her legs, her neck and her arms. Those little bristles break through every pore of the skin that she touches the world with. Sometimes unkempt, sometimes trimmed, sometimes shaved, but I could not remember those experiences of this wonderful person, without every small and almost insignificant detail of her form. All of these details, meshed into and through themselves, become someone that I can admire, cherish, and adore. Someone I can love.

         With Willingness


         Look at the wonderful oceans spotted across the globe, the seas that separate bays from peninsulas and the ponds scattered throughout continents. Look at the mountain peaks that defiantly break through thinning atmospheres, the jungle vines that tear down the ancient oak, the millions of innumerable minerals and rocks from the earth's heart -- each with the willingness to travel to the ocean's depth if you would give it your strength in a toss, whether a bolder or pebble. Use every one of your senses, touch to feel the power of the sun's heat, hearing to measure the distance of a cavern, sight to examine what you m ight touch. Even when it is asymmetrical, there is a pattern. Even where there is chaos, there is beauty, and even if there is uniformity, it is in boldness and power

         The particles making up every piece of my body, from the electricity in my brain to the blood in my veins, were all once part of this nature. I could not sense, in sight, sound, or taste, nor did I have the gifts of reason, intellect, and thought. Rolling over my unique components a thousand times in the wave of an ocean, or to be loged in the dirt of the ground for millenia -- wherever the matter making up my consciousness came from, I doubt that I could have been unhappy. I could not have been in hate, anger, violence, or fear; my hopes would never fail, my dreams would never let me down, and my conscience would not become sick from the world's injustice. I would be free, most of all from myself, and I hope I have done enough when it is time to return to that eternal sleep.

         To Keep Living


    And why should I want to keep living, breathing, and existing? Most do it simply because their senses equate pain with everything that threatens their living. No conscious being lives without these natural impluses having their influence. Though it may not be much better than the common mind of civilization, I still do possess my own, unique ability of reasoning -- like others, I come to conclusions, judgments, and reasoning as my mind feels joy or pain in conceiving them. Fear of pain -- can that really be the reason we have continued to exist? A fear of suffering and misery that comes with approaching the final end of our individual being? There must be some better reason for being alive other than that it is preferable to death.

    Look at the wonderful oceans spotted across the globe, the seas that separate bays from peninsulas, and the ponds scattered throughout continents. Look at the mountain peaks that defiantly break through the thinning atmospheres, the jungle vines that tear down the ancient oak, the millions of innumerable minerals and rocks from the earth's heart -- each with the willingness to travel to the ocean's bottom if you give it your strength in a toss, whether bolder or pebble. Use every one of your senses, touch to feel the power of the sun's heat, hearing to measure the distance of a cavern, sight to examine what you might love. Even where you see something asymmetrical, there is still a pattern. Even where there is chaos, there is beauty, and even if there is uniformity, it can be in boldness and power.

    The particles making up every piece of my body, from the electricity in my brain to the blood in my veins, were all once part of this nature. I could not sense, in sight, sound, or taste, nor did I have the gifts of reason, intellect, and thought, without these wonderful contributions of matter from nature. Rolling over my unique components a thousand times in the wave of an ocean, or to be lodged in the dirt of the ground for millennia -- wherever the matter making up my consciousness came from, I doubt that I could have been unhappy. I could not have been in hate, anger, violence, or fear; my hopes would never fail, my dreams would never let me down, and my conscience would not become sick from the world's injustice. I would be free, most of all from myself, and I hope I have done enough when it is time to return to that eternal sleep.

         Nothing Can Stop It


    "Be the change you want to see in the world," by Gandhi, was such a magnificent saying, but I prefer Lao Tzu's "the greatest gift you have to give the world is that of your own self-transformation." This was two thousand years earlier and it has a certain poetic ring to it. It is just like when the IWW said "An Injury to One is an Injury to All" in the early 1900's, and then fifty years later, Martin Luther King uses the phrase in one of his speeches "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." These are not plagiarisms. They are the same immutable spirit of compassion arrising within humanity, no matter what generation is examined, no matter what conditions are imposed upon the people.

         The Cave


    'what is in the cave? what is in the cave? what is in the cave?'

    he kept muttering in his sleep

    and then

    'oh my god...'

    his eyes open

    'no... the cave is empty. there is nothing in the cave.'

         An Uncertain Light


    An uncertain light. A growing, morphing and evolving light. It swirls into itself, redirects and then reacts. It is almost as though I'm watching these lights underwater, and by the time they reach my eyes, they have become like an unusual, gray fog. I am almost certain that this white aura behind me is actually the sun, trapped behind a terrible mountain, surrounded by the blackness, and struggling to shine its power, as a drowning man struggles to breath. It is not just this light that fallows me, but its panic and desperation. As though it were a lighthouse begging with ships to turn away. But I am not approaching the light -- it is looking for me.

    And then, in the darkness of night, the brightness shows itself, forcefully and powerfully, as if the sun had just risen and poured its glory out into the landscape. That's when I notice it: a few, faint streaks of blue and red within the ball of power. And finally, its voice reaches my ears -- police sirens.

    My foot becomes like lead as it drops on the accelerator, as the engine groans and moans. With such a pitch black night and my headlights off, it becomes almost impossible to see the road. I have become the anti-prophet; since I know nothing, like even whan town I'm in, I just drive myself in one single direction, and unlike the prophet, I am driven away from the light. I am driven back, from that all-powerful, all-governing authority. Or, as my partner said earlier, "Stay away from the lights."

    Against the principles of my security culture, I am smoking a cigar. Sure, they might be able to make out the ember on the end, as though they were following a yellow-orange dot through the night. But then the thought came to me: if you intend to smoke that cocaine-marijuana-PCP joint as a free man, it had to be now. I didn't fight the impulse; it took me over, and I listened. I do not intend to 'merely brush aside' the ensuing officers. If this can mean anything, it is only because I'm something unusual. I must have broken all the rules.

    It is amazing all of the things you can be arrested for: theft and murder, begging and homelessness. But me? Well.... I guess they can only charge me with "Challenging the Dominant Idea."

         We Each Die in Our Own Way


    We each die in our own way everyday.

    We find things to want and then, we try to be things that are wanted. We see this world with our eyes and we hear it with our ears -- and then we believe it. We become part of it, and like the small gear of a deisel engine, we don't know that we've bocem dominated. The exchanges and compromises that we make, too, are like those of a small anonymous gear.

    We can push in any direction. But we always turn in the one moton. We push or resist in a process we call "negotiation." Get more, give less, nad to be able to determine our own conditions. We believe it, because in fighting the strength of this monstrous thing, we compare ourselves to it. We begin to admire the strength it possesses, the wealth it holds, its mastery of knowledge and wisdom. Soon, we forget that it only has these things by taking them from us. That is when we see it pushing on us and believe that we are pulling -- that is when decisions are made for us, but we believe we are making them for ourselves.

    And everyday, it becomes harder to remove the gear. Oil builds up, rust collects, and the gears components almost meld into the machinery of the whole beast. The gear learns that it has a place for it to be. For it to be away from its post is like expecting a human being to live without breathing. And, in its own mind, I'm certain that the gear expects things like this to go on forever. It's metal chips and breaks, but it doesn't immediately make the connection that it will chip and break until it is absolutely nothing at all. Then an engineer will open the machine and feed it a replacement. A new gear, shiny and bright and polished, will be fitted into the exact same spot. Just like the dead gear, it begins with strugglind and resisting -- it starts its existence by affirming to the Universe that it has a will of its own. And, like its ancestor, it loses its choice to the domination of the machine.

    Everyone has their own way of dying. It is the last freedom left to us -- those who must sit beneath the domination of god, government, and god.

         I Love to Write


    I love to write, always and everywhere. I like to pull out random pieces of blank notebook paper in fevered anticipation -- to slowly pour out the growing reservoir of thoughts until it explodes. I only need one or two sheets. And when I'm done, I neatly fold up my poem or prose into a tiny little square. I put it in my pocket, and it comes with me wherever I go, so I can walk around carrying my thoughts and see how that feels.

         Paperclips on the Notebook


    "Why do you have paper clips on all sides of your notebook?"

    "It's so I can write and the wind won't blow open my pages."

    "So, you have to redo it each time you change the page?"

    "Yeah, but what I'm writing won't need much more."

    "You haven't written anything yet."

    "Yeah, I know... I'm still thinking about something to write. And at least, when I'm looking at a blank page, I know the paper is ready for me to write."

    A bee is whipped by a gust of air onto the notebook page, and starts crawling on its own, cautious, little path. The girl asking me these questions pulls back from the sight of the insect. "I need to be outside when I'm writing my stories," I said, "I need guys like this helping me out." With my pen, I draw a circle around the bee on my page. Two seconds pass, and he flies away.

    "Guys like that?" she said, "I always thought only females could become a worker bee." Mild interest leads to an intriguing charm. In an almost bashful smile, I look down and notice this ugly circle in the middle of my future manuscript. I'll blame it on unavoidable writing pains. Before I could take off the paperclips to turn the page, I started to think that a poem could be written just fine with anything for a background.

    And then... that's when I got the idea for some prose about a beautiful, exceptional woman.

         A Hellishly Good Time Dying


    I wonder if the flounder fish had any choice in what it was going to be. I wonder if it looked at its pebble-and-dirt patterns, and was shocked by its grotesque colorations. I'm curious if it knew that every generation was getting uglier and uglier -- if it knew that the pretty fish stand out, and get taken so quickly by predators. Did it reject what it was becoming? Maybe the flounder looked at itself and saw that it could have been a bird -- full of vibrant colors that it couldn't even imagine, flying through an atmosphere it would never touch.

    Every millennia -- every decade and every day -- the flounder fish becomes better at scavenging. Their stomachs are evolving to better digest worms and snails, rotten corpses and parasites, anything it can find on the ocean floor. Its sense of smell and taste adjust so slightly, opting for E. Coli-infected flesh or a body that acts as a metropolis and hub of sea parasites. Its colon and intestines become better for breaking down the material -- it can swallow rocks and pebbles fine. It can even reduce the bones of its dinner into perfect, delectable nutrition. Does the fish ever stop to ask why it lives, instead of how it has to live?

    Every year, it becomes uglier and uglier. It accepts food and sustenance that it would have previously passed by. And finally, it learns to see beauty in all that it is just so it can live. Does it know it?... does it hate it?

    All of the sacrifices, so that it can live. It gave up wanting something, just so it could keep swimming, until it will one day become the food it eats. In its ugliness, it lives longer, and in its willingness to eat rotten flesh, it lives better. If it is anything like me, I know it must feel bad about what it must be just to live.

         Taunted and Loathed


    Taunted and loathed; despised and hated; born into this a miserable creature, raised to be a miserable creature, and dying a miserable creature. This is the world as I have had to experience -- as everyone has had to observe, think, consider, and reflect. It isn't just my home and tomb, but it is the home and tomb of everyone born. The wind that cuts at your face with ice pebbles is the very same that erodes the finish on your coffin. To live is to die, but you cannot really live without thinking and feeling. And, if I could feel the loneliness, suffering, and longing of the world, I'm sure that my every nerve cell would burst into flame.



    Taunted and loathed; despised and hated; born into this a miserable creature, raised to be a miserable creature, and dying a miserable creature. This is the world as I have had to experience -- as everyone has had to observe, think, consider, and reflect. It isn't just my home and tomb, but it is the home and tomb of everyone born. The wind that cuts at your face with ice pebbles is the very same that erodes the finish on your coffin. To live is to die, but you cannot really live without thinking and feeling. And, if I could feel the loneliness, suffering, and longing of the world, I'm sure that my every nerve cell would burst into flame.

         Oh, What a Magnificent Life


    oh, what a magnificent life I imagined for myself -- beginning and ending it in one blast, but instead, I came to this; a life that was brought to an end by day-to-day drudgery and pain; a life that wasn't taken in one whole, but with tiny bits slowly pecked out of me; a dying that didn't take a few seconds, minutes, or hours, but a dying that took years, decades, and finally, a lifetime; you're already broken, by the time you start to think, and you're feeling it, by the time you start to work; and that's what has widdled me down to nothing of a human being -- that is what has taken me -- my energies, efforts, and precious moments, all swallowed up to make room for barbed-wire wounds, twelve-hour work shifts, and a real asshole of a boss; a dying that took a lifetime, and from its beginning, what I could have been was already dead.

         I Can't Write This


    Just a hand sticking out of a long-sleeve, black shirt; limp, careless, soft, and warm. Her eyes were closed, but I could hear the quiet motions of her breath.

         Against Her Thigh


         Skin like water -- I dip my hand into the warmth and let myself feel its calming touch. Then a voice, quiet and sleepy, murmurs under the blanket, a cheap, blung thing with a few holes. It is only by the hood of her sweatshirt that those wonderful eyes are swallowed up in darkness. A hand, limp and dangling, sticks out of one of her sleeves. I can hear the soft breath of someone sleeping -- and it is so perfect, in its hesitation, its want. I felt like I could count those inhales and exhales until the Universe collapsed on itself again.

         The shape of some curves can be made out of this covered girl. One foot, covered in a black sock, sticks out too much. And the other eludes me beneath that cloaked heavenliness. She sleeps in front of me, curled up over the edge of a cushioned sofa. This figure dresed in a blanket, covered in its blue, and maybe experiencing some kind of nice dream.

         There must be a simple way that I can join her, and we can be together in those dreams. Maybe if I slide my arm down her waist slowly, I'll bring to her mind some affectionate feeling. Her head rolls to one side as she turns. Continuing the strokes, I come closer. The missing foot emerges in one of her unconscious turns, and I warm it in my lap. I am still far from her embrace, but I think I can see her breath.

         As she inhales, I place my arm under hers, using my finger to caress and rub her forearm. There is a quiet hum of her pulse vibrating into my body, as I'm giving the rumble of my life essence into her. My arm is interlocked with hers, and her toes are cruling against my inner thigh. With my free hand, I absorb peace through her shin. I feel a word that wanted to come out of her, but only made a garbled noise. And than is when I lifted the blanket, crawled under, and leaned into her form. She did not wake to my motions, and as I brush my face against her back, smelling this girl's innecence, filling my nostrils with the hairs on her neck. And now... now I am ready to go to sleep.

         "Just get back, lover?"

         Oh, shit. I can't do anything right. And all of that was for nothing.

         "Yeah, just got back now..."

         "What kept you?"

         "Long, dark, nights, where it never seems to stop raining..." I said, "The only thing that ever has kept me."

         "Let's go to sleep," she said.

         "I didn't mean to wake you," I replied.

         "Yeah, I know," she said, with a half-eyed glance and a sleepy smile.

         You, the University System


    You, the university system, are the last remaining vestige of the Dark Ages. The monarchy and the rule of a king has been abolished. The church's monopoly of power in state, economy, and culture has been destroyed. The citizen realized that these things have long outlived thei ralleged utility, and the wisest of them did not hesitate in burning the evils haunting society. But the university system still exists, much of its functioning completely left intact. In the 21st century, students who have interracial relationships can still be expelled from their university. And a US president who gave a speech at this school, Liberty University, made no reference to it.

         Don't Go To Mexico


    "Don't go to Mexico! Don't go!"

    "Why not?"

    "Because it'll never be enough. You left your parents and lived on the streets. You've traveled coast to coast with nothing but the clothes on your back, like it was nothing. But if you go to Mexico, it won't be enough. You'll keep going, further and further -- the poor villages of Guatemala, the urban landscape of capital of Belize -- it won't ever stop, because you need to keep going to the edge, to your new frontier. And each time, it gets worse for you personally. Less food, worse clothes, more sickness, increased poverty, crime, everything. Until one day, you wake up broken in some isolated town of Bolivia -- pushed to the breaking and now finally, broken. You'll be ten thousand miles away from anyone you've ever loved, and stuck, just rotting to death. Because over the horizon, you'll see another border to take and make your experience. And it'll be just another thing to conquer... Please, don't go."

         Merchant's Wife


    "I could never tolerate those people from Northern France, the Normans, the Parisians, the Franks. So uncouth, uncultured, uneducated -- driven by malice, self-interest, and religion. How I detest and hate them. Ah, but give me the Gascon, those from Languedoc, or the natives from the Alpes or the Pyrénées -- yes, give me the lifeblood of France's poetry, art, and music. Yes, Southern France, you are a beacon for the globe's intellect and honor, its mind and heart. Drawn between hard labor and rambled musings, your people are calm and curious, tolerant and thoughtful, collected in their mind but overflowing with passion in the heart. And even to a common denizen of Ille de Paris, our French language is a mystery -- we use too many Basque words, inlfuenced by too much catalan, given the Muslim, Angorran, and Spanish cultures. They hear us speak, and they ask us to slow down, and speak clearly, and to usel less sophisticated words. It is almost as though having a conversation with a Briton, a German, or a Italian. We may as well have crossed several mountain ranges to Northern France. I've heard lovers say that Athens is the soul of the Mediterranean, but Barcelona is its sister. Given the same torrents, flowing with wind, and in its moments of bursting, flowing with miserable inhumanity -- and the sea and the city are the siblings of this evolving civilization. And some say, with a very justified argument, that we on the South of France have picked up too many habits of the Spaniars from our Southern neighbors in Barcelona."

    --Merchant's Wife, 1660

         I Don't Know Why


    I don't know why, but I like to carry a little piece of something from everyone who hated me. I cherish those physical reminders that help us remember emotion and experiences, pains and pleasures. There is always the wonder of why I ever let them give it to me. There is always the question of why I won't leave it behind.

         Marijuana Treatment


    Marijuana inspires you?



    It relaxes me. Tension is released and happiness flows.

    What do you mean 'it relaxes you'? Do you mean that it has the same effect as any other intoxicant?

    All intoxicants have the effect of relaxing pain and conducting pleasure -- this is how they are labeled intoxicants instead of just ordinary, organic compounds.

    So, how does Marijuana's effect of intoxication differ?

    It treats suffering on a much deeper level.

         I Love the Rain


    I love the rain - those dirty, little droplets from the all-seeing sky, counting everything under its truth. There are none who are completely safe from these powers, except those who have learned to ceive. Every stone and every speck of dirty. Every creature that has emotions, and every plant that we have attached meaning with. It is all drenched and consumed by the rages of our natural ceiling. These clouds, bold and beautiful, are able to make their grayness into the appropriate tone of philosophy. Millions of drops of water, falling everywhere and touching everything. I know why the rain has to come.

         I Miss the Soft Skin


    I miss the soft skin, moist and tender and warm. I miss bringing my face across it, at the bottom of her spine, to the flesh over her adam's apple. The hair that dripped and looped and tossed with all of her responses; the smiles that cracked between conversation and touching; her ability to recognize poetry in living life; her desire, want, and impulse, to have me at her chest, hoping together in a ball of limbs, and finally, praying at her waist. Taking off her socks, her hat, and her shirt. Exposing me to these wonderful, delicate parts, each deserving the soft fabric of her clothing. I kiss them all, lick and nibble, and between her words and her form, I feel like I'm physically consuming her. Her hair stands on end as I envelope her back with my body; and then it relaxes as I kiss her shoulder. Holding my hand, she brings my fingers to her chest. Her lips tighten, and I'm feeling her breath on my face, my neck, and my chest. I want to feel every delicious, physical part of this woman; to bring my fingertips, some modesty, and my tongue to those hidden curves and private memories. Here we are, lost in the ecstacy of this ancient dance, trying to understand ourselves... and maybe the world around us.

         What Happened


    God, I probably looked like a wreck to her. I just realized that I was all sweaty and hot, beginning to and stutter, and I was wiping the sweat off my brow... with a hand that was still bleeding.

    Why did I decide to dress like this? Why do I have long hair, and black clothing? Unshaven and unkempt -- certainly to be looked at by society as one of the unwashed. The only time I speak is in friendly conversation with others, or when I know I can offend someone's sense of prejudice, culture, or religion. Collected and calm, direct about my conversation and thoughts, and somewhere between a complete obscurity and the simplest human being on the planet.

    "I... My car won't start." She gave me a bandaid, and let me use her cell phone. And she even put the bandaid on me, from someone that I've only seen as a casual acquiantance. She was older. Maybe fifty. She said something that made me laugh. Or maybe I just made myself laugh at it.

    "Every beast, so fierce, but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore, am no beast." I carried these words of Shakespeare, the only ones I ever thought worth anything, all through my life. Ever since my life began, and I really started to become aware of how people interact with each other and why.

    My hand was bleeding because I kept beating at the damned levers and buttons in the car to make it go. I didn't even realize it until I looked at my hand. And it was 9 o'clock at night, and the school was locking up. I had to get someone.

    Why I wear black everyday is simple. The best lover or friend in the world is not made by the clothing they wear, but by the character they display. If you'd reject the person who could cure cancer, or someone who can create peace, because of their clothing, then please... reject me first. Under all that clothing and disguise, it could be a murderer or a thief. Or it could be someone simple, honest -- and beautiful if looked at the right angle.

    If you turn them away, let me go with them. I may be completely alone, and isolated from the society around me, but at least... at least... at least I will never be full, when better people are hungry; at least I will never be at rest, when greater people are constantly busy.

    "What you do to the least of these you do to me." And I never thought I'd be quoting Jesus.

    But, what if, in the eye of the storm, you're all alone, and you really needed somebody? What if you had to reach up, and get help from someone else? It would pour through every sentence, apparently.

    If I didn't make that call, I'd be sleeping on pavement right now. It feels almost like yesterday that I slept on concrete so cold that it always felt wet. It still taunts me. And with the sobriety and the sleep deprivation, I don't know. I just asked for help.

         That Smell


    "Ah, that smell," he said, "It reminds me of some wonderful moments. You know -- that smell, the arome of perfume of good, high-quality liquors -- usually something tasty like rum or whiskey or gin. I inhale that, and there is that one week that comes to my mind in my life.... ah, and maybe I need to talk to that girl, too."

         To Be Able to Live


         Eyelashes and eyebrows. Just one of the many, tiny details of my lover's face. Just hairs that grow out in a row, of a particular bend, to serve some biological function of sight. Something so minor and insignificant, but if I could not think of them, then I would never be able to picture her face in my mind.

         There is a softer hair, like the fuzz of a peach, either skin-colored or colorless, found throughout the map of her skin. In my mind, I see it running from the back of her neck to the bottom of her spine. Without those millions of tiny follicles, I would not be able to recall what she felt like -- before I was in love with her, my fingers were too insensitive to recognize that small, clear, soft fuzz.

         Multiple it a thousand times over, from her face to her legs, from her neck to her arms. Those little bristles break through every part of her body that she uses to touch the world. Sometimes unkempt, sometimes trimmed, sometimes shaved, but I could not remember those experiences and this wonderful person without every small and almost insignificant detail of her form. All of these details, meshed into and through themselves, becomes someone that I can admire, cherish, and adore. Some I can love.

         That Intense Passion for Those Rosey Red Lips


         That intense passion for those rosey red lips -- she would smile and my whole world would crack in half. And then, I would be separated from her again -- caged by the endless desires I could not understand. Just above me, those eyes reassure me until I melt -- and then I don't know her intent from the stars'. I'd let myself absorb her strength and mass -- but this barrier between me and everything else keeps me unique from her.

         Remove All Social Injustice


    We are better than the Liberals at removing social injustice -- this has always been true of the Libertarian, Socialist Revolutionary. The problems the people feel within their lives may bring Liberalism into their thoughts, but it is only Revolution that shall bring freedom to their minds and bodies.

         Gone Smoking


    I'll tell you why I can't find you
    Every time I go out to your place...

    You gone smokin' (well how you know)
    Well there's a sign upon your door (uh-huh)
    Gone smokin' (I'm real gone man)
    You ain't workin' anymore (could be)
    There's your pipe out in the sun
    Where you left a joint half done
    You claim that workin' ain't no fun (well I can prove it)
    You ain't got no ambition

    Gone smokin' by a shady wady pool (Shangrila, really la)
    I'm hopin' I could be that kind of fool (should I twist your arm?)
    I'd say no more work for mine (welcome to the club)
    On my door I'd hang a sign
    Gone smokin' instead of just a-hopin'

    Papa Bing (yeah Louis)
    I stopped by your place a time or two lately
    And you aren't home either
    Well, I'm a busy man Louis. I got a lotta deals cookin'
    I was probably tied up at the studio
    You weren't tied up you dog
    You was just plain old...

    Gone smokin' (bah-boo-bah-boo-bah-boo-bah-boo-bah)
    There's a sign upon your door (Pops, don't blab it around, will you?)
    Gone smokin' (keep it shady, I got me a big smoke out)
    Mmm, you ain't workin' anymore (I don't have to work, I got me a piece of reefer)
    Cows need milkin' in the barn (I have the twins on that detail, they each take a side)
    But you just don't give a darn (give 'em four bits a cow and hand lotion)
    You just never seem to learn (man, you taught me)
    You ain't got no ambition (you're convincin' me)

    Gone smokin' (bah-boo-dah-do-dah-do-dah-do)
    Got your plastic bag by your side (that's old Chronic-Sativa goin' with me)
    Gone smokin' (mmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm)
    Ants are bitin' at his mind (get away from me boy, you bother me)

    Mmm, folks won't find us now because
    Mister Satch and Mister Cros
    We gone smokin' instead of just a-hopin'
    Oh yeah!

         Not Choosing is a Choice


    You cannot make yourself freer by choosing the right masters, but only by organizing and fighting for a society without masters.



    When someone imposes a law that disregards a freedom, it is based on the assumption that such a freedom will lead to immoralities. For example, owning a nuclear bomb in itself is nothing immoral, but owning it grants you the opportunity to kill people, thus a freedom of yours, and everyones, is eliminated (many laws are as such). However, under the basic set of guidelines set forth by the legislative congress and the absolute rights laws that are contingent of nature - comparatively the laws of government and the laws of morality - would it be immoral to break a law that limited freedom, if the end result was not an immorality? That is to say, you owned a nuclear bomb, but never intended to use it? Would that be immoral? Doo bee doo bee doo......

         Be More Passionate Than That


         "Be more passionate than that! Didn't you ever want something once?"

         "Well, yes, long ago and far away."

         "So, what did it look like? If you had to describe that passion, how would you? If you had to give picture to it, how would it look?"

         "Like the ocean -- vast, untamed, always rolling, always boiling, thunderous days of power betwene the breaking sheets of water and an endless gulf of eternity below you all the time -- that is the framework in which my passion is contained. I am a meaningless piece of driftwood, beaten by storms and tossed by waves, decayed byt he fungus I carry on me as much as the creatures and barnacels that cling below me. Even if I could survive the turmoil of a world underwater and one on top, even if I could separate myself from the existence, it would still drown me in its power."

         And Why?


         And why should I want to keep living, breathing, and existing? Most do it simply because their senses equate pain with everything that threatens their living. No conscious being lives without these natural impulses having their influence. Though it may not be much better than the common mind of civilization, I still do possess my own, unique ability of reasoning -- like others, I come to conclusions, judgments, and logic as my mind feels joy or pain in conceiving them. Fear of pain -- can that really be the reason we continue to exist? A fear of suffering and misery that comes with approaching the final end of your individual being? There must be some better reason for being alive other than that it is preferable to not being alive.

         Sexism in the Sex Relation


    "Ah, I love that clip-clop, clip-clop sound of high-heels on a woman. It turns me on. For the longest time, whenever I heard that noise, I was almost completely sure that some mule or cow was going to turn around the corner. But no, it's not a cow. It's a woman. It's a woman who is wearing footwear that deforms the body, that makes them sound like chattel, making the same clink-clank as chains or shackles. Now, I know the purpose of it. It was never to make women look elegant or attractive. It was to make them look submissive, controlled, dominated, and, where need be, punished again and again. I love high heels -- and, by connection, I love all fashion magazines, all news stations, and all political parties. Domination. There's no other way I could get off. The orgasm is dependent upon it. Without the lash of that whip, or the confinement of those who resist, I wouldn't be able to explode into a ball of passion. Without those high heels, I wouldn't be able to get aroused, to fuck, and finally, to reach that pinnacle of all human achievement -- to orgasm."

    "You know... Maybe you just have a sexual fetish for animals."

    "Fuck you."

         Like Water on Rocks


    Like water on rocks, snow on grass, icicles dripping eternally from cave ceilings; like the butterfly tossed by the wind, the countless ripples of a dove's landing a lake; like the burnt-out leaves of Autumn, the cloudy skies of December, the echo of howling through the woods on a Spring night; like all that came before, and that is destined to happen after, these few pages in my hand mean something only because someone can understand them. My senses are excited then dampened, because maybe like all else, these few pages are beyond my control, or, like all else, they're completely under my control. Maybe the words spring forth like the sparks of an explosion, maybe the ideas connect to people like lightning striking the earth, maybe I'm wrong and it all really does mean nothing. I have become trapped by my own creation; struggle and push all I can, the worsd and their meaning leave me. I beg for their release, for their liberty, and amnesty. But I'm just a writer, and like those billions of universes and their existence, I'm a writer, and I cannot control my writing.

         A Writer... Why?


    A writer? Why?

    Because I have ideas about things that have not been expressed before, or, at least, ideas that have not been expressed the way that I understand them.

    Really? Like what ideas?

    About everyone, everything -- the world around me, and my ideas about its ideas.

    You know that making new ideas, you challenge people. And, people who are challenged, might just reject your ideas. They'll give it no critical thought, quiote old ideology, and then they'll tell you that you're crazy.

    But I love ideas -- I swim in them, I breathe them in, and if I had every moment to myself, I'd just read and write.

    You'll be happy, then, if you're a writer.... Until you let others know what you're thinking.

    I won't be unhappy.... why would I care if my ideas are rejected?

    Well, you want to be a writer, because of your ideas. But, why do you like your thoughts?

    Because they're different from my world's ideas -- my ideas match my own experience more.

    But the world doesn't relate to your ideas. Does that mean that your experience is a lie? No, it couldn't.

    They'le try to make you believe that. They'll try to make everyone believe that.

    That would bother me.

    If you're a good writer, and you want to be happy, then be quiet.

    You mean... then don't be a writer?

    Writers that are popular have accepted the majority of their reader's values.

    Is it not the other way around?

    It is both ways. But if you do not write like that, you'll not be able to find happiness.

    Maybe, though I'll be able to find out what my writing can do.

         Drinking Gasoline


    Everything burns inside of me. The combustion darkens the wall of my arteries with soot and ash, the fire chars the flesh of my heart and my mind. Everything can be destroyed, in one way or another, but whenever I feel and understand a type of pain, it burns within me. Its flames taunt the boundaries of my skin, and like a boiling kettle that's just about to spill, I feel like I'm about to burst. My concentration is drawn between the thoughts of those who must suffer and feel misery, and on keeping the fire inside of me. I shift pressure and stir the heat, with lovers, poetry, and drugs. But it grows, it morphs, it screams and begs! Reading reports of police brutality and third world death tolls and animals in experimentation labs -- it's like drinking gasoline. It gives fuel to the fiery monster clawing to get out. There is so much needless suffering, enacted by so few who have such vicious cruelty -- there are so many who are helpless, poor, and lonely. There are so many ready to stop, and scream, "I've had enough!" But we cannot change our reality by simply talking to it. It takes action, it takes patience, it takes effort, time, and sacrifice. It takes knowing how to focus the flame inside of your body, and learning how to use it to burn all of the things that imprison us.

         Dumbass Computer Scientist


         Writing is a passion, and to write is to feel. My poetry has been published in the BCC's literary journal. But the large stacks of unpublished and unfinished prose sitting in my room reflects my love of the art much better. The reason I write is because I have not seen my ideas or thoughts accurately reflected in today's media storm. Or, at least, I have not seen my ideas explained and organized in the way that I see them, whether in ethics, philosophy, or political theory. In fiction, the impulse is the same but it is interpreted differently. I still want to leave my reader with an impact, but it becomes emotionally-driven. Instead of the ideas and imagery that change places in prose, the short story opens up room for characters to be human in sad, abstract and profound ways. To be a writer is to be someone who feels.

         To quote Socrates, from book 6 of Plato's Republic, "... the idea of good is the highest knowledge, and that all other things become useful and advantageous only by their use of this." Knowledge is a tool, and like technology, it is morally neutral. It can be used for good, just as it can be used for conquest and robbery. The invention of steel revealed the potential of new medical devices, as much as it was the basis for new weaponry.

         As a technology, computer science is the field to have grown the most in the past few decades. Every few years, it crosses new boundaries and reaches new potential. In the seventies, the internet was used by researchers, and then in the eighties it was used by obscure subcultures. And in the nineties, it exploded. For all the growth it has taken, it is still in its early days. How will it be in ten years? Twenty years? Thirty or forty years? How many lives will be depending on computer science for many of their needs? And how far can they go to satisfying human needs and humanizing global communication?

         I want to be able to answer those questions. I want to be there when there is a logic problem, an inefficient algorithm, or a diverse, development consideration. Everyone can contribute to building the future, each in their own ways. But when you apply your mind to pushing the boundaries of technology, you're leaving a unique imprint. Your ideas and thoughts become a permanent fixture of the scientific advancement.

         The developers of UNIX are the shoulders upon which Microsoft and Intel stand today. The organization of bits and bytes, representation of information in octal and hexadecimal, the bit operators of CPUs and assembly -- all of this was decided long ago, and all of our software and hardware is still based on it. It would be honorable to push the field forward with something new. With information technology, innovation means making it easier for people to talk with one another -- it means making knowledge more easily accessible.

         How Broken My Thoughts Are


    There was no reason for me to stay in high school, because there was nothing I could learn there. Simply put, the purpose of the public schooling system was not about education, but about creating an early response to authority. It didn't let me investigate what interested me; it burdened me with busywork assignments. It didn't allow me to develop myself in the fields that truly filled me with a passion -- sociology, ethics, history, and computer science.

         No Reason For School


    "What? Don't you have any ideas to throw down?"

    "Carla... I just don't feel like writing today."

    "Why not? What's wrong? I know you have something to say."

    "Yeah, but I just feel like I could say nothing, for at least a day. To let the thoughts all rest against themselves."

    "And why do you need an entire day of not writing?"

    "Because that's how broken my thoughts are. They're lopsided, shifted, bent, torn, ripped, wobbling, and when I turn them on, they make this awful, screatching noise. I look at the page and I hold the pencil, but I just can't get my grasp on those ideas."

    "Maybe you should just drink today."

    "That's what I was planning."

         USA or USSR?


    The USSR or the USA? It's a hard question. If you mean the Communism of the Soviet Union versus the Capitalism of the United States, I certainly would choose the later. In both systems, there was no difference about property. The vast majority were in horrible poverty, and the relationship with the means of production was determined by some isolated minority. Stalin or Carnegie, they both owned the means of production, and they both mastered government to advance their private interests against the general people.

         Jesus and Me


    "Here you go, Jesus. It's your own galaxy, with thousands of planets."

    "Ew, one of them has something growing on it!"

    "Oh? Hhmmmm, that looks like civilization. Don't worry, the box it came in had a blackhole shamy, so you can wipe out those infestations of natural intelligence."

    "No, I want to keep it growing!" eight-year old Jesus pulls the galaxy away from his father's reach.

    "Are you sure?"

    "Yeah, I can play with the people, do miracles, and make amazing things happen in another world!"

    "... is this going to turn out like the saxophone? You know, it's been in heaven's attic for years without being touched."

    "No, I'm sure I won't just get interested in something else and then forget about this fungal mold on my toy."

         Don't Be a Revolutionary


    Young man, don't be like me -- don't be a revolutionary

    Don't grow old with your hates and embittered with the world; don't judge people for living off of cruelty and don't dismiss friends because of the ignorance and bigotry. Take in all, accept all, love every last bit of those concentration camps, those endless prison cells, and those mass graves. Leave behind every voice you thought you could hear, every meaning that once motivated you, and accept. Accept it all, and in turn, be accepted into it all. Love it, and in turn, be loved by it. Your days will be long and beautiful, and your only lament, will be that others do not accept it. That there are many, like me, on the outside, on the fringes, who say that everyone in power is to hold responsibility -- who say that everything in our society has been founded upon false principles. We taunt, we scream, we kick, we beg, we hope, we solicit for employment in public streets and are beaten and arrested for it. We go from picketers to protesters, from bombmakers to terrorists, from an isolated, unheard-of minority to a truly dead movement, only spoken of by philosophers, social critics, and the obscure thinkers. In our heart, an ocean boils, and in our mind, the idea of the free world shrinks. Until all that is left, is a steamed rage and a feeling like we once knew why... oh, young man, don't be like me. Don't be a revolutionary.

         Response About Islam and Terrorism


    Did some of his Muslim teachings influence his decision-making? Possibly. The Qur'an, like the Bible, is full of atrocious acts, intolerance, and violence -- the first book of the Qur'an condemns all non-believers, and in chapter 31 of the Old Testament , God orders the rape of children. In some cases, Muslims take their scripture, and literally fulfill it, no matter how cruel or anti-social it may be. But in some cases, Christians do the exact same thing. Go back a few hundred years to the Crusades, or just a few decades ago to Jim Jones' Camp. After killing nearly a thousand people, in the name of Christ, nobody discussed Christianity as a cause of evil in America. Nobody considered that belief in Christ could lead to violence. So why now, when a Muslim kills thirteen people, do people ask whether Islam is to blame?

    All religions, even Taoism, have their moments when they close their eyes and openly accept cruelty. But the majority of religious believers reject their own scripture when it tells them to kill -- at least conscience is stronger than belief in god. Can we blame the religion? Of course. Should we indict all religious followers, then? Absolutely not. The only effect that could have would be to agrivate those who already feel alienated and dispossesed by the world around them. It won't ease social tensions, it'll worsen them. The greatest way towards social harmony is the acceptance of all people, regardless of cultural or religious belief. This is the most effective way of eroding and destroying the violent traditions of the past.

         Thoughts Mashed Against Thoughts


    Whenever I'm doing something good, something creative, passionate, thoughtful, or altruistic -- I imagine myself swimming in warm, blue waters. I think about using my hands, my arms, and my legs to displace the liquid in front of me, and to move me through that dark, underground world. Just above, the sun pierces through the upper layers, and penetrates the deep blue -- this bright orb with its murky, uncertain shape. Just below, there is an endless abyss of darkness. And through all this emotion, I push and pull myself against the natural resistance of the world around me. The water coats my body and the environment resists my striving, but I can feel the distance I transgress -- I can soak up the difference of my presence in the world. When the thoughts in my mind are sympathetic, understanding, and hopeful, the ocean is filled with life: fish, whales, dolphins, all darting in and out, all on their own path, all making distances. They are graceful and quick, alive and feeling, each on their own paths, some together, some alone. But when my thoughts are secluded, antisocial, neglected, and uncertain, the ocean is barren. I'm not examining the intricate beings around me, and the way they interact. I'm not considering the others, I'm not pretending that I'm like those flying through the water -- I'm pushing forward, through the darkened world, measuring myself against nobody, only imagining that I'm like the billions of drops of water. Nothing but thoughts mashed against thoughts...

         Days Precede Each Other


    Days precede each other. Before every morning, there was one just the day before. Before each evening, there was a night just before it. And what happens today, comes from yesterday, as tomorrow grows out of today.

    Days precede each other. Cultures have only developed out of habits, religions have only developed out of guesses. Governments could only come from selfish ambition, just as societies could only come from groups of people. Lifelong bitterness, and regret comes only after miserable nights. Suspicion of others was built on rows of tears, and communities were built on columns of families.

    Days precede each other, but they still fight, twist, pull, and push one another, trying to get there first, trying to be the one, wanting, seeking, hoping, desiring, and always praying. This is what our lives are built on.

         I Feel Bad


    [Based on the one Bukowski scene where a man tells his lover in an apartment that he feels bad...]

    "How are ya'?"

    He looked across the room to the source of her voice, and then he looked back down to the bottle in his hands. In one quick gesture, he responds plainly and simply, "I feel bad..." She doesn't say anything. He's sitting on the bed, and she's watching the moonlight shift to the different spots on his back. She doesn't say anything -- she just lays there, looking sympathetic, ready for sleep. She stretches out her hand, to try and reach his back, so that she could touch him, but he's a few inches too far away, and she drops her reach.

    "I feel like..." he stops, while shaking his head to agree with what he's saying, "... like I could have done something. But I didn't. I just left."

    "Come to bed with me," she says, "Curl up close next to me... feel my flesh pressed against yours. And forget about it."

    "That's the thing," he still hasn't turned around yet, "I think I will do just that. I'll wrap myself up, in some place warm, friendly, and sweet. And then I'll withdraw from this world. Completely forget and leave it all behind. It's just too easy that way." He takes another chug from his beer, and finally throws the beer cap onto the table. He'd been holding it with an angered, gripped fist until the alcohol kicked in.

    "If you forget about it tonight, do you think it'll bug you in the morning?" she asks, now looking out the window, and watching the moonlight shadows dance with every vehicle that passes the apartment.

    "That's what I'm trying to figure out," he responds, "But I don't know... I feel like I don't really know myself anymore."

    "Then maybe you know it's at least time for bed..." His demeanor changes with her words, and the hair on his neck finally begins to relax; he's starting to feel her words on his chest, caressing his arms, feeling his belly, and pulling him close.

    "I think you're right," he takes another drink and turns around, just barely making out a smile through midnight's darkness. Some smelly, stained, and used clothes are haplessly thrown the floor. And the day is conquered.

         Future Technology


    "In the future, all technology will be biological. Think about it -- plastic wrapping for food. Instead of surviving forever without breaking down, if it were made of a living material it can be thrown into your compost heap. Buildings that overly insulate during winter, and thin down during summer. Hammers and screwdrivers that heal themselves from the damage they receive, without requiring a single technician. Hell, we'll probably have tiny, microscopic, biological technology, that goes deep inside of us, and reports on how we're doing. And since it's simply a tiny, organic thing, the size of maybe a cell or two, if it gets lost, it'll just dissolve in the body. If that thing had been made of titanium, it could have gotten lodged in your kidney, liver, and brain, and what was just an attempt at diagnosis before is now a disease. But as an organic molecule, bam, it can get lost. And who cares? You probably can just grow more of 'em, since everything in society will basically just be grown at 'farms.' It would never be obvious to us today, that all future technology is going to be biological. We think of technology, and see the opposite of life: gigantic, lifeless, machines that drone on forever. Once we can control the gene sequence effortlessly, creating life that can do anything will be on the agenda. From creating life that can act as clothing or luxury items, maybe even computers or generators, to making a self-repairing hydro-dam that releases only as much water as its genes have programmed it to. Biological technology can take in energy in any form, whether electric, heat, or light. It can be programmed to heal itself, to decay or self-destruct without hurting the environment, and once advanced, it will be able to replace almost anything we use on a daily basis. It won't be all the technology of the future, but it'll become a necessary staple, the way we look at plastic today, and couldn't imagine living without it."

    "Dude, pass the fucking joint."

         A Girl I Kind-Of Met


         Let me tell you about a girl I kind-of met...

    She sat there, in a corner of the library, between stacks of ancient volumes. Surrounding her were the alphabets, words, sentences, and implied meanings that had been used since the dawn of human civilization. A well-worn notebook, with a few fingerprint smudges and plenty of dirt, sat between her arms, as her eyes focused on the titles of the books. She was lying on the crowd, with her head turned sideways, reading the names printed on the binding of the books. There had already been a few books taken out, some laying discreetly in unsorted stacks, with a few on their own here and there, one or two of them open. It were as if there was a silent explosion of brilliance and passion, and I could only see the crater it left on our little, hallowed planet. One of her legs bend around the side, while she sat on her other, curled-up leg. A beautiful sliver of skin is exposed from the top of her pants to the lower of her shirt -- but she cannot be bothered. Her vision is glued to that text, her mind is absorbed in those ideas, and while she may just want to read and learn, everything about her strikes me as beautiful.

    Punkerslut, BCC Library,
    October 5, 2009

         I wanted to have sex with that girl, right then and right there. I want to come close to her, watch her skin relax as my breath meets the hairs on her neck, to meld with her so that I could soak up some of what every human needs: hope, enthusiasm, desire. I would have wrapped my arm around her stomach and brought my lips to every soft and delicate part -- to come up with and speak poetry to describe her blemishes and imperfections as an outgrowth of passion, emotion, and intelligence. This conversation is spoken using touch and affection; she welcomes me by wrapping one arm with mine and uses the other to caress my chest. Her eyes reach deep into my expressions, her full and ready lips ask to be kissed, and I would not refuse her. In just a few moments, we have gone from uncertain acquiantances to fucking on the floor. Tossing and turning, that constant pulse and repetition of movement, as we try to get comfortable, to maximize our pleasure, to minimize our pain. Nothing but a man and a woman, on the floor of the library, having sex. Two naked, beautiful beings, piled on open books, papers, pencils, and notes, squeazed between the two and half-foot space left between aisles of books.

         But this is what I want to do to almost any girl -- whether she's looking at a still lake ready for the mind to move, or where she's alone and secluded, in libraries, grocery stores, or waterfronts. These are women that give the appearance of thoughtful and intelligent life. Sex is the exchange of this hope, using the most honest instrument for communication, the human body.

         I Miss Them All


    I miss all the people who were bad for me, but at least listened to me. I miss all those who would entertain my thoughts of suffering and neglect, my plans for revenge, my miserable ideas about the world around me. Each and every last one of them, smiling and grinning over the neck of their beers, or the swivel of their pipes, or the shine of their syringes. But they listened, closer and more honestly than anyone else could have. And why? Because we're all here on the planet earth, all for a very short while, and none of us will get out alive. The question is not why, but why not. We have a few sentiments that haven't been cauterized by daily existence; we have a few sense that haven't decayed and rotted; and we have a few abstract and uncertain ideas that taunt our conscience. Let the flood gates open, and create a river of communication; maybe something will rise out of the dark, murky, ill-defined water, like sympathy or hope, instead of the many rocks of regret that line the riverbed.

    I miss them all, each and every last one. Liz and Twitch, Pockets and Skittles, Humble and Delia... stars that burn bright on their own, but never aligned in a single constellation.

         Last Night, Before I Fell Asleep, I Heard Voices


    Last night, before I fell asleep, I heard voices. A woman called my name, but I heard the call from inside my head. I kept running it over and over in my mind, but I can't place her. There was a soothing sympathy in it -- I think maybe a lover. Not her, not her, not her or her... Ohhhh, I can't place it, and I haven't heard it again. But, hearing voices, I must certainly be crazy, even if it is just a type of loneliness.



    Those who oppose the secrecy of guerilla missions forget that children, too, must lie. When being charged with some ridiculous crime, or being punished for some miserable social norm, the child can always come up with some sort of lie that beguiles their elders. For a few brief moments, the child's forgeries tend to the prejudices of their parents -- ah, yes, for them to have children that love and respect their way, of course they did a wonderful job in raising the youth. The lie and the want to believe the lie are often good enough, and the child is spared. This may not seem like much today, but for the vast majority of human civilization, it meant the life of the child. So it was, with all great minds, as young children, they all had to lie to their adults -- they lied, and even doing this, they were beaten, tortured, and exploited. From Newton to Beethoven, this has always been the case. And where a brilliance is confident in its own power, it should go on in secrecy as long as it needs to, in order to effect the change on the world that it seeks.



    In terms of political theory, I've adopted Bentham's Utilitarianism in decisions about the means and end. It seems only natural. When you are talking about what should be good about a collective organization, doesn't it make sense to do it in regards to the interests of the majority of that group? That is to say -- that vast organizations should be not just be people working against what they know to be their own interests. Hence, the utilitarian effect. A massive group of people should only satisfy one interest: that of the massive group of people. I can't imagine right-based ethics have any real place in social planning or decision-making.

         Artificial Competition


    Society is an artificial competition that has been measured and weighed by the big interests against the majority. A personal battle for anything could just as well have been anything else, no matter what the personal venture or the task.

         On His Penname


    On his name, Punkerslut was said to have commented, "Shit, Voltaire probably thought his pen name was perverted and disgusting, too. At least, I hope so."

         Become Self-Employed


    "If you don't like your boss. You can Become self employed, if you are able to. Otherwise you need a Boss to manage the business you work for."

    "The problem with becoming your own boss is that the majority of people can't do it. Very few people in the United States have any savings at all. There is a small percentage who start their own small business, but four out of five of these fail with the proprietor in debt. That's not opportunity, it's a gamble; and you may as well seek an escape to Capitalism in Las Vegas. And industries don't require bosses, managers, or proprietors. Of those who do work, let them be paid according to their contribution, and not just for being idle. And of those who don't work, why should they be paid anything at all, or have any rights to the decision-making process of the industry?"

         Split In Half


    I had thought, quite naively, that I could change the system on my own entirely. I'll live a life denied, broken, and neglected, outside of the masses and on the very bottom of society; refusing to accept their way of life, they'll have to listen to me, accept my arguments, and eventually change. This was how I was going to change society: hated, attacked, and alone, and through this, something better. But no, I couldn't end sweatshop labor in the third world by becoming homeless -- I couldn't end it by refusing to participate and hoping others would follow with me. Living the life of Christ or Buddha, in poverty so that others can have justice, is a fairy tale. It was fairy tale two thousand years ago, and it's a fairy tale today.

    When I made that decision, to refuse to partake in anything in society, I genuinely believed I had enough heart. I had enough heart to make it to age eighty living on the streets -- bumming it around from coast to coast, begging for scraps, and without one redeeming quality. Torn, dirty, and smelly clothing, an uncertain and awkward style of talking, sleeping on streets, eating out of dumpsters. I could live through anything, no matter how degrading or painful or miserable, if it meant that I wasn't participating in Capitalist exploitation -- if it meant that I wasn't buying products made in sweatshops, wasn't buying commodities made by forced labor and third-world dictators and genocidal governments. And being homeless, after too many years, I saw that I was fighting this unstoppable wave of the American Way. There was nothing I could do.

    If I were ever to return, I would always question whether I really did have enough passion to make the dream of justice a reality. Either that, or I'll have been broken by my experiences -- having been so deprived, I'd return wanting to engorge myself and chasing every petty motive that caught my attention. Drawn between these extremes, the elegance of going with all or the pain of going without anything, I felt like I was going to split in half.



    "I think I just don't get along with people. What is the child's lament?"

    "That they won't have time to understand and take everything apart."

    "And what is the senior citizen's lament?"

    "Getting into a good retirement home."

    "You mean, the old person's lament is that nothing they've left behind will remain. They flew into this world, afraid to leave any stone unturned; they leave, afraid that there was one stone without their mark."

    "Yeah, sure."

    "What is the artist's lament?"

    "Not being able to best an old achievement."

    "And the lover's?"

    "To be in love with what you'll never have."

    "And what is the traveller's lament?"

    "To be stuck in one world."

    "So, why are we miserable? Why are we tossed and buried by our sadness?"

    "Because we will never overcome it."


    "Then what is the student's lament?"

    "Getting high as possible."

    "That must be your lament. Isn't there some solitary, infernal contradiction that is ever-present behind every single action?"

    "Yeah, finding more marijuana. That's basically what it all comes back to."

         I Quit


    I quit. I'm done, finished, through and through, completely. I've passed the end, I've gone further than I should have, and now I'm putting a stop to it. No more, not tomorrow, not the day after that, not the week or month after that -- not ever again, no matter how it's packaged, what it tastes like, or who says it's good. I don't ever want to think of this place again. Even if the wind pushes me in this direction, even if my curiosity strikes me, even if my good nature makes me forget past aggressions. Nothing could bring me back to this point, this post, this intersection of subjugation and misery. I am over, at my final point, at the last and the least -- and I'm not coming back.

    I'm walking on. I'm going past the meadow, through the forest, off the beaten path, and into the heart of where nature screamed first. Good bye, good bye, good bye -- maybe I will catch you through the branches and the thick of green. Maybe we will exchange glances, as I go forth without a regret or heavy emotion to hold me back... as I reach into the dense undergrowth of somewhere new and unexplored. I'm ready to leave it all behind, and keep going.

    I quit,
    Your Faithful Servant

         Old Church


    I walked out of a place that looked like an old, decaying church. The big, oak door slammed against the cobblestone wall; its strength is enough to knock me to the ground, with only my hand on the knob holding me up. I lift my head, and realize that I still can't see or understand the things going on around me. With the strength that pulled me out of that place, I bring myself to my feet, and take another step forward. My shoe sinks into the mud by a few inches, but this worked to my advantage. I missed the next step, tripping over a stone, and being stuck into the earth is the only thing that kept me up. And just as I stand up again, my confusion and daze starts to withdraw. My sight is coming back to me -- my hearing is coming back to me. Just as clearly and quickly as pulling my head out of a bucket of water, my hearing awakens and adjusts. But there's a piercing ring in my ear, and I've been rubbing it hard and thoroughly, creating air pressure and blowing out the dirt, but there's still that high-pitched ring.... a woman is screaming, and when I thought of this, I opened my eyes, and for a single moment, I thought I saw her standing in front of me, wailing and begging and howling. After rubbing my eyes, I see that I'm actually alone. Carrying my heavy steps, I walk a few more steps, in the direction of this woman. I didn't realize what I was leaning against, but giving it my attention, it's a wrecked vehicle, with short flames dancing around the seats. Some smudged dirt causes me to slip, and I fall to my knees, but I'm starting to wake up. I get up, make a few more steps, and then I find her. This seventy year old woman is holding a dead child -- she kicks at dirt, speaks with glances, and summons her ancestors. She is ready to believe in the worst, to disown her gods, and to recant her beliefs as lies. And only a little bit after that, she will be ready to bury a child. Blood drips down my eyebrow onto my cheek, as I begin to think that I should turn away from the sight. Then I sit, hold a piece of cloth to my forehead, and wait...



         One sweeping grasp, in one perfect motion, and I have the whole universe, compacted in my palm. But it's pressure is breaking at my fingers' strength. Any second, it will rip through my bones and flesh -- little pieces of my skin and tendons will spew out across space. Saturn will take a fingernail, and Alpha Centauri will take a hairy knuckle. Jupiter will take some memories of pain, a few moments of hope, and the life line that ran across my hand. And somewhere at the center of the universe, the origin of the Big Bang, you'll find tiny red dots of my blood, and the ambition to rework this world. It took my limb, and now it seems almost the same still. And as light as my imprint may have been, there is no hoping of undoing these permanent marks -- a shattered artery floating through two-degrees above absolute zero will be in orbit for eternity. For the rest of my life, I will never be able to pick up anything quite as big.

         What did I want to do? What was I expecting to do? Did I really think I could hold the universe, and that it wouldn't burst forward? Could I have stopped time -- could I have arranged the planets like a bag of marbles? My impulse was to pick everything up, to lift up these immutable laws of nature and this organization of worlds. I wanted to shake what was real, and feel its tremors throughout my body. I wanted to hold the greatest thing, and have it speak to me. But this thing did not talk; it only wanted to be. I so much wanted to speak with it, to learn its mysteries, to trace its histories, to hear its reactions to my life and my ideas. But once I swooped it up, the power of holding it had struck my mind with a blank slate. I knew instantly, just holding it, that I could speak for a million years, and it would never talk back. So I let it have a piece of me, and I left it alone.

         When We Fuck


    "When we fuck, it's like we're two co-workers on an assembly line. We're both pumping handles, kicking conveyer belts, and pushing buttons just right in a way that only we could know, as experienced laborers. Sweat builds up, and the fact that we're both working together to accomplish the same task gives each of us motivation. We both work as hard as we can, putting in extra thrust and power into our movements. Our muscles burn and sting, but the rush we feel in our lungs and heart makes us feel thrilled. Finally, the walls of the factory start to collapse, all of them in one instantaneous and powerful motion. The bolts on the maintenance box pop out, the central supporting column snaps and collapses, and the furnace is spitting out flames in every direction. Even though the conveyer belt has been tied up, we still push and pull on those gears, together experiencing the glorious moment. Only ten seconds, but that was the one reason we did all of this together. The moment ends, and we're left feeling depleted but satisfied, used but finished. I'm post-orgasm, leaning against the safety railing with my head against an emergency fire extinguisher case. She's still breathing heavily, an uncontrollable smile drawing itself across her face; for these few after-moments, we feel happy in an absolute sense. I wipe some of the sweat from my brow with my grease-soaked gloves. She throws her wrench in to a belt loop. And, before we leave each other's presence, I will tell her that I had a great time fucking."

         What Bakunin Said


    A body that glistened in glowing orange and neon yellow, with a head that resembled a skull burning in a bright, green flame. To compliment this abstraction, he is wearing 16-eyelet, combat boots. Glowing in dark purple on his chest is a circled A, or the sign of 'anarchy.' Surrounding this mythical figure is the metropolis of Washington DC.

         Lover For Me


    Jeans and a faded T-shirt -- the lightest scent riding the air. Now she's a professional, she's pioneered projects for schools and business, but long ago, she was young and free. She probably let some art student paint her naked in college, but now she's more reserved and established. The history of women in bondage, of peoples in chains, has tempered her conscience, and given her a morality rooted in people. Active and thoughtful, but once wild and impulsive. Maybe if I get her to swoon for me, she'll remember the excitement of her youth. I want to bring her back to that, this 35 year old professional, before she goes quietly into old-age conservativism and "patient responsibility." If only I could meet her between sheets.

         Get My Degree


    "Once I get my degree, I'll be making ten times as much as a manual laborer job, but I won't work at all. I'll be sitting on my ass doing nothing all day long. All I wanted to do was to be the possessor of the wealth I make, but there is no middle route. You work, and you make shit. But you get a degree, don't work, and you makes incredible amounts. The only reason I came to one school as a student is because it is easier than going to all schools as an arsonist."



    Everyone resents their master.

         Something like That (Second Prose)


    "Every one, every member of the middle class, everyone contributes to it, and then every one of them gets something out of it. They don't commit rape, they don't commit murder -- they couldn't so much as push a plough, even if it was necessary to feed their children. Instead, they are employed in devising better weaponry, in convincing the population of the benefit of their government and the threat of any dissidents, in quelling and subduing the popular will for liberty, equality, justice, and peace. At the bottom of the ladder, there are billions, so it's never hard to offer a little bit to get human beings to become murderers of their brethren. They are paid mere crumbs for this duty, and many are satisfied only insomuch that they are ahead of the others. Each and every one contributes and benefits, becoming coconspirators and accomplices of rape and murder. Sure, they don't commit rape, but the overseers in their third-world sweatshops do. Sure, they don't commit murder, but the US and European governments murder 32,000 people a day in the third world, by their own records! Why are people killed in Africa for the accountant in New York? Because he works the firm that does the financing for the mining company there, and because they bribed the government, or instigated a coup, so that the law would create a very real slavery. Yes, he is a murderer, because someone earning $2 a day shot and killed an unarmed, non-violent protestor. That someone wouldn't have been given the pay, the badge, and the gun, if that accountant's firm never financed the mining, and if the mining company never exploited the working class. Yes, each and every one of you members of the middle-class are murderers and rapists! And here I am, in the streets, being dragged away by the police -- because I can't stop kicking, I can't stop screaming; I can't stop tearing at these buildings and unconquerable systems. At first, I spoke, and I was silenced, but then I kept speaking. Thrown out of every school that I was forced into, blacklisted from jobs because of my unionizing, and finally, the police knew and could recognize my face on the streets. Even my closest family, my siblings, my father, my mother -- they regard me as though I've gone mad, that I've become delusional. I'm screaming 'There are murderers everywhere!' in our streets, and I must be seeing something, or maybe just something they can't see. I was ostracized, isolated, ignored, neglected, and eventually outcast from that family. They treated me like I was possessed with a daemon... and maybe I am."

         Why I Wear Black


    on a bus

    "So, if everyone hates it, why do you wear black?"

    "Because what you do to the least of these, you do to me."

    "... you're quoting Jesus?"


    "Hey, look, there's a minister in the corner of the bus. Maybe we should ask him about it."

    "And look at that hypocrite. There's a woman in a crutch holding the bar at the top of the bus, instead of sitting next to him. He should stand up and give his seat to a crippled woman, but no, he enjoys his outdoor view that god created just for him."

    "Well, he's not living to Jesus' word."

    "I'm living to Jesus' word, because I'm wearing all black, and nobody sits next to me, nobody makes eye contact, nobody makes conversation. I'm the 'least of the these,' but he can't live up to that. That minister lives up to something better for himself."

    "It's true."

    "I live for others, even in the clothing that I put on my back, and in that, I suffer for it."

         Deputy Dog Kills Again


    Yes, in the streets, fighting these governmentalist bastards! Let me shake your hand, brother and sister, because there is nothing better to pour your blood, sweat, and heart into. You are defending your home, your community, and your ideal. Wait... you are surprised? Yes, we had a general strike, and the workers were completely united, and there was absolute peace -- but then the police opened fire on the strikers! Yes, they killed entire families, murdered them openly. They always did this. They did it in Paris, in Lisbon, Madrid, New York, Seattle, Bombay, Sydney, London, Budapest, everywhere in the world! The only thing you have to do, to become a legitimate target of execution, is stop working. Just stop working, and they will kill you. Either you'll be rung up in the ghettos of poverty, destroyed by the rulers of a land that always belonged to you; or you'll be dragged in a back alley, and shot in the back of the head. How can this surprise you, my youthful friends? This is what has always happened, in every country, everywhere. And when the workers strike together, to the point where they are shot openly in the streets, then our revolutionary fervor explodes -- like it is now! And we resist, we abolish the state, and the capitalist system, in one single bold move, coming from all the millions of workers contributing to it. In this resistance, our new world is created, because the old goes out dying with its claws slashing about, without any mind -- like a creature in the wild, just about to die. Even if it means cutting children to pieces, and dicing communities to pieces, it will do anything, just to live. But it gives me inspiration, because I'm starting to think... that evil monster is almost, finally dead. And no more will our streets be filled with slaughtered families. Yes, yes, my youth lads and lasses, there is sacrifice that we must give for our revolution, and it is a sacrifice that is redeemed only in a better world. But everyone must give, everyone must contribute, or that one person who rises to change the social order will need feel us lifting them, and they'll fall. This is what it comes down to: real, working-class solidarity. This creates revolutions.

         I Smoke Marijuana Daily


    A robot and a boy are flying through space. "Hey, you want to see me blow up that planet?"

    "No, that would be wrong."

    "What? Wrong? Whoaaaaa, that's a bit much. Here I am talking about this actual planet and actually blasting it, and here you come up with your brilliant, abstract concepts. I don't get you people."

    "What don't you get about us?"

    "You pick up and toss around these well-involved, complicated, and often contradictory systems, and then you throw them or digest them like they're nothing."

    "What am I supposed to say? Enjoy blowing up the planet, and killing all of the possible lifeforms there, and watching them bathe in the tears of their children --"

    "Okay, okay, how does someone bathe in the tears of their children? If I blew up that planet, and that's what I saw, children crying rivers, then I'd do it. I haven't seen that before."

    "I didn't mean literally."

    "I know -- just why get so involved? If its wrongness didn't strike me at first, how will some complicated imagery?"

    "I suppose that makes sense."

    "What does that word even mean 'wrong'? You're talking about every single time someone suffered, and the abstract relationship of that person's relationship to their social environment. These billions of experiences and people, all of untold miseries, this is what you're talking about when you throw around that word 'wrong' and 'right.' It's not something I enjoy thinking about since, it uses all my RAM, but how can you even enjoy using that standard?"

    "I don't know."

    "So, why is it wrong?"

    "Well, only because my community, which makes up my parents and family and relatives and friends, tells me it's wrong."

    "Yeap. Humans are hilarious. If you're cut off from the others, left alone, you'll go mad. Any human, deprived of human contact, goes insane. But when you're in a community, not only do you become aware of the absolutes of eternity -- but you're also commanded to defend them, and be their guardian. Civilization hasn't prevented humanity's insanity; it's just your way of coping."

         Two Weeks in Heaven


    "And why can't I write? Why can't I just get up now, pull out a notepad, and jot down a few thoughts?"

    "It's 2:30 in the morning. Go back to bed."

    "I can't sleep."

    "Then take a blanket, and go watch TV in the living room until you fall asleep."

    "I think I'll just go in there to write."

    "That doesn't help you sleep. It only keeps you up."

    "Yeah, yeah, you're right... I always stay up writing, and I can't get back to bed without a few extra beers and a several bongloads of marijuana."

    "Then why not just try that? Run up to the fridge, grab some beers, jump back in bed, and you're good."

    "No... no... I need to get up and write. These thoughts won't let me sleep."

    "Try not to stay up too late. You have work in the morning." I finish having a conversation with myself, going to get the intoxicants and paper.

    "Yeah, I have to work tomorrow morning, but I'll have to work the morning after that, and the one after that. I'll work every morning until the day I die. If that's enough to keep you in bed when you can't sleep, then you may as well die right now -- there's no point in bringing so much emotion to a grave, just to release it like it's a meaningless, last breath. If I can't get up in the middle of the night at this point, to write whatever the hell comes to mind, then I never will feel comfortable doing it. Somehow, if I can manage to fall asleep, those boiling and turning thoughts will have turned into something else in the morning. But I won't recognize them the same. They'll have dissolved into an ocean of worries, cares, love, hope, and hate. They'll still be with me at every moment, like a stone stuck in the tread of a tire. At least, until the point where I can loosen up my conscience again, and drop that pebble like the painful thing I've been carrying."

         How Did Your Life Turn Out?


    He pushed his face against the wall, breathing in deep and exhaling large.

    "What's wrong?" his friend asks.

    "I want to cut my wrists and use the blood to paint a portrait of how I feel about life," he said, still heavily breathing, "Once the artwork is done, my paint will start to run dry, I'll say, 'it is good,' and then immediately lose consciousness, peacefully, happily... completely."

    His friend didn't know what to say... He watched the fibers on the floor collect dust and gather soot.

    "Please tell me you understand..."

    "My friend," he said, "... I don't think there's much of anything I've ever understood about other people, but you're the first to show me something about myself that must be in everyone else."

         Words I'll Never Know


    And what would it have mattered, if I stayed here a little longer, to waltz and court these abrasive lines -- these uncertain letters, these words without confidence, these ideas with their past and broken endings. If I ask for another cup of coffee and roll up this napkin nervously, what will it amount to? Just some piece of garbage floating in my pocket, but I carry it with me like a family heirloom; too valuable to lose, but no value to anyone else. It slips the mind, falls back into an old scenery, and it remains forgetten till a new visitor finds it. Maybe that's who I'm writing this for. Maybe that's why I ordered another cup from the downtrodden waittress -- what pours out between some coffee stains are these few words. Words about nothing, to someone I'll never know. I write regardless, like someone kicking at the base of a dam. I taunt the unknown, beg and plead with it, using only what I was born with. Maybe this crumpled mess of thoughts and analogies will rise with the wind, and float to someone who needs some words. Or maybe, it will line the gutters of some foul street.

         How To Cure Cancer


    To make the substance necessary to cure cancer from marijuana, it is no more difficult than making a cup of Turkish coffee. Mix a solvent with an organic substance, filter it through a coffee filter, and boil or evaporate the solvent.

         Living My Existence


    "I can't stand these homeless people! Yeah, getting a job, getting up early, and working your entire life away is hard, but I do it! I manage it! Yes, some days I wake up and I feel like I'm completely dead, lifeless, and worse yet, soulless. But I do it, and so should they!"

    "Hey, look, if it doesn't have to be so hard, why make it that way? I mean, if you're working hard because you like your little luxuries, then put your philosophy to the test. Quit working, because it'll be HARDER on you, without your luxuries. Or, better yet, keep working AND stop buying food, paying rent, and going out."

    "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

    "Well, why the hell would anyone want to do anything that is hard?"

    "I'm not following you."

    "You're looking down on the homeless for not wanting to do something that is hard, and even you steer away from doing what is hard. More importantly, I think, is the fact that conditions are difficult not because they have to be. You don't have to get up to make bread at fucking 4 AM, but we do, and then we stay there until 2 PM doing it. People buy bread at all points in the day. Why not just have a bread press that someone can operate, and it spits out a wage, like a recycling machine, or vending machine? That would make it easier, because everyone can work for two hours, feed themselves, and pay for shelter, without having to do the same exact thing for the rest of their life, all day. So, if you're complaining about people not wanting to do what's hard, you're just as guilty. And if you want things to change, guess what? It's going to start with making things not as hard, not preaching to the slaves about their immorality."

         What Do You Expect?


    "How do you write with all that aggression and hatred? If you want to do it so badly, reverse your grip on the pencil, and stab the paper like you're some psychotic killer. When you realize how much the energy cost is, and how little you're destroying the sheet, you'll just pick it up and rip it to shreds. Less energy, more destruction. And why wouldn't that work? Why wouldn't that be what you wanted? How could you really want more out of your writing ability?"

    "Is that what I'm supposed to want out of it?"

    "Take from writing whatever you want. Whether you start or end with minced bits of paper. But if you're simply feeling oceans of hate, then what do you expect to do with a pencil that you can't do with a knife?"

    "I can throw the pain down and have it look back at me. I can turn my misery into something real, something tangible; there will not just be the sensation of crumbled bits of paper. It'll be the broken, piercing shards of my wants -- my impulses and understandings that have brought me to such unrestrained aggression."

    "And when you throw those broken pieces of glass to the floor, as an instinctual response to the cuts they're making to your hand -- are you going to remember to throw your hate with it?"

         Die, Legal System, Die!


    "Thomas Edison invented the motion picture machine, and patented it. According to British Law, his copyright on this device lasts seventy years after his death, which was in 1931. That would place the expiration of the motion picture camera's patent at 2001. Since the television show was made in 1994-1998, that means the show used unlicensed, illegal, criminal, pirated equipment in its production. This, in fact, makes the production illegal, and therefore, the author of the production holds no legal power in persuing those who have reproduced something that he doesn't have a right to."

    "Heh, that's an interesting reasoning in the legal system."

    "Interesting because it's accurate."

    "I think a judge would disagree with you."

    "A judge would disagree with me about the constitutionality of concentration camps. What's your point? We know that judges are the biggest criminals in the world."

    "Wouldn't you think the people who built the concentration camps would be the bigger criminals?"

    "Sure, Roosevelt, the Democratic Party, and the United States government have their equal weight of responsibility. They're tremendous monsters, but they are behind the one power that had the power and authority to stop it: the judicial system. So, pardon my reasoning, but I don't think a judge examining my understanding of the law is going to help me. It is like going to a priest to ask about the organization of the planetary bodies."

    "Why is it that nobody has even brought up this alleged copyright violation?"

    "It's been brought up. You just weren't listening. Or, at least, the powers that be decided that they'd be better off NOT DISCUSSING IT than REFUTING IT. The best way to make something a non-issue is to completely censor it. It's true: these so-called 'legal professionals' haven't picked up on the most basic essentials of intellectual property law. Nor do the district attorneys prosecute the music industry for a widespread and open monopoly. There's no absence of evidence, only an absence of will to fulfill any law that might help the common people."

    "And you really think judges are that inherently cruel and mean-spirited?"

    "No, they're not actively doing it. Some of them certainly are. But again, they are like the priest, thoroughly indoctrinated. They are taught the equal prosecution of crimes, as priests are taught the equal weight of sins. The one receives enlightenment and code from a higher power, the other from a higher rank."

    "You're just trying to make a false association, to consider that something as orderly and organized as the law is as tyrannical and heartless as religion."

    "There are greater similarities. When I flip through the lawbooks, it's like flipping through the Bible. You find an enormous amount of brutality, contradiction, illogic, hypocrisy, hatred, vengeance, murder, and this aura of righteousness, justice, truth, and good. Yes, Jesus said something completely different when he died on the cross according to each Gospel. How do priests and preachers deal with it? Do you think that every sermon they bring this up, mention it, discuss it, and talk about their refutation of it? Absolutely not -- just like your law, its painful contradictions are swept to the back room and never heard of again. I can flip through the Bible, and find one passage that tells me to love my neighbor, and then another that tells me to kill him and turn his daughter into a rape slave (Numbers 31). We have freedom of association, but whenever unions have formed, the police have executed, tortured, or deported its leaders, in a very 'extra-legal' character. Are you telling me that this isn't a contradiction of equal nature?"

    "You do have the right to organize. Nobody stops unionists."

    "Nobody stops unsuccessful unionists. Police stop the successful ones and then deport them, like Emma Goldman, Big Bill Haywood, and Alexander Berkman. Hugo Chavez was beaten and tortured by police for his organization. Yes, unions are legal -- when they're poor, downtrodden, and take what they're given. But when unions become the real effect of a peoples' strength, then they become de facto illegal. You'd have a hard time showing any other point where this was not the case in American history."

    "Yes, there are some contradictions, but better a republic to a monarchy."

    "Always. But better anarchy to a republic. My soul won't grow if it is governed by these scriptures of religion. And my body won't be free if it is governed by contradictory and vicious laws. The Bible and the lawbooks are each their own petty, moral code. And the scripture is as far from the truth as the lawbooks are from justice. To even allow one to come into my life, to control it, to instill fears into my spirit, or give ambitions to my acts, is to admit complete defeat. I'll be counting rosaries and paying my taxes on time; I'll closely adhere to a list of do's and don't's, even though I plainly see that they have no effect on my happiness, or for the happiness of the people around me; and what politico-religion would be complete without its endless list of saints and prophets? Yes, Thomas Jefferson kept slaves, but he's good enough to put on our dollar. Andrew Jackson may have slaughtered entire families of Native Americans by the thousands, but he's also good enough for our dollar."

    "The similarities are more than one, it looks like."

    "I refuse to let the Bible's ignorance and brutality to influence my life. In the same respect, I refuse to let the law tell me what I can say, or read, or do."

         Fuck the Democrats


    I'm now legally required to have health insurance, as the Democratic Party's idea of creating universal healthcare. But I can't have any healthcare, because the only hospital accepting my insurance, their workers are on strike. Democrats can destroy the unions, all the way, but I ain't crossing no fucking picket line.

         Why Can't We Be Satisfied?


    Why can't an individual become satisfied with these petty musings and thoughtless ramblings -- these painful stirrings of conscience and some obscure feeling somewhere between betrayal and vengeance; why can't one be comfortable, happy, and content with such a standing? Why do these situations always encroach upon, these societies always push us in -- these abstract concepts of civilization and destiny and place-in-the-universe -- why do they always make us feel trapped and defeated? Why must we reach out, to others, to create a sense of companionship, family, love, exchange, and community... why is it that we cannot be equally happy when we are absolved of the sources of obligations, impositions, demands, and exploitation? It is that we are miserable, when we stay, and we are miserable, when we move. But at least when we move, we are under the illusion that we have a choice; we believe we have the option to effect our own happiness, to control our own lives, to be our own masters. It doesn't matter that the individual without affiliation is the least oppressed by their fellow brothers and sisters; it only matters that the we don't give in to that terrifying and painful suspicion that we are dust in the wind -- when we do not lay still under the pressure of our own weight, we are blown every which way, into tulmuts and tempests and storms, confident of free will so long as we are in motion. Such a painful mode of existence, where our sufferings of loneliness are quelled by sufferings of humanity; where our only alternative to freezing to death is burning alive.

         This is Writing


    He was holding up the notebook to the height of the window, just barely catching a glimpse of the light from the fast-food restaurant across the street. His hand strained in holding the base of the notebook so that he could write have a stable, flat surface to write on. Now adjusted to the light, he begins to write, and write, holding up his two arms over his head, catching this one beam of light that entered our world and, just as quickly, leaves. But he was holding it for a moment, keeping it in our little realm, for a reflection of his own emotions. His hand strained, his limbs begged for rest; eyes straining and squinting for the poor rations of light. The power's been out for three months, but the worst economy can't stop a poem. This is what it means to write -- to give life to an idea, reality to impulse. Even if you can't make it do anything, the true writer is stuck to their art. Even if it comes out bad, or if you have no inspiration, or no ideas come to mind -- even if it hurts, and we're straining in the pitch black to manifest our soul into something, we write. The pain can't stop us from dragging out those thoughts, from pulling and kicking on hate and want and loneliness. This is writing; we do it because nothing else works.

         Only Death of Marijuana


    The only death that has come from marijuana is that it is used by police officers as a legal tool to legitimize their practice of brutality against the poor, the oppressed, and the minority groups.

         Smoke Nostrils


    "And the smoke slowly plumes out of my nostrils, forming this gray cloud of air -- this essence easily influenced by the slightest of motion. A moment passes, and a smile draws across m yface, as the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I didn't realize it before, but now I feel that I've been clenching the muscles in my side since I sat down to puff up. I relax and reposition, leaning back with my legs out straight, and the pipe sitting on my lap. It was this beautiful glass piece, made up of dark purples and blues, with a few carefully placed, white stripes throughout. My mind becomes this quiet glimmer -- I'm remembering something ironic and hilarious today from my interaction with this world.

    "Marijuana -- it is like inviting an old friend in. There are laughs and new jokes ,unravelling insights of society and humanity. Perspective expands, cultural borders are pushed, realities are transcended, and all that has been imposend and demanded releases some of its tension. The mind is now filled with an unstoppable luminescence, a flow and rise of pleasure. Funny how just a single friend can bring me so far from those things that taunt and stress me everyday, how they can remind me of the most precious memories, histories of fond lovers, and experiences of tragic cities. I always make time for my friend, cannabis -- as it has always brought me to such unparalleled heights, so I shall to honor, respect, and treasure it."

         All Things


    If all things were produced by man, then why isn't society organized according to man's needs?

         Anarcho-Mutualism Versus Anarcho-Syndicalism


    In many ways, the Anarcho-Collectivist system I'm suggesting resembles Proudhon's Anarcho-Mutualism. Proudhon saw a central credit bank as being a means to guarantee that each laborer is awarded according to contribution. Anarcho-Syndicalism attempts do the same exact thing, except by using a federation of voluntary labor unions; which, once the Capitalist system has fallen, will become syndicates, or worker-owned cooperatives.

         At the Anarchist Commune


    "Fine, then I won't contribute to the defense."

    "That's your right entirely. Just as it is ours to put a special tax on everything you buy, until you have fully paid everything you should have contributed."

    "I'll find someone else in the village to buy from."

    "Everyone who sells is united in an equal, credit system, where public knowledge is kept of those who are in debt. I think credit card companies had no problem doing this in your civilization."

    "Why should anyone here feel like they need to be united like that?"

    "Because if we all don't resist you for ripping us off, then there's no real protection for anyone's interests. If we don't stop you, why should we stop the next person who tries to steal from someone in our village? If we don't stop you, for what you're openly going to do, why would anyone here think that we would stop someone from stealing from them? They would obviously have no reason to be part of the credit system if it did not serve their interests. So, we are all aware, that if we don't resist you together, we will be victimized by any capitalist, statist, or person with other anti-social qualities."

         Communism Debate Fragment


    "In terms of political theory, I've adopted Bentham's Utilitarianism in decisions about the means and end. It seems only natural. When you are talking about what should be good about a collective organization, doesn't it make sense to do it in regards to the interests of the majority of that group? That's why I believe in Capitalism."

    "So ..... why would you advocate a system that leaves the vast majority of people in poverty, misery, alienation, and suffering?"



    If I focus on one area of certain imagery, it can trigger a hallucination, but only if I constrict and relax certain muscles of the brain. They're visual of many tiny things, for instance, if you focus on them. They'll fill your vision entirely with that object, until you turn away. A few leaves, for instance, on the ground. Your view will become filled with an apparition of a thousand leaves, all the same size. Then they'll start moving, falling, drifting, flying, breathing, morphing, burning, exploding, and if you can hang on long enough, they'll start talking to you. You can talk to the ground and the trees, and the earth, on terms and in a way that you could understand. What does it want? Why would leaves suddenly start a discourse with the individual hallucinating among them? And what do they say? Only the master of their own mind can tell, and only they will know what the words mean. So even though I have not used powerful hallucinogens for years, I consider them to be the greatest training I have received in my life, with the longest lasting benefit of any single act I've taken for myself.

         Just Got Out of Jail


    Smokin' a joint after getting out of jail...

    Hold it in, hold it in, hold it in, hold it... awwhhhhowerwwwrfffftttt...." I scream as I go into a coughing fit -- I feel the smoke burn my lungs and deposit tar and ash. I'm wrapping my arounds around my chest to act as a retaining wall for the singe. Coughing, weezing, and spitting. The moist, embedded smell of cheap paint, blood stains, and dust and dirt, all of it is expelled. The oram and essence of those guards, those prisons, the hustler-swagger of the warden; yes, all of those things erode given the friction of injustice. The air, trapped and kept in a box, is fill fo their dust, their scent, and their inhumanity. It enters the lungs and breathing passages, drying and crusting on the inside. Then it is drawn into the blood stream and deposited throughouth the body -- in my fat cells and my muscle cells, in my liver and my lymph nodes, in my heart and in my brain. But now, it's all coming back up, and with a violent force. It's sprawling out and over my tongue. After making its way up and out of the asophogus, it falls out and leaves me. I can taste it in the exact opposite order from which it entered -- starting with dust of broken hopes from the police department foyer when I left, ending with the the greased up leather aroma from the police cruiser when I was arrested. It was loosened and broken up by the new smoke that fills my lungs -- that wonderful green myst that I sucked through hand-rolled, marijuana joint. And finally... every last bit is gone. My eyes water lightly, my body is in a perfect state of calm.

    Then the emberred stick is put within my reach again. Holding in his breath, my friend says, "Your hit..."



    "Isn't she hot?"

    "What?!?! You must have the most boring sexuality in the world! You're sexually attracted to exactly what's being pitched to you in every commercial, every movie, every billboard -- your entire sexual orientation was completely molded at a meeting of marketers and advertising executives, who simply made the highest profit ratio decision."

    "So, you wouldn't do her?!"

    "Noooo! I mean, maybe if she curled up next to me and told me how she feels trapped and constrained by the standards of beauty imposed upon her -- and if she read her poetry to me, then I'd have sex with her; but if all she did was look like that, then no way."

    "Well, she won't approach you that way."

    "The hell makes you think I want her to approach me. I'm not attracted to that. Nobody is unless given to the omnipresent conditioning effects of their society."

         Goto College


    "Go to college," they said, "Make something out of yourself." And so it would seem the voices of my family would naturally dim down to the low rumble of the questions in my own head, but it did not happen. I was not confused. I was not lost. I was not ready to be molded, as they said of me, but I was already molded. I was an individual. It was this fact that seemed to elude them so specifically. Ideas have poured down the stream of consciousness ever since I was small, and it was then I was identified as an individual. I developed, like any child, but not in the manner of consumerist society. I adopted ideals of duty and courage which followed through high school. And as my parents tried to force me into some mold that just would not fit, disallowing me the right to express myself -- disallowing me the right to be who I was and wanted to be -- I saw that the virtues of life no longer outweighed those of death, and so I left. A friend and the clothes on my back were all I had as I wandered the streets of Boston homeless. And that is why I am not afraid any more, because I know that I had the courage to leave, the courage to dumpster dive, the courage to sleep on pavement, the courage to deal with yuppies on power trips with switchblades.

         Anarchist Zone


    "If there were an anarchist zone, it should have no law and no government," he said, "It should be a place where people are allowed to do anything that they please, and allow the natural course of events to unfold. Such a world is so completely antagonistic to any type of social organization. If a capitalist seeks to exploit in the free zone, then let them. The whole point is that anyone can do anything that they want. That's anarchy."

    "People can do whatever they want in anarchy?"


    "Including forming a government?"

    "... well, yes, of course."

    "You haven't been paying attention, have you? That's the origin of our world's present governments. Do you call that anarchy?"

         Anarchist Delegates


    "According to the surveys, thre is a quarter to a third as much work in operating the compressor's water levy as there is in pulling the slides from the iron press," the delegate said, "With this plan, the amount of wages per laborer are accorded in a percentage of the firm's

    "What was your program?" the reporter asked.

    "My program was voted down in the pre-electorate," the delegate turned away red-faced.

         Anarchist Delegates and the Question of Fundage


    "Saving up for the next commune."

    "Oh, yeah? You're ambitious."

    "If I have to do it one brick at a time, I will build the revolution with my own hands, even if it takes me a lifetime to make a small step in the right direction."

    "That sounds devoted."

    "A world without masters, without bosses, without police, no military or army -- ah yes, that is a world I will sacrifice my entire to! Do you disagree?"

    "Well, who would protect us if we didn't have a military?" she asked.

    "You and I work together cooperatively, mutually, correct?" I asked, "I set policies up that reward you for good work, and you set up policies that reward me for good work, because we each have equal control over the means of production. We have a voluntary, mutual relationship, which can be ended by either of us at any time, especially if the other decides to withdraw whatever mutual activity they volunteer. If we can work together on a voluntary basis to create the world's wealth, to put food on our tables, to put clothes on our children's backs, are you saying that we wouldn't be able to work together to put soldiers on our borders and intelligence agencies monitoring the activity of controlled troops?"

    "So, you're telling me that we're capable of cooperating voluntarily in mutual, social behavior, for your benefit and for mine, but that we would be incapable of doing this in terms of a larger social, economic, or cultural picture?"

         A Journalist in the Syndicate


    "According to the surveys, thre is a quarter to a third as much work in operating the compressor's water levy as there is in pulling the slides from the iron press," the delegate said, "With this plan, the amount of wages per laborer are accorded in a percentage of the firm's --"

    "What was your program?"

    "My program was voted down in the pre-electorate."

         Don't Leave Me Here


    "I just kept beating him and beating him," she said to me, calmly and confidently, "I wanted that pussy-shit motherfucker to strike me back, just once. Or just stand up and say he's not going to take it anymore. I bitch-slapped him and bitch-slapped him, and he didn't do anything. He just kept saying he was sorry, crying, begging me for forgiveness. I just wanted him to do something about it, but he even failed me there."

    There was a bit of silence, and for a fleeting moment, I thought she could hear. I thought my dirty secret had been found out. But then she spoke, "Does that make me a bad person?" Holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I slowly pull my hand out of my pants.

    "Now, there are no definitive areas here," I said, "You're neither good, nor bad; you are only striving towards the one or the other. What did you want to be for that person?" I regain some of my brevere, and my hand slips past my waistline again.

    I feel like I could be talking to myself here. It's as though each person's mind goes through the same formulas of love, lust, pain, and pleasure when encountering stimulus. I become convinced that the most insane man's problems are, in fact, my own biggest difficulties. To hear this woman speak of the torment she gave her so-called lover, it is like opening that bleak, barren cellwall behind my conscience, and shining a bright light.

    "I felt like... I don't know," her voice cracks through the analogue, phonelines, "I was going to make myself better, because if I was under that type of pressure, I'd had to become better."

    Everyone wants to kill themselves. Killing those around them is the closest possible thing; and when it becomes apparent that we're doing it because we're too cowardly to take our own lives, then we have an axe to grind. It is not simply a matter of the destruction of another human being -- it is the fact that such behavior should have to encourage us to the point where we feel so miserable, that we finally do change. We finally commit to the premise of killing ourselves. And when we still can't push ourselves to that limit, we use even more force, even more violence, even more cruelty, barbarity, and malice. It is no longer just strikes, but nails and teeth; not just verbal abuse, but lashes and whips.

    "I was dominating him," she said, a little hesitant. My friction was mounting. "He was completely under my control," she continued, "If it was me, I would have exploded. I would have changed, revolted, rebelled, kicked, and screamed. I would have forced something real to happen, and then I would have become something better out of it. My struggle against evil would make me a crusader for justice and goodness."

    "And, by playing the part of the devil, you can turn another into a righteous human being?" I asked.

    She breathed in heavily and exhaled. I know this girl. I know her too well. And I've only known her too long. She is an incarnation of me. Her mechanisms, her reactions, her tendencies -- that guilt and conscience that carelessly dances with fantasy and dreams, the unbearing grudge against self from failures, the worn down and virtually psychotic self-esteem -- this girl is me, my sister, my mother, and my lover. I only know her too well.

    "That's what I think when I do this," she said, "When I kick him or scream at him, I think that I'm creating the situation necessary to make him into a righteous human being?" Oh, why would I think that? How could I ever be like her and have these thoughts, these ideas, these incoherent impulses... Why was I like that? How did I turn into that -- that selfish hatred of others, the painful loathing of anothers' weakness. It is a grumbling bigotry, born from misery and human society.

    "I get a tingling of pleasure," she said, "It feels like a tiny explosion when I hear him whince." My hand moves faster. "He begs me! Seriously! He asks me a million times over why I'm so abusive, and I finally said, 'Asshole, because maybe I want to see you do something about it.' He never said anything about it, though, even though I drew it clearly for him." Subjugation and filth, what incitements! "'Why can't you do anything right, you worthless slime!?' I'd call him everything. Dirt, garbage, worthless. Fucking dumbass doesn't get it. 'You dumb fucking idiot!'" Oh, yes, beat and abuse me! "If he's too dumb to fight back, then he deserves what he gets -- people should only have what they can get." And then, a private moment of brilliance and wonder.


    "Yeah, Ben?"

    "I'm going to have to end the session," I said, "Can you call me back tomorrow at the same time, and we'll work from there?"

    "Sure, that sounds good."

    "All right," I said, "Until then... Goodbye."

         Quite a Catch


    Mrs. Faye, from Portsmouth Elementary School... everyone is a child at some point, and you do and say things just to see how they sound or how they feel. For some reason, one morning, I decided to write my teacher's name as "Miss Faye" and not "Mrs. Faye." I was called over to her desk, and she explained very curtly and almost angrily, "I am a mrs. I am married. Do you understand that? If I was miss faye, that means I would be single, but I am mrs. faye, because I have a husband. Do you understand? Can you comprehend that?" I don't know why I said it -- actually, I do. I said it because it was the most honest thing I could think of: "Wow, he sounds like quite a catch, too."

         Why Are We Here?


         Why are we here? And what are we doing? Are we really all feeling so implicitly powerless by this monster of a social system, or are we simply taking the most comfortable route for our subconscious, emotional illness in responding to an envirornment stressor? After talking to some of these people, I feel like the difference between these two is non-existent. At some point, early in our lives, we were miserably pained and subjugated -- and we focudes more on our hate of the nightmare, and our dream of freedom, than our willingness to compromise. We have spent nights counting the incidents of abuse and pain, instead of sleeping. We have been hounded by those traumatic terrors, completely helpless on our own to effect anything, and left to such an embittered, cruel situation for days, weeks, months, years, and entire lifetimes. There is little we can hope to expect to change of our lives by our own individual efforts. So, we are condemned to each other, as the only possible, potential key to releasing us from the environment's misery.

         I am sometimes curious about the little children, mangled by factory machinery, cast out by family and the church, and now crawling in the streets, begging for food, and only allowed all the time in the world to examine their miseries. I wonder if that child gnashed their fists against the concrete and drained themselves of some of that sweet, sour liquid. At night, when I drift between waking moments and unconsciousness, I think I can hear him screaming in the streets, but I'm not sure if it's my conscience. "Can't you see what they're doing to me!" his voice beckons, "Can't you see my suffering my pain, my disease and fever, my thin legs and arms, my broken hand, and my exposed feet? Do you not see that I just arrived in this world just a short while ago? I still think about my mother, and how she raised me, before I was old enough to be given expectations; there was such sweet tenderness and guardianship, but now I am alone, exploited, and poor. Can't everyone see that these things are all done to me openly and without resistance -- can't you see that I'm begging for your help?" I scream as I wake up. I convince myself that it was a dream, so that I can sleep -- it would take me ten or twelve hours of internal dialogue to decide if it was a real voice or just my subconscience, so I let it go.

         I know this child too well -- deformed and disfigured, in mind and in body, by a broken, social order. The perfect candidate to be a lifelong Communist Party member or even a Revolutionary Anarchist. I am this child; I am his brothers, his sisters, and his cousins. I have been attacked and beaten, held down by cold hands, and strangled -- and I too, was drawn to death. The fact that such miserable pains are inflicted on the poor, the weak, and the innocent is unbarable. I'd rather freeze to death or be consumed alive by wild animals than suffering this society. There is an entire world of mothers, fathers, families, and friends; they are so passionate and warm among each other, but I am so easily passed in the streets. I am so easily and thoughtlessly left to human vultures, even when I beg and scream for assistance.

         I cannot believe it, because I do not want to believe it! This entire world, and all of its love and sympathy, but I am left to be abused, exploited, beaten, and robbed, no matter how much I say or how loud I say it. Compassion is the only emotion that has made me feel this world can be a wonderful place, but now I am convinced that people are incapable of it. And it is such a painful, horrid realization, that brutality triumphs over love, that compassion is capture and enslaved by malice; it is too brutal, paining, and terrible to admit -- I would sooner bring myself to death by any means necessary than give in to these established institutions. These children, these barren and innocent street urchins, drink and smoke; they are even sexually active and use the most lethal and addictive drugs. They gamble, cheat, and steal -- if those who control this world can do nothing for them, then let us at least die in their hands, brazenly and openly, than be shuffled off to the side to disappear quietly. Or, at the very least, let me got a broken arm and a black eye, whether it is from the police, private security guards, angry store owners, or other street kids. Anything in this world is better than accepting the fact that this world is a living hell.

         My peers of this underground world of homeless and hungry are bruttish, nasty, and mean, just as Thomas Hobbes predicted. They are the exact inverse of their environments; I am sorely convinced that they couldn't have become anything else. The soil of these flowers is a combination of rock and sand -- it is not difficult to see that such a flower is wavering between death and hoping to die. It is the attitudes of society's superiors, the complacence of their servants, that creates the soil that these children grow in. They genuinely reflect their world; it is only natural that they seek death and its accomplices to remove the burden of knowing the truth.

         In the words of one mad, street corner rambler I know, "Children are dying in the streets, and all I have, is truth..."

         The first time I was asked why I'm an Anarchist, it was from a Republican who was defending America's construction and use of the concentration camps. I couldn't think of anything, so I just responded with the first thought that came to mind. "Why are you an Anarchist?" -- "Because fuck you!"

         And When the House Goes Up in Flames (for Stephany)


    Nothing seems to be going right today. Got into an argument with some people I don't even know about standing in front of an entrance. Then later, my car dies three blocks from school, in the pouring rain. I don't know anything about cars, but I'm betting they're not like computers, where hitting them makes them work. And nobody is answering the phone at my house. Ah, yes, my parents can drop 25k on a wedding, but I have to beg for food money, and they won't give me quarters for payphones or a cell phone. But, either way, when you're stuck in a box, nothing comes easier than an analysis of your own sufferings -- or, in other words, nothing is easier than writing....

    Lover, when are going to smash up this system? When are we going to tear down these walls, kick in these doors, and smash these windows? Pulling nails out and pushing staircases in. Wreck the banister and use one of the wooden posts to beat and destroy the furniture. Rip up the paintings on the wall, pull out the drawers of the dressers and stomp out the bottoms, and give me a hand with this tub -- I want to send it flying down the stairs and out the front door into the middle of the streets. And don't forget the spay paint, the booze, and the kerosene.

    Never do it orderly or methodically. Let your passion spring forth to your fingers, inspiring your destruction, manifesting your anger. Do it all spontaneously. Use spraypaint to cover the walls with a list of everything that has been denied to you, and then in a rage, grab the crowbar and indiscriminantly impress holes wherever you feel inclined. Before you know it, we'll be dancing with half-empty bottles of flammable liquid and alcohol, filling the rug with these pungent and unnatural odor. Empty the gas cans, and then throw them into the pile in the living room. We have enough kindling, but we've metted out all our pain; we have become exhausted by the intoxication, the tears, this life gnashed against life.

    And when the house goes up in flames, my lover, it will take our suffering and hate with it. In one night, we can remove some of the burden for our remaining days.

    To my love, Stephanie...

         Mein Ami


    The stress of school (and a few other things) are acting like propellants to my insanity (as the case generally goes with stress and psychotic individuals). I was feeling terrible, and wanted to do something about it; there was this line that's been following me for a few weeks. "I have a lover, and she breaks my heart..." I keep thinking about it, because I feel that there is an ocean just beyond it, but I just can't find my way there yet. It is like the line "You make me rise, and then you let me fall," that brought me to write "Alone in my Belltower," or the line "I can't breathe..." (short, yes) that gave birth to the piece "In love with the Thing that Taunts Me." I took my lover line, though, and finally was able to see completely...

    I don't have a lover and she doesn't break my heart. But I long for someone who is worth the cracking, bending, and twisting of my capacity to love.

    As a lover, I cried, and without a lover, I still cry. Such a miserable, self-loathing beast. How easy it is to forget the suffering of only a few years ago -- how our pains become more distant, how our triumphs become mere squabbles. I feel like a beast with a two-second memory; first I mourn that I have little food, and when I eat it, I then mourn that I have none left.

    In all this world, everything always finds a way to live, to continue, to persist in the face of such cruel, demanding conditions. But I, the lover's poet, always find a way to whither, to decay, to self-destruct. I am the disturbing pains of my own existence. Such a bittersweet, morose, depressing, somber life.

    To be compelled, tossed and turned, and inevitably, troubled and drawn in by life's painful inconsistencies, contradictions, insinuations, and plain lies. I have no lover and my heart is whole. And while it may be enough to prevent me from feeling dead, from flowing through oblivion for eternity with a trace of consciousness -- while it does prevent this, it doen't help me to feel alive -- to feel born into a world textured by every culture and civilization.

    Yes, I am loverless and heartful. But I perpetually want... and this instinct is showing no sign of dying and leaving me burdenless.

    {maybe you and I will have to write a romance novel together}

         Mein Liebe


    Listen to that sound; it's beautiful. It's spontaneous, wonderful, indigenous, gypsy, circus-punk, world-traveller -- oh, I love that singer. Listen to her voice! Look at the art she can create so easily; I would definitely have sex with her, and I have no idea what she looks like. But she's probably a sweet, young, progressive, thoughtfull, intelligent, witty, and admirable girl. She's probably the type of girl that you look at for two seconds and say to yourself, "I changed my mind; if I could have sex with anyone, it would now be that girl."

    What the hell are you listening to?

         Interview With a Lover


    Of course there were many cops before the revolt who supported the revolution. They felt, just like the workers, that their labor was being wasted, thrown away, and needlessly delegated and empowered at too many parts. They were upset with what they produced, with what they earned, and with the effect their businesses had on the community.

    Before the revolution, I wasn't so sure that there was ever really a good cop, but today I believe there are many.

         Kill Da Pigz


    Ah, yes, the justifications for a society where rape is sanctioned. Perhaps this comes from our roots in the Old Testament, where Jesus Christ and God Almighty ordered the rape of 32,000 women and children, in the 31st chapter of Exodus. If our worship, praise, and thanks for this world go onto the shoulders of history's most ambitious rapist, then it certainly explains how our law enforcement is so poorly organized.

    Whatever brought this society to its current point, the only absolute that can be guaranteed is that the police force defends it. They alone possess the community's consent for the self-defense of everyone; they alone have the squad cars, the riot gear, the batons, the pistols, the shotguns, the rifles, the tazers, the attack dogs, the police-station RV on wheels. On their own, the police fail to arrest half of the suspects with credible, genetic evidence against them. But yet they still argue, "It is the court system, its inadequacies, its bureaucracy, and its district attorneys, that fail to prosecute rape -- they fail to make it illegal, and they fail to punish those who certainly commit it. I, the lowly officer of the law, am but a pawn in the entire scheme, and therefore, hold no guilt of rape." Ah, such sweet-sounding lies and ignorance; the police officers who hold complete control of society in every respect, who kill their unionists in the street, who perform executions out in public -- yes, they are POWERLESS!! They can DO NOTHING! And they have no guilt!

    But I, the poor working class individual, the 40-50 hours a week for shit pay and roach-infested tenement buildings, the typical victim of police brutality and illegal wars and secret detainment facilities and torture chambers -- I should be held responsible for everything I do. Even the government itself advocates the idea that drugs are addictive, including Marijuana, and that the users have no control over their lives. But, with a clear conscience, it still sends us to the gallows, to the numberless cells, to pain and misery and suffering for decades! As a single citizen, I am so disempowered, first the victim of the egregious police officer, then exploited by the wealthy capitalist, then used as a scapegoat by the politicians -- ah, yes, of course I MUST HOLD THE GUILT! I do not have guns, or state power, or weaponry, or a dedicated group of soldiers; all of the powers of the police, I do not have. Yet, I am still guilty, and I am considered so guilty, that I must be thrown out of society, and locked up -- a modern-day Socrates, wasting away behind bars and bricks, with my countless brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters.

    I, who have nothing, who live a wage-to-wage existence, in the most dire of poverty, abused by every empowered social institution, from religious authorities to cultural authorities to educational authorities to political authorities -- I, completely disempowered, abused, wrecked, tortured, enslaved, imprisoned; I, who have nothing and no power to change anything, I must be held guilty, I must be imprisoned, and I must be executed. But the police officers, the army, the governers, the politicians, the political parties, these individuals have everything -- all of society revolves around their whim, and yet they want to absolve themselves of responsibility for the world they created. If any police officer truly feels guilty about their responsibility for rape and their oppression of cultural minorities, then there is only one thing they need to do: take out their firearm, point it at their commanding officer, and fire several shots. At that moment, the empowered will have taken the first step in guaranteeing that they are not responsible for rape or oppression; but until that moment, every single police officer, from the corner snitch to the neighborhood watch association, everyone is guilty of rape and murder, and they each have already been sentenced to death by the eternal laws of justice. It is only up to us, the community, to wholly fulfill our obligation to the universal conscience, lest we ourselves justify and defend cruelty, rape, abuse, and murder.

         Making Sweet Sweet Love


         "I resent him," she said, "I become bitter and angry with him. When I see men and they interest me, I want to be with them, share stories, tell jokes, exchange social insights, and have sex."

         "He doesn't sound like a bad guy, though," I said, "You don't tell me that he's verbally, emotionally, or physically abusive. He sounds intelligent and loves his job as a youth educator. Normally, I love getting women away from their asshole boyfriends and husbands, and fucking the shit out of them, because there is an air of perfect justice to it. The one who they very selectively chose as a social and sexual partner, given such tremendous trust and loyalty, only to act like a fuckwad -- I get to take away that abusive partner's domination and power complex. Even if for just one evening or one night, and then I can adore and love the person they cheated, when they vowed to become supporting partners, and instead became assholes. I get to make a mockery of those horrible people, their ideas and beliefs, and ultimately, what they decide to waste their life on."

         "I don't hate Charles," she said, "I love him and everything about him is great. I want to spend the rest of my life with him."

         "You know what my next question is going to be," I said.

         "So why am I with you now?"

         "That's the one."

         She smiled, "Because I want to taste all the flavors of life, emotionally, culturally, but as my body demands, sexually. I certainly wouldn't mind him tasting other women. I'm confident that he will always return as my best friend. Whenever I bring up these suggestions, we get in a fight. He starts closing up, becoming defensive, and sometimes he gives me these awful looks like he can't trust me, or he's questioning my integrity."

         "And then you become bitter?"

         "Because the discussion about it makes him crazy, so I just don't even bring it up," she said, "My lover and defender in everything becomes something else in the context of these thoughts, and it is a terrible feeling. So Ir esent him, and the choices I've made. It makes life bittersweet."

         "How do you feel now, though?"

         "Well, I still have sex outside the relationship and it satisfies me," she said, "Since we don't need to fight about it and since I have sex with many men, I can't really resent him. Our time is sweeter, gentler, and more fulfilling. After my first night with you, we spent two hours discussing early childhood development, till we were too tired and fell asleep, making love in the morning. I didn't have to be bitter, to have a grudge, or keep any feelings secret."

         "You become closer to him because you cheated on him?" I asked.

         "Well, yes," she said, "I'm a woman and I have needs. If my life partner can't or won't help me, I'll have to resolve them for myself. And once I can do that, the tension of my relationship with him eases."

         "You know, I've heard that you can tell a lover is cheating on you when their touch becomes disingenuous."

         "Those are the men and women who feel trapped or tricked into a relationship," she said, "They are so bitter and hateful of their partners, that they went them to find out so that the relationship can do something like suicide. It's the only way for a partnership to end in a morally just way, because it is done through the point that the monogomous partner refuses to concede."

         "Do you have any secret wants?" I asked.

         "Not to end my relationship," she said, "My secret wants are strictly sexual and platonic."

         A Beautiful Girl


    There was this beautiful girl I remember from many years ago. She had this dark hair, occassionally accented with green and blue, and when she spoke, it could reach your heart. I miss her so much; I think about her smile, her laughter, the things she would say -- her cynical sarcasm, her bitter optimism, her sympathy and her understanding. If I could have done things differently, I'd have tried to know her as a lover, to dance through her dreams, to ask her about everything that disturbs her conscience. I badly wanted to love her, to sift through her emotions, to challenge her desires, to taste her scents.

    In 2006, she was arrested by a police officer while hitch-hiking to the hospital for medical treatment. The charges? Prostitution. The police will not bring women to the hospital, even if they are ill and sick. But they will drag them to jail, they will put them in handcuffs, and they will arrest them. The District Attorney, Michael D. Schrunk, this wonderful representative of "the people," saw fit to offer her a plea bargain. But this woman was too strong, too bold, too untouchable for this oppressive, brutal system -- in the court case of the People of Oregon v. Delia Tirado, a jury of her peers found her not guilty. Officers arrested a woman seeking medical treatment; it pains my heart to think of her in the back of that police car, throwing up, and locked in a metal cage. No charges were ever brought against the officers, for impeding justice or medical care.

    They claim to be empowered solely by me, the citizen, but that would make me guilty of dragging a woman to jail when she was trying to get to the hospital. I cannot have this guilt on my conscience; it is intolerable and it invades every part of my good nature. I am violently assaulted by these nightmares and terrible fantasies, begging for a way to end the misery, or for a way to not feel at all. And the district attorney, Michael D. Schrunk, was too weak, too pathetic, too imbecilic, thoughtless, arrogant, and vicious to take any legal actions against the police. The system of masters defends itself, not the people. And if it truly gains its power from me, then only I can take it back -- and it will not be through voting, letter-writing, or canvassing, the powerless methods that they have asked me to take. Once again, the masters of the state have made their ruling -- the "People of Oregon" failed in their case.

    Ah, yes, I am one of these people, one of the individuals of "the people;" what absolute doubletalk. These are not the peoples' courts any more than the Chinese government is the peoples' republic. But these district attorneys, these lawyers, and these police officers all feel very satisfied that they are my direct representative, that they gain their power from my consent and not from my compulsion. If these authorities truly consider themselves to be the incarnation of my power as a citizen, then I have only one option to clear my name as "the people" -- and that is by the bombing, assassination, execution, and murder of all defenders of the state. Every judge, every politician, every district attorney, every police officer.

    Ah, yes, you the state; you are the ones guilty of dragging the citizens away when they need medical treatment, and then when this is done with "according to the consent of the people," then it's time to make a conclusion: I hereby withdraw my consent of the ruling government, its right to make laws, and its right to enforce against me or the people. Since this is not enough to remove their authority from my life, then it is time to kill every member of the state. In the words of the honorable Martin Luther King, "Those who make peaceful revolution impossible make violent revolution necessary." And this is my revolution: that I shall be secure in my liberty and culture, as much as I am in my self-preservation and defense.

         Two Candidates


    One: "I oppose your 0.005% tax increase on steel products!"

    Two: "And I oppose your 0.005% funding decrease on education!"

    And together: "But... at least we both support genocide!"



    Here I am in prison, while those who ignored a rape and allowed rapists to escape are doing the paperwork on my detention. The police have an obligation to protect the community, to protect its citizens -- and when they have become this monstrous force, obedient only to politicians, then they are morally responsible for the occurence of crimes which they are charged with preventing. Not just rape, but murder, theft, and violence; it happens in front of them frequently, but they are never moved to action. Only when they haven't fulfilled their arrest quota, and at that point, they're more likely to chase down a young black or hispanic youth to plant evidence on and arrest. Every police officer has a gun, every police officer has a tazer -- they each have cuffs and the necessary equipment to carry out justice. We may only see a minority of police officers committing rape and murder in the streets, but they are never found guilty of any crime, nor are they ever charged by the district attorneys office. This is not just a few bad apples; it is the entire system of authority and its participants which hold guilt for the majority of rapes and murders in a city. Every police officer, fully equipped and given the duty of protecting their fellow citizens, has a moral obligation to arrest, detain, and where necessary, to use force and violence against their fellow officers who fail in protecting the community. But this never happens, because the police are not interested in protecting the people. Their sole interest is like that of politicians or CEOs or big corporations: the self-preservation of their privileges and their social benefits, all of which is paid for by the majority.

    It is not just some of the police officers who are guilty, it is the entire system and organization of policing that holds the guilt. Their open, cold-handed refusal to prevent rape and murder, even when it is happening in front of their eyes, gives confidence and boldness to the criminals; when I am mugged and a knife is put to my throat, it is not so much because of the want of mugger -- rather, it is much more so because the four police officers sitting in the donut shop behind me are too busy to be bothered. And the other police officers, they could protect me from the vicious abuses of the police, but no, that could never happen. There has never been a situation in society where that was humanly possible, for power to destroy itself. Even when millions were sent to the gas chambers in the concentration camps, every single judge and police officer who put them there was exonnerated -- because it was a judge ruling on a judge, or the police ruling on the police. Many police drag people away with to death camps in third world nations, never to be heard-of again. There are the notorious "ghost-flights" continuing to this very day, where American citizens are illegally detained, and then flown to Romania and Poland, then physically tortured with the sanction of a different, national law. But no police officer fights this; they do not fight torture, police negligence, or even rape and murder when it happens in front of them. If they did, it would mean a civil war of the police departments, with the crooked cops in open warfare with the honest cops. This does not happen, because there is no such thing as an honest cop. Putting on that uniform, wearing that badge, taking orders, and oppressing the people -- the conformity and day-to-day routine of these activities completely wears down any soul or humanity remaining in the individual.

    If they are not busy holding down citizens and arresting journalists to be physically maimed, drowned, burned, cut, choked, and stabbed, then they're the accomplices of the rapist, the murder, and the thief. Since the politicians fail in protecting the people, they certainly can't accuse the police of failing; after all, the police could logically respond that for whatever mischief they're responsible for, the masters of state have committed the exact same acts in a much more expanded proportion.

    Every police officer, vested with the inviolable interest of the community, becomes a participant of rape and murder when they refuse to stop these crimes happening right in front of them. So it is, while we still have police officers, each and every one of them is directly responsible for the happening of these cruel and vicious acts of mankind. And, what would you do if you saw a group of people committing these vicious acts and they were completely immune to the reach of the law? It's quite clear: kill every last one of them, till none are left standing. Only by removing the rapist and the murderer will we ever remove rape and murder from our society. It is complete ignorance to presume any other route as a solution.

         I Had a Dream Last Night


    I had a dream last night, that started out innocent and mindless enough. Once again I was on the road and travelling, but before too long, I started to feel alone, lost, and threatened. I looked for a payphone, so I could just talk to you, and not feel so bad. But, I could find one. Still, if you had a dream last night, did you at least hear a ring?



    I had a dream last night, that started out innocent and mindless enough. Once again I was on the road, but before too long, I started to feel alone and threatened. I looked for a payphone, so I could just talk to you, and not feel so bad. But, I could find one. Still, if you had a dream last night, did you at least hear a ring?



    In the most pleasant of my dreams, I happily watch them suffer the extremes of violence, torture, and brutality. Where one cannot achieve justice in their society, they can only entertain fantasies of vengeance.

         I Have a Lover, and She Breaks My Heart


    I have a lover, and she breaks my heart. I swoon for her, and she evades; I want to hold her, and she is afraid; I lust for her, but she is not comfortable. I have a lover, and I'm only certain that I love her. But this world and my own senses are telling me that something is wrong -- perhaps I do not have a lover, an individual which represents the pinnacle of my affections and desires; a person whose presence is enough to make me feel like I'm directly connected to the inner nerves and blood streams of humanity's conscious form. If I did not have a lover, I would still have everyone else, and we would all continue to feel very alone. But at least my heart wouldn't be broken.

         Pure Wisdom


    If you want to change the people, become a preacher. If you want to change the world, become a revolutionary.

         Hello, Lover


    There are too many things in this world that deserve our attention, our stress, our pain, and our anguish, that to apply these emotions to trivial matters completely devalues us as individuals; by giving our stress for iPods or flatscreen television sets, we are in effect saying that starving children in Africa are not worthy of such stress -- those who are the victim of our nation's imperialism, they do not deserve our misery. And, so it is, where there are only trivial matters, and people are not genuinely seeking a miserable condition for those around them, little attention or pain ought to be devoted.

         A Fit About Capitalism


    Community action has so far removed child labor, dangerous machinery, and poisoned and tainted food as parts of the capitalist system; to cut them off, by applying brute force against their legislators, until they caved in to the demands. That is the only reason why today children are not being mangled by dangerous machines -- because the people were willing to use their physical force against their masters. But today, only the most insidious and non-visible part of the Capitalist system remains: the final vestige of private ownership of the means of production. By enough struggles and fights, we have separated it from child labor, and killed it; we separated it from tobacco companies publishing ads that cigarettes improve health, and then killed it; we cornered off the part that discriminated on the grounds of race, and then eviscerated it. It was by our community action that we have chopped off, one after another, the various tentacles and arms of the beast that is the Capitalist machine.

    But still, even in our twenty-first century, its heart still beats, and sometimes even faster and with more potency than it has in the age of oil barons and rail kings. And today, there are so many that claim they alone are capable of destroying the beast. They ask for participation in their political parties, whether it is communist, socialist, leftist, or even liberal. Capitalism can either by tamed, so that instead of producing extravagant waste and exploitation, it creates a greater wealth for the social order. Or, perhaps they will say that their party alone can kill the capitalist beast, but only after the highest members of the political party become the new capitalists -- they want you to help them become the masters of you, your family, and all of society. Make me your master, so I can free you! This is their edict most of all, even though it is still the premise of all political parties. With such absurdities, it is natural that only half of all the time and energy of a political party must be spent as a church -- it must declare a statement of faith, it must demand obedience to it, it must expell members who refuse to recant, and in some cases, it has even established its own court system. Party-court systems were established in the German and Russian, state-communist parties, long before their revolutions in 1917 and 1922.

    Such ridiculous and inane methods. I cannot stand talking to these individuals for more than a few seconds. All of this revolting conversation about party discipline and obedience to new gods -- it is a foul business, to replace an existing social contradiction with one that posseses even more holes. Their logic is far beyond me. They speak of an enlightened dictator who can understand the mind of the workers, as though this experiment has not been tried for over six thousand years with the Chinese emperors. The worker is now the proletariat, the bosses are now the bourgeoise, the communist party is now the vanguard -- ah, yes, bringing religion to the natives. Indoctrination isn't quite set until we've changed the actual words that our followers use. My dear friends, cast off your intellectual debilitation! The workers are just the workers, the bosses are scummy bastards worthy of assassination, and the so-called communist party is nothing but the capitalists and the state reinvented! Do not try to confuse me with renaming things. In the words of Bakunin, THE PEOPLE DO NOT LIKE BEING BEATEN WITH A STICK, EVEN IF IT IS CALLED THE PEOPLES' STICK!

    I want to end the life of Capitalism the same way that those who came before me examined it, weakened it, and then dismembered it. I'm following in the steps of the muckrakers, the red unionists, the casual rabblerousers, -- begging from the words of Martin Luther King and Leo Tolstoy --, the humble servants of the people, the community organizers, and the corner pamphleteers. They are my fathers and mothers, and I am only their hopeful child, who after decades of oppression and abuse, was finally born, and ready to change things. If only I could've known them as actual parents, then perhaps I'd have already abolished the state and capitalism by now. But, I can only follow in the steps of those who have maimed, dismembered, and crippled the beast. It snivels for its very last moments of life, bringing its sweatshops over five thousand miles away, creating a heavy and burdensome middle class, and happily pleasuring the very last few to cross the line into the upper class. The beast has been brought to such a horrible point that its food products must be inspected, its toys tested for chemicals, its jobs not require racial standards or lie-detector tests, its police dispossessed of their brass knuckles, among so many other accomplishments -- the monster is on its last limbs, seeking to legitimize its existence and expanding its empire only when it doesn't make too massive of an uproar.

    But the activities which brought it this far, will be the vey exact tools we use to finally slaughter the monster. It is by cooperative, free, voluntary, and mutual action that we will stop its heartbeat; that we will free this and all lands for its inhabitants.

         A Fit About the Communist Party


    "How is it then, that you explain human nature not getting in the way of that?"

    "How do you mean?"

    "Well, anyone here, if you asked them to swallow a red hot coal, would refuse."


    "Because it is natural, human nature to refuse that."

    "Of course."

    "How do you explain, then, that a human who has power does not exploit it?"

    "A communist human --"

    "-- No, wait, let me finish. You blame humans for being to corrupt of reason and compassion when they are your masters of the means of production, but so long as they have a red flag, it's okay that they become your masters?"

    "The communist party will bring great things for us."

    "It never has. Don't try to feed me that shit. What's the difference between two capitalists, if one calls themselves a nationalist and one calls themselves a socialist? Who gives a flying fuck about you and your awkward, abstract ideals for the nation, the state, or the communist party? You all want to make yourselves masters of all, for the betterment of all, and you each treat the worker like a fucking pawn. That is what's wrong, you Leninist piece of shit! Because at heart, you are a Capitalist, and I am a Communist, because only I want workers to actually be the masters of their means of production."

         Ninja Turtles


         From Ninja Turtles to Mighty Mouse, the problem with society is the member who tries to stand out and express themselves; it is the character, the individual, who rises up, and becomes different from the background, that is the problem. This is the problem of society -- the individual. Because they are differentiated from others, because they follow their own path, because they allow themselves no masters and only temporary treaties -- the bad guy, the villain, the criminal. That is what our super heroes fight. That is their enemy. The matter of accomplishing justice is the matter of crushing this force; a matter of crushing the independent individual. That is how we accomplish justice. We must stamp, crush, and completely defeat the will of the individual, wherever they rise up; simply appearing as a monster to these cartoon extravagances is usually enough to merit an attack. This is how our children's television functions. It finds an enemy, draws them out as enemies of the public, shows them burning the cities and terrorizing the people, and then they are swiftly defeated by the heroes. Our children are immediately taught that the primary injustice of society is caused by isolated individuals acting within their own will; the cause of our problems in our society are from the thief, the gang member, and the casual henchmen. What utter shit! What complete, status-que supporting, utter shit!! -- Why don't our superheroes come out in favor of a general strike? Why don't they inculcate rebellion among the workers, to ask them to force their masters to give them greater liberties and a greater possession of the social product? That is how every revolution in the past has proceeded. We do not have freedom of speech, or freedom of assembly, or the right to religion, because someone stood up and said, "Let's stop the forces haunting society! Let's kill the barbarians among us!" No, it was because someone stood up, and said, "I am tired of your hunting so-called barbarians, and we, the people, are ready to fight and resist to the very bitter end, until you give in to our demands!" The second scenario is never realized in these cartoons. They are not trying to relieve the common people from police brutality, from corrupt politicians, from vicious hunting capitalists. The only instance I can remember is Captain Planet, with a capitalist who was actually morphed with a pig; and while hilariously awesome, it was made completely unbelievable to children, and was never capable of truly demonstrating the social relationships responsible for pollution. The superhero rises up, finds a disturbance, and then physically compells it to submission. The disturbance is not the draft or the government's refusal to recognize AIDS as a national health threat; or, heaven forbid they ever attack something like economic exploitation, the government's people-monitoring projects, or police brutality -- the disturbance is the individual, not the system. They attack society's individual, and ignore society's environment. Everyone is led, like a cow to the slaughter, finally butchered after they've been forced to accept a formula as a way of life.

         I used to babysit for my sister. And when their kids turn on superman, I say, "Turn off that Capitalist bullshit, they're all fucking lying to you." Then I read them a passage from Voltaire's collected works, or maybe some Dr. Seuss. My sister eventually prohibited me from babysitting, because I couldn't control my cursing.

         There was a show way back in the 90's called "The Originals." In the first and only episode, an aged superhero gets agitatated by the rising crime rate reported by his cousin, and steps into action. After remobilizing his old superhero squadron, he ends up destroying some buildings and wrecking a few peoples' lives. Then his cousin corrects himself, "I'm sorry, it was the tax rate that was out of control, not the crime rate." His uncle pats him on the head, "No harm done," grudgingly. Of course this show was cancelled after its pilot was aired; it was about the system being the evil, and not the individual, despite the brilliance of its plot and dialogue.

         Even in the most subconscience part of the brain, when a worker sees a co-worker standing out, as an individual, and asking their friends to form a labor union with them, they will see the arch villains of their childhood cartoons -- they will see the individual rising up and causing problems for the established order; they will not see the truth, which is that it is collective will organizing and fighting the evils of their social circumstances.

         Music and Life


    You know, I can put on any album, and then figure out exactly what period of my life I discovered it -- when I was in the slums, fighting with the Mexican revolutionaries in Oaxaca, or being introduced to the foreign stuff by European immigrants -- I can specifically identify where I found ever sound, just by hearing it very lightly.

    Oh, yeah? So, how has that evolved over the past few years?

    Well, going from one station in life to another at the whim of the wind, let's just say that my musical experience over that period was intense, shifting from one to another quickly, moving out of one apartment into another. There couldn't be anything better for musical education, because now a single song can mean the difference between 634 SW 4th Street and 716 SW 5th Street.

         Justice of the Industrial Congress


    When we came over the hill, we saw that the prison was bearing several signs and an incredible flag. It read, very simply, "They deserve life, but not their liberty." As soon as I saw this, my spirit collapsed, and I wasn't sure what I was supposed to think about life. I had come here to murder them, to shout from the deepest parts of my soul, "They have murdered millions! They have kept us all in a servile, brutalized position. Death to all of them, by any means necessary!" And now I am ashamed... The people have already seen the viciousness of their masters and have removed them to a position where they cannot harm others, and where the rest of society is preparing to judge and sentence them. The people, the common people, have well taken over the social situation, and they presently hold the world's most cruel monarchs in a prison, and it states, that they deserve the right to life, but not to slavery. The common people have tapped in to the stream of consciousness for all of civilized humanity -- they did not assume powers for themselves that they rejected to the others. They have taken their masters, disempowered them, and forced them into chains and shackles, ready to be examined and dissected by the entire population who has been harmed by them; only that would be justice. I turned to the crowd I had roused, and apologized. "My dear, friends, you are probably thinking the same as me. I am sorry for bringing you here... It is clear that I was wrong, and that we, the people, are capable enough of defending our own interests, that we do not need we, the vengeful militia. I am sorry..."

         Best Human Beings on the Planet


    "What? People do drugs at the Anarchist meeting?"

    "Are you kidding? These are the people who have considered the taboo about pleasure to be the greatest sin of organized authority. You'd have no idea what was going on there."

    "Like what? Weird-types of sex?"

    "Odd that you should go there, but yes. And it's beautiful. These are the greatest human beings on the planet -- they're the only ones who have made a lifetime commitment to the decision that they will never attempt to be master or lawmaker over another."



    Charlie: So, what did you do this evening?

    Joe: I cut a cop's throat in a backalley way and watched him choke in his own blood.

    Charlie: Whoa, seriously?

    Joe: Yeah, I've arranged the bloody clothes of his uniform on a stake in my front lawn. Kinda like a scare-cop.

         Fucking Artificial


    So, what would happen if every stockowner went to their stockbroker at the same exact time and wanted to sell their stocks at the present value? Theoretically, if this happened, they would be required by regulations to fulfill such an obligation. However, if this happened, nobody would get any money from their trades, because without any buyers, the value of the stocks would drop to absolutely nothing. In other words, the entire economy is completely artificial.

         Fucking Nerd Alert


    Click... 450 kb/ps... 400... 350, 300, 200, 150, 50, 15, 3, 2, 1... 0 kilobytes per second. Oh shit, I broke the network on accident again. The IT technicians, who were working as tutors with the students, they all run out into the hall to check their pagers and use their cellphones. The whole engineering building's faculty is out in force, struggling with itself to fix this shit hole network. Uh, oh! Fucking nerd alert! All nerds to battlestations!



    they spoke well and long against me

         Der Perverten


    "I always sit in the back in the corner, like a mobster, so I can see anyone who comes, goes, and walks by," Charlie, "When I'm in English class, I put one of my feet on the leg of the chair in front of me, and then I rest my other foot with my ankle touching the sike of the other chair's leg. When this beautiful, sexy creature sits down in front of me, her chair rattles, shakes, and readjusts to her form and shape. From my feet alone, reverberations rumble through all of my bones, my muscles, and my joints. With my eyes closed, I pretend that she just sat in my lap, that she's grinding away at my crotch. I'd wrap my arms around her waist, pull her closer to my chest, and bury my face at the hairline of her neck, taking in her aroma and allure, with the bumping girations of dry sex. I like it when she sits with more force, too, because it makes the fantasy more believable in my imagination, but then I think that if she was actually landing on my pelvis, she'd crush my balls."

         Socialist Revolutionary


    I pulled out the dark, wood chair and sat at the linen-covered table. A single streak of dripping wax formed a river down the one candle. Then I took off my jacket and rested it on the back of a nearby chair. "Hello, and welcome to Lynx," the waittress said, "Are you ready to make your order?" She had curly hair of a deep red and a beautiful complection. "I'll have a bourbon on the rocks with a bowl of cherries," I requested. At about this time, I noticed that the crowds were starting to ensue upon the tables and at the barstools. It's six o'clock and these people are ready for their dinner. Struck with some rather obscure thoughts, I pull out a notepad and pen from my coat pocket and begin to scribble.

    "If the body has evidence. The present condition of the gang. Possession of the TNT." The waittress came back and put my drink on the table. I flipped the notepad over and laid it down. "My name's Carlita, if you need anything," she said. "All right, thank you, Carlita." She disappeared back into the kitchen and I picked up my notes again. "If the body has evidence. The present condition of the gang. Possession of the girl."... Possession of the girl? Why did I write that? I take a healthy, hungry sip of my liquor on the rocks. Possession of the girl -- I meant to write possession of the TNT. It could have been the distraction of my host bringing me my drink. I saw her form and figure as I bounced from my mind to the reality, and in the transition, I wrote "girl" instead of "TNT." Or, maybe it was... because of her.

    The stage curtains unfurl, and an announcer appears before the growing social minglers. "Hello, ladies and gentleman!" an older man, of fifty or sixty years old appeared, sporting a light blue suit and the disposition of a salesman, "We got some entertainment for you tonight! The Tone Brothers will be here tonight, performing some of that popular west coast jazz, then we have Carl Smithson, the stand-up comedian from LA, and to wrap up the evening, we'll have some soft music by the musical trio Blooming Daisies..." He went on promoting and marketing to his captive audience, and nobody seemed to pay much attention. My fair-sized glass of whiskey had lost an inch. The mass migration of people from their offices and their apartments to their feeding troughs became a blur. It is, like a religious sacrament or a tradition of heritage, something that occurs according to memorized rhythms and trained desires. It was the daily overflow of the city's river.

    Ignoring the pretentious arguments of the social order, I resumed my notation. I crossed out the world "girl," and lightly wrote "TNT" above it. "If the body has evidence. The present condition of the gang. Possession of the TNT." Those are the three primary points I need to discuss. I continued in my notes: "Dock strike efforts. Book trade. Watch the watchers." A bowl of cherry tomatoes is placed carefully on the table. I look up at the waittress, "Thank you, Carlita." -- "If there's anything else you need, let me know." -- "Actually, there is something else." -- "Yes?" -- "Is Mr. Jorgenson in tonight?" -- "Yes, he's helping the band prepare right now." -- "Tell him his friend Charlie is in the crowd waiting for him." -- "All right, I'll let him know." -- "Thank you so much, Carlita."

    The piano player behind the velvet sheet gives a tap-tap-tap to his instrument, and I start to feel the alcohol ripple through my nervous system. "Tonight's specials for dinner are the roast lamb, the roast duck, and our oysters on the half-shell," the voice of commercialism provides a sense of artificiality and disingenuiness to the tuning of the instruments. But overall, it just makes the restaurant environment itself feel authentic. Someone's pounding at the same bass chord in rhythm. And there's the hushed tone of feet being led to tables and kitchen hands preparing a hundred plates. A maddened sax balances its chaotic and unrehersed pitch against the bleak, moonless night. "Next week, please remember that we'll be undergoing some small construction; we'll be closed for monday, tuesday, and wednesday," the announcer continues. A roaring drum roll turns into a smooth, slow, and relaxing exchange between the high-hat and snare drum. They're just tuning their instruments right now, but you can already tell there's a skill and talent involved. Suddenly and without notice, the club's house lights are dimmed to a soft hum. "Do you enjoy that attitude change in the atmosphere, folks?" the commentator tries to relax the crowd into buying more drinks. I sit on their fringes, letting the wane of the evening calm my spirit.

    "Kill the watchers," I reread my notes. That's not what I meant to write. I did it again. A distraction from the real world explodes in my sphere and my mind goes spinning. I've been up for too long, but this drink is starting to help. It's turning my sleep deprivation into a painless and uninterrupting psychosis. I've been awake for at least thirty hours. Light has become too bright and loud noises cause irritation, but the liquor is starting to numb those pains. I'm randomly falling into spells of dizziness and tension. Sometimes it makes me feel light-headed and like I'm walking in a dream, but other times, I start to hear voices, and I get these terrible, panicked feelings, like I'm about to faint. I need to get some sleep soon. I won't be able to take it much longer.

         Social Drugs


    HOH: See, it's a magical drug.

    BMX: Hah, perhaps... But I like my education. It's getting me to places I wanna be. I will become a cool motherfucking therapist

    HOH: Yeah.

    BMX: Imagine me as a therapist, would I make anyone feel guilty or like a dickhead for living their life as they do? They'd be the ones who do it. And if they let it become that way, they really don't wanna be like that

    HOH: Still, it'd be nice to be able to live in a world where good people don't need to suffer such iniquitious tortures as a university. And, as you and I know, the more people who resist this system, the more who would rather be homeless and poor than work for the motherfuckers in charge, the harder time they'll have in forcing us into subjugation. I mean, speaking strictly out of fact.

         What I Wish I Said


    "When contrasting Bentham's and Locke's moral systems, what contrasting points do you see?" philosophy teacher.

    "For the most part, I onitec Benthas'm system sets the maximization of human happiness as its focal point, and Locke's system concerns itself with inalienable, personal rights."

    "And why were they concerned so much about their morality?"

    "Well, because it determes the way people live their lives."

    "And what is life?" teacher.

    "Life is... it's what you make of it."

    "All right, sure," philosophy teacher, turning away from the student.

    "Hey, hey!" student, "Do youknow how high I am right now? I am so high. You should be amazed that I'm capable of reaching the class, let alone sustain some in-depth, philosophical inquiry. My world is spinning right now with fire works and exploding solar systems, and the least you could do is say something more than just 'all right.'"

         To My Economics Professor


    Dear Professor,

    There were some points you raised in the Microeconomics class I took that I thought might deserve a retort. Specifically, I'd have to argue against your statements on Socialism. One of the primary qualms I had with your stance against Socialism was in your definition of it. It is popular for people to make the claim that Socialism or Communism advocate equal payment for unequal work. That is the Marxian theory of socio-economic justice, with the phrase "To each according to their ability, to each according to their need." While this is certainly the basis of Marxist ideology and practice, it doesn't quite represent the whole of Socialism or Communism.

    The Wikipedia page for Communism defines the theory as "based on common ownership of the means of production," with this trait being the essential thread of Collectivist fabric. Under Socialism, Wikipedia gives the definition "Socialism refers to a broad array of ideologies and political movements with the goal of a socio-economic system in which property and the distribution of wealth are subject to control by the community." Naturally, common or public ownership of the means of production, or capital, accompanies with it public operation and management of capital. Likewise, the public can choose on a form of equal payment regardless of the value of work each laborer offers, or they can choose a payscale for the differing positions. Totalitarian forms of Collectivism, such as though practiced by Stalin or Mao or Castro, have chosen the first, while Libertarian forms of Communism, such as though practiced in the Paris Commune or the autonomous region of Catalonia, have gone with the second method of varying payscales for different jobs. The logical problems of equal-payment, such as a lack of incentive, are obvious. But this logical issue cannot be applied to forms of Socialism where there are different incentives based on the amount of labor each individual contributes. In opposition to the Marxist tenet, many of these collectives have chosen the slogan, "To each according their contribution."

    Your arguments against Marxian Socialism are valid, but to define all of Socialism as this form of equal payment is to commit a false, Ad Hoc argument -- or, redefining a theory you oppose in order disqualify it. It seemed quite unfair to lump all Socialist and Communist theory under this heading and likewise, to banish it under such pretenses. And, of course, the textbook for the course followed such similar logic.

    As far as why one might want to replace Capitalism with a system where the means of production are directed by and for the common people, Adam Smith said it best, "...whoever imagines, upon this account, that masters rarely combine, is as ignorant of the world as of the subject. Masters are always and everywhere in a sort of tacit, but constant and uniform combination, not to raise the wages of labour above their actual rate. To violate this combination is everywhere a most unpopular action, and a sort of reproach to a master among his neighbours and equals. We seldom, indeed, hear of this combination, because it is the usual, and one may say, the natural state of things, which nobody ever hears of." [Wealth, Vol. 1, Chap. 8.]

    And, if wages and money simply translate to the standard of living, then we may reword Smith's argument to, "In any era and in any nation, the Capitalist class is in a mutual conspiracy to keep the public's standard of living to as miserbly low as possible."

    I've spent quite some time researching and debating this topic. If you have any responses and if your time permits it, I'd care to see what you think of these ideas. Thank you.

         Me Drunk


         "Holy shit!" John exclaimed, "The Jesus pizza! LET'S GET THE JESUS PIZZA!"

         Actually, it wasn't the Jesus Pizza. He was exceptionally intoxicated with alcohol, and what he had actually read was "Jesus Puzzle" from the phrase, "Figure out the Jesus Puzzle."

         "Pizza now, motherfuckers!" John screams.

         Amphetamine Slut


    Punkerslut: Sure, but can't you really love without Jesus or the god of your religion?

    Christian: You told me that the mind was just a chain reaction of chemicals.

    Punkerslut: Well, it is. I use chemicals to control mine. Two thousand years ago, they didn't understand what a rainbow was. They said it was a symbol of god that he would never flood us again. I can make a symbol of god with a garden hose on a sunny day. Doesn't that somewhat disturb you?

         Close One


    "I 'unno about it, friend," he said.

    "Come on!" I replied, "We already got a general strike committee setting up right now. We were acquitted, and we're just waiting to get out. Why do you want to pull out?"

    "Because we got really close this time," he said, "I was looking at a twenty to thirty year prison sentence. It was too much for me to enjoy, and I'm not going to put myself through that again."

    "You get really close to instant death every time you drive on the highway, or every time you even light up your gas stove. Yes, there are some things you can do in five seconds, with a quick, thoughtless response that will bring you to instant death. In either case, or many others of our daily life. Dying on the highway is as easy as taking a hard swerve left or right, flipping your vehicle, and hoping you punctured your gas tank so an explosion will occur. It's that easy, and we deal with it right in our faces every day without an issue. Why? Because we act carefully, we act professionally, and above all, we act surgically. That is exactly what we did here. Yes, we are all terrified the first time we drive on the highway, but the second time is no-sweat. If you help us with the general strike committee, we will be closer to our goal of toppling the state. Don't get second thoughts now, just because the boulder beneath the statue has started to crack and tiny, rock chips are flying up in your face -- if you contribute to this effort, we can make some phenomenal change for the world. Please, are you going to help us?"

    "Yes, I will..."

         What Is Brilliance?


    "That's probably why so many consider me to be such a mellow person in general," I replied, "When I see shit like that, it consumes me like a flame; sometimes it feels like the shock that it sends through my body is enough to knock me down, leaving me dizzy and fainting. It pulls on so much aggression and anger within my soul to satisfy the cravings of such an attitude, of such a worldview. It gives me this more-than-subtle, vengeance complex slash borderline personality disorder. When the police drag someone down in the street for looking poor and homeless or for being the wrong shade of color, it makes me explode and it takes every last drop of hatred and inpatience with humanity out of my body. I act on these passions, these fluid emotions, and the act itself becomes the sacrament to my own personal religion. And that's what religion is exactly. The embodiment of an individual's personality inconsistencies and subconscious mental illnesses. So I've made myself into a revolutionary; and perhaps the demands and rigor of such a lifestyle takes too much toll. I can only console myself with the fact that it wasn't until he was fifty that Bakunin overthrew the state and the capitalist system in various, European cities. I still have time to do many more meaningful and useful things with my life, and maybe it will one day amount to the overthrow of at least some government or state, or the abolishment of capitalist holding on the means of production."

         Will This Happen?


    "So, I overthrew the state, destroyed all political parties, and created a free and mutual socio-economic order based on cooperation and non-coercive associations."

    "You did not."

    "Okay, fine, but I litigated my way through the state courts to change the way the Family Abuse and Prevention Act is applied so that it now can actually protect all who suffer domestic violence. I got one more concession out of the state."

    "And now they're using that concession, that you forced them to give up, as a reason why the state needs to be kept in tact and performing its functions, right?"

    "Right, well, no... Yes, and no. But mostly yes. Dammit."

    "Next time you feel like bringing society closer to that utopian world, skip the bullshit litigation and just throw a bomb in some cop's car. Less irritation on your end, and at least the progress you're responsible for won't be claimed by the state."

    "Yeah, but what if they use that a reason why the state needs to clamp down on independent thought and personal liberties?"

    "Shit, I didn't think of that. That's a good point, because that's exactly what they do, especially when they carbomb their own cops to make such paranoid hype on a daily basis. What the hell is the point in throwing one more bomb into a group of doomed cops, except piss off the elites who are trying to marginalize every citizen's rights?"

    "So, there's nothing I really can do. If I try to help society improve by changing its laws, by fighting its present powers, then any advantage I gain for the people is declared as a victory by the state. Then people will have more of a reason to believe they have to depend on a powerful, coercive, third-party entity to create order and harmony. Whereas if I try to blow the hell out of the state directly, they just react and take away our liberties, claiming that too many are abusing them for the purposes of abolishing slavery, except they'd just say the bombthrowers were abolishing liberty. Standard double-talk from politicians."

    "The solution is to throw enough bombs at the cops to kill every single one of them. That's the trick. Your warm-hearted attempts to make the world a better place are just being used as reasons why government must be kept in place, why its officers must carry tazers and its soldiers must carry rifles, even for something as simple as the eight-hour workday or safe and healthy working conditions. You can't just do intermittent acts of terrorism and violence against organized hierarchy; it must be of a constant, persistent, and revolutionary nature. Oh, and it also helps if you have the masses of society at your back, ready to storm the congresses and the courts, the churches and the thrones. I mean, really, a violent revolutionary movement that accomplishes something for the creation of a utopian world can only emerge from such social roots. Without them, these so-called 'liberators' will even turn on the people themselves, so what's the point at that time?"

    "Okay, I need lots of people and lots of bombs. What else?"

    "That should cover it."

         Taunting a Flame


    "He's like a fire that becomes taunted."

    "How do you taunt a fire?"

    "I don't know. You live with it, exist with it, but when it's angry or pretentious, it sparks back. It throws its pain at you. When a fire feels taunted, it's enough for it to attack."

         Something Like That


    I'm chisseling at this brick, tapping with an iron spike at the concrete that dusts and floats away. The sounds of sirens and crowds, public buses loading and unloading, the constant and immutable roar of traffic from every direction. The heart of New York City. I'm just sitting here crouched down at just another indistinguishable wall of this tenement building. And I'm chisseling, banging on this wall to get through the sides that hold in this one brick. Nobody seems to notice. Not the person walking their dog, nor the couple with their kid, nor the student carrying books home from high school. In the world's mecca of human population, culture, and inhumanity, it's like I'm completely alone; alone with this brick, this hammer, and this short piece of forged metal. After a series of repeated jabs, the brick falls from its place and hits the ground. I started writing on the side that was implanted against the building frame and away from the outside of the building. I was telling it that this city's employers hate the blacks, that these landlords rent only to men and not women, that the shopkeepers turn away muslims and jews, and that these politicians and police officers have made targets and victims out of the poor and the immigrants. I am telling this brick that I have starved outside of church and the priest turned away, I have been sick and wounded outside of hospitals and the doctors refused me treatment, I have been out of work and none would hire me; I have been persecuted by the courts and thrown into prison, and the world turned away. I am telling this brick, that the pain of being alone has been made by these cultures and their ideas of civilization, and that this pain outweighs the misery of oppression. They will not hear me speak, nor will they let me listen. They will not let me ask, nor will they ever ask me. They will not accept and love me, nor would they ever let me do the same for them. I am here, completely alone in this world, speaking to a brick torn from the flesh of this apartment complex, telling it how I feel so secluded, isolated, pushed, hated, and alone. I finish my last sentence, and shuve the brick back into place. Then I start churning the mixture in the cement can.

         Writing Versus Programming


    Writing and programming are two completely different creative processes. Writing requires inspiration, will, and the mental energies. Programming can be done for hours upon hours, even after you've grown bored and uninspired. It's just a matter of lining up the rods and blocks in the correct order before you've got a bomb, and that bomb is going to blow up capitalism, so why stop programming?

         What the Fuck Am I On, Oh Yeah, Marijuana


    A homebum passed me by when I was waiting for the bus. I was holding a paper plate with two pieces of pizza. "That looks good!" he said walking by me with two backpacks and a denim-guitar case. "You want it?" I asked. He took it and was very pleased, and then carried on with his luggage.

    "Bet you're hungry now," some thin woman dolled up in makeup sneers at me.

    "No, I'm a vegan and I don't eat cheese," I replied, "Maybe I'm just good at stealing and I give a flying fuck about my fellow man."

         Convince Me of What?


    It wasn't that. It was how you said it. You had to make a joke about it. You weren't even looking me in the face. For something that you've never told me directly before, you saying it now like I should know, like expect me to know about this. And that's why you choose that you to say to me. Because not only did you fail to convince me, but I suspect you failed to convince yourself.

         You Can Never Outlaw Solidarity


    Bakunin was incredible. He was like King Midas with his ability to turn everything he touched to gold, except everything Bakunin touched turned into the Social Revolution.

         What Filesharing Means


    Do you ever think about filesharing and what it really means? When you download a file, it's no different than going to the library and checking out a book, or going to your community center and borrowing a video. You're stopping an artist from receiving five cents worth of royalties and a corporate world from gaining fifteen dollars. That money is going to be reinvested in so many fields, in dangerous and toxic chemical production without a proper method of disposal, to line the pockets of politicians for the creation of pro-mpaa and anti-democratic laws, and the salaries of death squads in third world countries for when their sweatshop factories unionize and strike. When you're getting a piece of media for free without throwing money to the corporate, business elites of capitalism, it's like you're saying you don't want firing squad to reduce crowds of children to pulp, or you don't want to live a political system with a highly, polarized, pro-authority status-quo. You know what actions are available to you, and you're responsible for the results of your actions.

         Communism and Anarchism


    Exposure of the truth about communism is no more "dated" then remembering the lessons of the Holocaust. In both cases, our watchwords must be "Never Again".

    That's a rather naive view. It wasn't necessarily Communism, the collectivization of society's productive property, that killed people. It was authoritarianism and the reigns of power in an enlightened monarchy. Remember that the greatest opposition to the Soviets was from other ultra-left, communist groups. The Kronstadt Rebellion, for instance, involved Anarchists and members of the Socialist, Revolutionary Party. Nestor Makhno led Anarchist guerillas in the outback of Hungary fighting both the armies of the Germans and the Soviets. Both Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, self-described Anarcho-Communists, compiled and published lengthy, scathing journals of their adventures through "the new workers' state." The would-be assassin of Vladimir Lenin was by Fanny Kaplan, a member of the Revolutionary, Socialist Party who, like many others, saw the Bolshevik model of authority as a far worse oppression than the exploitation of bourgeoisie capitalism. All of these opponents of authority would consider themselves Reds to the very end. So, to naturally cast the victims of the Soviet Union, China, Cuba, and other "dictatorships of the proletariat," as victims of Communism is unfair. It is authority and concentration of power that murdered those millions. Otherwise we could blame god for the millions of victims of British Imperialism -- after all, that is where the heavenly mandate granting authority to govern comes from. Or maybe, we would be smarter than that, and claim that it was authority, and not "the great idea," that caused those deaths.

         Hey, Nina


    "Hey, nina, want to have sex?"

    "Ha, no,"

    "Why not?"

    "Because I don't want children."

    "What if I had a condom?

    "Do you?"

    "Well.... what if we just did oral?"

    "Go to sleep, John..."

         Yes, I Said It


    "John, you've got the mind of a girl..."


    "I mean, a lesbian girl."

    "... thank you."

         You Can Tell me About the Democrats


    You want to tell me that the Democrats are the political party to save my liberty and grant me the right to a fair share of the product of my labor? It certainly do either of these. It is, like every other tyrant or political party, my enemy, and the enemy of the people. If you follow Obama with a sense of righteousness, as though you're following the path of justice, please, stop and think: you're following the political party that built concentration camps, imprisoned striking unionists, and murdered lawful protestors in cold blood. There is no reason to believe that following this path can lead to anything but a lessening of our liberty.

         Why? (Part 2)


         "This can't work," I said, "This cannot and will not work." I was argueing with myself again. I was deciding why would people want to give into a moral code when they can experience the pleasure of permiscuous sex or the taste of sinfulness. Why would people want to give up their beliefs of god when they would be forced into a supposedly depressing athiesm. There seemed to be absolutely no incentive. Everyone thought that they were quicker than everyone else. They could draw a gun faster than the person they were going to rob. Sometimes they were right. Sometimes they were wrong. But it didn't matter, the strongest always won. Then the strongest and quickest from the strongest and the quickest. No one need morality to survive. No one even needed a fucking conscious. So why should we even have morals? Morals came about by uniting people together and making them become the strongest and the quickest by sheer numbers. Through them came religion and government... Both that are often combined and corrupted. Even if a set of morals were created in one generation how would they be carried to the next generation. Every generation put after the next seems to become more ignorant and less moraly motivated. Even those who are born to a strict religion, such as Catholicism, do not even follow the morals set for them. They can get the benefits of the religion of societal connections and a clean appearance, but the religion has truly lost meaning. Many catholics, not all of them, have not even read the bible. The same aspect goes along with citizenship. Many citizens are ablidged with many rights, but have not even taken the hours to read the dear consititution of their country. Even if a person did read the consitution or the prophecies of their bible, it does not necessarily make them morally motivated. People can be told to do something and obviously, it won't necessarily make them do it. But being told to do something without reason will definitely not make people do the morally right thing. And what is morally right? Morals will always differ from culture to culture. So one person may say one thing is morally right when someone else says it is morally wrong. How do we know which morals to follow, even if we did follow them. Through common sense and logic, we can conclude that morals should be fair and justified. A basic "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," is not all that a people can go on for morals. If you neighbor murders his neighbor, would you murder him? Epicurus proposed "Everyone takes small pains to avoid larger pains and avoid small pleasures to gain large plreasures." This would mean that someone would not feed their family, but only themselves for pleasure. Ayn Rand suggested that to live properly, you must act properly on Earth (?). There definitely is no way to easily put how life should be lived. But anytime that someone writes out the way life should be lived and is lived, times change. At one time, slavery was acceptable. In ancient Rome, orgies were completely acceptable. Just recently, ethics such as abortion and altering a child's genes before birth have come into question. There is no ancient document that tells that it should or should not be done. Therefore, a complexive system of thought should be developed that answer's today's moral questions and perhaps a way of figuring out tomorrow's questions.



         Man is born and in less than a century man is dead. Why are we moral? Why is it that striking a child in the face is considered unspeakably immoral, while eating a steak is considered speakably delicious? By making the move to Veganism, to saying that all conscious beings are capable of feeling emotions and such to the degree where they deserve rights to life and liberty, is one direction to which we can follow in light of society's subjective values. The other direction, one wholly opposite, is that of Moral Nihilism: the belief that morality is nonexistent.

         When I suffer, I feel undesired, unwanted, displeasured emotion. It is beyond simple pain. And, well.... nevermind.

         Intelligence of the Individual


    What way would best measure the intelligence of an individual? Maybe you could sum up everything that person experience, and put that to their wisdom. By conversing with sages, an individual becomes wise, and by mixing with the fools, an individual may know the misery that comes from ignorance. By seeing the passions of a violent family, restraint's value may be ascertained; by freezing on the tundras, a person learns coldness like no other.

         Smoking Mairjuana Causes Awesome


    "Smoking Marijuana Causes Depression."

    "It does not."

    "Studies show..."

    "I bet those rats were in cages -- they were depressed out of learned helplessness, not Marijuana. Marijuana just wakened them up to how scientists and researchers can be."

    "So what? It was the same with the control rats. They had no marijuana. It was the drug that effected them, and that is what caused the difference in results."

    "Let me break this down. If I drive off a cliff, while smoking a joint, my body will burn faster, because there's that small ember at the end of the joint. That is, I'll burn faster than if I hadn't be smoking marijuana.... but is that really a good justification for the alleged harms of Marijuana?"

    "... what?"



    An American reporter asks, "You're getting high in the middle of a mass grave. Could you please show some respect for the dead?"

    The militia's face become dour, as he slowly removed the thick, emberred cigar from his mouth. "The clothes you're wearing were made by the forced labor of the people underneath the ground here. So don't fucking talk to me about respect for the dead." The cigarette went back into his mouth, and the wide smile returned. After a moment, he decided to add, "Life does not cease to be serious in its funny moments, any more than it ceases to be funny in its serious moments... Shaw." The journalist exchanged a glance, but he was too put off from the conversation to respond. At least he didn't want to think about how that quote applied to this moment.

         Anarchism Never Looked So Good


    It is illegal to sleep on the sidewalk. But it is not illegal to sleep on a $10,000 mattress made by Indonesian children working in slave conditions.

    It is illegal to steal food to feed a starving family. But it is not illegal to steal eight hours a day from every worker and the wealth that comes from their work.

    It is illegal to ask for money so our necessites can be met. But it is not illegal to force the homeless out of sight, so that tourism can bring in more revenue.

    The government is passing these laws, and the government is funding a battalion of merciless and heartless police officers to carry out their rule.

    When all of it is added up, who is you friend?
    The state or the criminal?

    Freedom never looked so good

         Handing Me the DMT Pipe


         "I'm not sure I quite understand this," I told him, "What is that, exactly?"

         "It's called a research chemical," he said. His untied dreadlocks formed a curtain as he filled a pipe with a white powder.

         "A research chemical?" I asked, "Could you be more specific?"

         "Society calls it five methoxy dimethyltryptamine," he said, holding the pipe up in the air. His eyes traced the beams of light as they gently pierced the beautiful glass. Handing me the pipe, he smiles and tells me, "Those of us who use it simply call it 5-MeO-DMT. Try it."

         We were inside this kid's house. I didn't even know him very well. When I first met him, he introduced himself as "Jacob, the reincarnated spirit of Timothy Leary." His boldness and willingness to speak and act with disregard to social etiquette and embarassment made me feel instantly at ease. Here I was, in this dark room lit by red Christmas lights that were stapled to the wall in no particular pattern. "It's only twenty hits," he smiled. I took the advice, applied the lighter's flame to the bowl, and breathed in as deep as I could.

         I'm Like a Feather in the Wind


    I'm like a feather in the wind; a strong enough gust, and I'm a thousand miles away, absent of thought, will, or intention. And it doesn't bother me to wake up in Minneapolis and fall asleep in New York City, or to spend one week in Denver and the next in Raleigh. I am the quintessential drifter, flowing with the wind easily and carelessly. I am, as a single leaf, dropping from the oaks, in the brillance and splendor of green living, floating from the mount-stop stream to the very base of the river's mouth -- finally, where the elements have intended for me to be; a bit more brown, some torn holes from the rocks and insects, but at the conclusino of my adventure. A feather in the wind, a leaf in the streams, a single snowflake cutting through the air currents. But unlike these pieces of the wild, I am a drifter of the human form. And so, I am bent, torn, and tarnished by some very different elements.

         I'm a Polyamorous Male, and This is How I love


    I'm a polyamorous male, and this is how I love.

    If you are monogamous, you're basically searching for an individual that satisfies all of your interests -- you seek someone who can meet you on an intellectual, emotional, social, and sexual plane, on the same terms, with the same interest, from the same direction, and to the same end. If you find a partner who makes you explode in passion, but only in your intellectual sphere, or your sexual orientation, or your social life, leaving the others immoderately untouched -- then you pass on the experience, the memories, and the person. You are monogamous: not only do you seek out a partner for exclusive partnership, but you consider it virtuous if you have had fewer of these relationships. Ultimate virtue consists in only having one sexual, intellectual, and social partner throughout your life. This is the moral concept of sexual purity.

    And yet, I've completely rejected this type of thinking, alligning promiscious men and women as those of a colorless morality. You are neither virtuous nor dishonorable for where you stick your sexual organs -- a habit that happens behind closed doors only with consenting partners. True virtue is the exact opposite: it is concerned with people doing good for others, and not in making self-interest, exclusive, social contracts. Even though they have a complete liberty to it, it is like any other recreation: it can uplift, or destroy, the human consciousness.

    I do not pass on a relationship if it fails to satisfy all tiers of my personal psychology. There may be this wonderful woman, who speaks in prose and poetry, drawing on thousands of years of pains and joys just to talk, but she's generally, sexually, inactive. She may be considering herself as a sexual being in terms of only herself, and no others. Or, contrary, there may be a witty and intelligent girl, who loves to be sexually active, but we prefer completely different social situations. I spend my time with books and bottles, she spends her time at bars and taverns. Sexually, intellectually, we are completely compatible, but not in our social desires. And then it may be the exact opposite, as well. Then there are some women I enjoy moderately on all levels, without any weak or powerful points, and some I enjoy exclusively on some levels. It may just be sexually, intellectually, emotionally, or socially.

    As a polyamorous male, I need not change any woman. I can appreciate her fully and in every respect. I need not devote myself to the most applicable candidate, and then spend the rest of my life "fixing" her culture, or orientation, or psychology. I can see her exactly for who she is, and love her for it. I don't need to fix anyone to fit me, but this is exactly what monogamous partners do, because they believe their exclusive relationship permits them an authority in the other's life. Mutual-masters.

    And this is why I could never be bound by a law of love. First, I think one individual trying to fix another can never work; it only furstrates development. Second, it is just as destructive to "fix" those as it is to prohibit their further personal development, whether it is intellectual, emotional, or sexual, or with other partners.

    At first, I was drawn to Free Love by my disregard for tradition and my amibtion to change the social environment to fit its inhabitants. But as I became an Anarchist, the meaning of the idea became clear. I do not oppose monogamy because it is traditional, but because it hurts the people it touches -- it is, in fact, for the same reasons I am fully opposed to the state, Capitalism, and religion.

         I Don't Have a Lover


    I don't have a lover and she doesn't break my heart. But I long for someone who is worth the cracking, bending, and twisting of my capacity to love.

    As a lover, I cried, and without a lover, I still cry. Such a miserable, self-destructive creature. How easy it is to forget the miseries of only a few years ago -- how our pains become more distant and our triumphs become squabbles. I feel like a beast with a two-second memory; first I mourn that I have little food, and when I eat it, then I mourn that I have none.

    In all this world, everything always finds a way to live, to continue to persist in the face of such cruel conditions. And if it doesn't, it finds a way to die. But I, the lover's poet, always find a way to whither, to decay, to destruct. I am the disturbing pain of my own existence. So bittersweet and morose -- so depressing and somber -- is this life.

    To be compelled, tossed and turned, and inevitably drawn in by life's inconsistencies, contradictions, insinuations, and plain lies. I have no lover and my heart is whole. And while it may be enough to prevent me from feeling dead, from flowing htrough oblivion for eternity without conscience -- while it does all this, it doesn't help me to feel alive, to feel born into a world covered by every texture of culture and civilization.

    Yes, I can be, and am, loverless and heartful. But I perpetually want... and this instinct is showing no sign of dying and leaving me burdenless.

         First Stage of Human Consciousness


    The first stage of evolution for the human consciousness is awareness -- being aware of your world and your suffering. The second stage in this evolution is a hopefulness, a longing, a dream that we might climb out of this fiery pit. And the third stage is hopelessness, which comes after too much want, too little success. This third stage, the most emotionally mature, is an understanding of the pain that transcends hope... This is where Charles Bukowski stands.



         The banging loudness of a garage's horn blares through the air at 3 AM, as a bmw rolls out of a parking garage and down the street. The sound pierces my ears and shakes the street signs. As the vehicle exits the commercial garage and away from its port, a few lights turn on in the low-income housing surrounding the area. People are getting up, going to the bathroom, and walking throughout their apartments. Some stay upand allow the luminescence of their TVs to break the stillness of this cold, dark night. If I or anyone else had made a noise of the same calbur, tone, and volume, we would have been arrested and charged with disturbing the peace, but this lone, commercial parking building commits the same crime on a daily basis and gets away with it. THere is no question about who the laws were made, or why they were made.

         It's everywhere I look. It's in the way the police man swings his club, the way that the car-owning class has the right-of-way, the way the US Dept of Agriculture dumps hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash subsidies to the Tobacco industry, with the explicit purpose of making television advertising that targets women, children, and the poor. It is everywhere I look. Liberals and other reformers try to make the system work for their interests and the people. They will try to change the social system through laws and regulations. All it takes is the people to vote in a representative with a true interest in making laws that protect the public from toxic foods, dangerous working conditions, and economic recessions. But they fail to recognize. Taxes and exploitation aren't levied to carry on wars or persecution -- they are levied to carry on taxes and exploitation. As long as someone is on top, everyone else will be on the bottom. As long as the shepherd tends his herd and commands their obedience, he will have no moral dilemma in occassionally fleecing their hides.

         I am so enraged by all this institutionalzide injustice. It makes me want to kick down walls and tear holes in the sky. I want to apply my body with force against any part of this organization that I can, to bring this system to the ground, to reinvent the terms and agreements which this cruel and ignorant society was founded upon. I can feel my blood boil and the intensity of every bead of sweat dripping off my face. But as my muscles contract, as my heart speeds up, as the small combat mechanisms slowly overtake my body and soon my rationale, I realize that I can speak and have been screaming this whole time. Aggression courses through my veins as memories of the state's victims fly through my mind.

         I am going to strike this concrete post with my balled fist, to be showered in millions of tiny, rock pebbles and chips. And the building will collapse, with an enormous and satisfying shock to the earth, knocking everyone within one hundred meters to the ground. Then we will all be free... or maybe I'll just make my knuckles bleed.

         Charity Groups Lack


    Charity groups lack the moral fiber to make any meaningful or genuine changes in society. The women's charity groups that get oppressive and exploitive politicians elected, sure they really helped me. I get some expired milk, some fuzy bread, and stale crackers, which made me throw up -- and while this is called free, the price I really paid is my liberty and opportunity. The difficult-to-dispute fact is this: if we, as revolutionaries, had overthrown this order, we might have accomplished a true freedom for ourselves and our people.

    In the words of Thomas Paine, "It is not charity but a right, not bounty but justice, that I am pleading for."

         I Sit Here Almost Helpless


    I'm like the lonely, jazz saxophonist, playing my notes to the empty sky; my barren audience responds with its beauty shimmering in contrast to the darkness. It lets me know that I am truly alone, exercising my rhythm and tone to the direction of a silent, unmoving instructor. It lets me know when I need to scream, when I need to swing, to hit and to strike, to let go and release. The night is crying with me. It helps me tend these wounds, letting the bad blood and repairing my damage.

    Together with this night air, I blow in from the south and rise to the north. I become the bane of the hobo sleeping in newspapers, the blight of poor children, the strong, upwind force that slowly erodes the statues made in our heroes' honor. When I look into the dark world that surrounds me, I am touching the infinite; I am reaching the faces of all who have come before me, and I am watching the steps of those who shall go after me. I become something living and thriving of the garden in the world that was meant for us.

         A Student of Higher Learning


    You should be thankful for Capitalism. Before this system, the common people were serfs, tied to the land, not much different than slaves.

    And chivalry could be considered progress from treating women like animals, but nobody thanks it today for its advantages.

         Is This Funny?


    "He's been sleeping in the same sleeping bag for five years," my girlfriend said, "No bedding or sheets, just a sleeping bag."

    "You sleep in a sleeping bag?" Nina asked.

    "Of course I do," I hurried by her, "What the fuck else do you do with a sleeping bag?"

         To The Zionists


    A question to the Zionists of the world,

    If you are an American, I ask that you leave your house and your possessions, leaving them to the Native Americans and indigenous Mexicans, the original inhabitants of the region from over ten thousand years. If you are British, I ask that you relinquish your wealth to the Irish, the Indians, the Argentinians, and the Canadians, those who you taxed, abused, and exploited to create your current property. If you are Spanish, divide what you have between those natives your government have oppressed, the Basque, Saragossan, and Catalonian people, and then with natives of foreign lands, in South America and Africa. There are no people of the globe who have ancestors with bloodless hands, even the Jews. And likewise, to commit any redemption of the dead by punishment to the living, is to create victims out of the innocent. One day, their descendents may ask the same question that you provoke.

         Communism, Basically


    Collective Ownership of the Means of Production

         Where there is liberty to form whatever social structure most aptly fits human nature of those chosing, there are questions on the matter of economy. The wealthy, landowning classes, by their property, possess the right to deny any person the right to work and employment or the right to sustenance in the market. The decisions of the lords of industry can effect wages and prices, with their reverberations largely felt by the majority of society. Capitalism claims to possess a type of self-management through the principle of competition. In their effort to attract more buyers, the capital-owning class will lower prices or improve quality, just as each worker competes with one another to provide a sufficient value of labor to their bosses. Competition influences purveyors of the same goods to make their product more desirable or less costly, but competition does not thrive where there is only one or a few distributing the same object. In fact, competition often ends with a single winner, who wins the whole economy; and until another capitalist seeks to establish a claim in that market, the people will be at the complete mercy of only one individual. The economy becomes run by a monarch, who even possesses the power to raise prices or deny sales to certain individuals who have refused to cooperate with the business enterprise.

         For the industrialist to be moved to the point of action, of either providing higher wages or a less expensive product, they must come to the condition where change is favorable and desirable. As each person's conscience and constitution differs, the point at which a capitalist will fold to the progress of society will naturally differ on an individual basis. Those who seek wages for their labor, or sustenance for their money, are restricted in their behavior by the decisions of the capitalist class. The class of capitalists together make their offers of wages and costs of living; and these are either accepted or denied by the people. By their possession of the means of production, the capitalist is at much less risk than the workers or consumers when an offer is denied. The wealthiest class can go on quite long without constant need of their profit, while the workers and consumers are required to be unendingly employed to satisfy their needs. The conditions of the economy, then, give a certain control, power, and authority to individuals who possess the means of production. It is a power of exploitation, one that naturally arrises where one party is more pressed to an agreement than another. While the worker seeks to satisfy their need of food, clothing, and shelter, the capitalist is drawn to profit. Private ownership of the means of production creates the conditions necessary to bend the will of the majority to the interests of the few; in short, it brings with itself its own type of authoritarian structure.

         The capitalist is motivated by profit. It is by a self-serving interest that the capitalist approaches the worker and offers a wage for labor. Every worker is limited in their ability to add to the social product or to receive an exchange for their labors based on how much or how little the capitalist may be motivated to wealth. The consumer, too, is likewise limited. Where the motivation to profit is too weak and insufficient, the capitalist class has not hesitated in depriving the consumers of the products they need and desire. The majority of society thus discovers that their actions are quite restricted, in what they can or cannot do, in the security of their possessions and their livelihoods, based on how well or poorly capitalists choose to exercise their economic powers -- powers which come strictly from their private ownership of society's productive forces. The structure of Capitalism is so organized that the liberties of the individual are sacrificed to create the powers of a very few. If society were to rid itself of the state and authority, it would be illogical to persist in the form and method of Capitalism. It creates a social authority with the power to deny the people access to food, housing, and shelter; the existence of this economic authority causes the individual to lose their liberty and security. It would be pure contradiction to abolish the state, only to suffer the tyranny of those who possess the greatest wealth. To quote Anacharsis, "...written laws, which were like spiders' webs, and would catch, it is true, the weak and poor, but easily be broken by the mighty and rich." [*1] Even without the state, the people would certainly find themselves enslaved to new masters and in new chains. This situation is perpetually created by the needs of the people in their interdependent economic relationships.

         Economic tyranny is created by this private ownership of property; or, at least, private ownership of the wealth-producing property. Where the productive forces are collectively owned by the people, then each individual holds a right to direct the ends of the economy. No longer does the private interest of the landowner and the investor determine the rate of wages, the hours worked per day, or the allocation of resources and labor to certain industries. These decisions will be made by the public, as there is no other body so sufficiently capable of looking after its own interest as the people. With that power enabled, the worker and the consumer will no longer be the prey of some private, malicious industrialists' scheme. Just as in any democratic organization of society, it will be up to the people to determine and apply their own interests; with socialized control over industry, this type of people's control will allow them to choose how businesses function, as well as how wealth is distributed to the people. If the solution to the excesses of a king's power is to give each person an equal share in the decision-making process, then the solution to the excesses of a capitalist is to give each person an equal right to determine the operation of the factories, the farms, and productive forces of society. Quoting Henry Demarest Lloyd, "Government by the people is only a half truth; the other half is industry of, by, and for the people. If brotherhood is the true 'spirit of the hive' here, it must be so there." [*2]

         Many of the present laws that govern and regulate economic behavior are just the beginning touches of public control over industry. There is still private property, but it is restricted in its motions. There are controls set by OSHA and other agencies, which require safe and hazard-free work environments. Some of these regulatory bodies investigate mines and factories to guarantee that laborers don't face the threat of being maimed, crippled, or killed. Minimum wage and working-hours laws provide a secured minimum of income and compensation for overtime. The first national law requiring businesses to impose no more than eight hours of labor a day came after the CNT-FAI, the anarcho-syndicalist labor union, won a general strike in Spain, 1919. There are countless laws and restrictions that require safe production, transportation, and distribution of the food that people consume. Some of the first food inspection laws came about when the socialist Upton Sinclair wrote "The Jungle," a novel that told the story of immigrant workers and murderous machinery. Before this, human blood was tainting canned foods all over the United States. There are laws prohibiting children from working with heavy machinery or in dangerous mines, as well as restrictions against persecuting workers for attempting to organize. The interests and desires of the worker have slowly been incorporated into the formal law; but at first, they were not recognized or supported. On the contrary, they were often trampled by the ruling class. Great progress has been made in the organization of the productive forces and the distribution of the social product. It was not something given to the laboring masses. It required their suffering, their endurement of brutality, their persistence in the face of tyranny, and for some, it cost their lives. The change of economy here came from the people themselves demanding greater protections. Speaking of the state, Emma Goldman writes, "Whatever changes it undergoes are always the result of pressure exerted upon it, pressure strong enough to compel the ruling powers to submit peaceably or otherwise, generally 'otherwise'..." [*3]

    1. "Solon," by Plutarch, Written 75 A.C.E., Translated by John Dryden. [Lives of the Great Romans and Greeks]
    2. "Lords of Industry," by Henry Demarest Lloyd, 1910, chapter 10.
    3. "The Place of the Individual in Society," by Emma Goldman, sponsored by the Free Society Forum, 1940.

         Crusade for Death


    If we wanted unity in our liberty, the only thing we would have needed would've been a piece of land to call our own; a piece of a land anyone can come to, and call their own.


    That's why unrecognized artists still create. Sure, the world may not understand them, but they understand the world. Proving that is the definition of art.


    I sometimes blame the great leaders for the bad ones. If nobody taught the people that their interests could be satisfied by putting complete power into one person's hands, then maybe the tyrants that promised their people the world wouldn't have been so effective.


    I start to think that, after things have played out here, the way people act, I really couldn't give a damn how people try to honor my memory. I'd just as soon kill myself standing before my grave. Everything I built and gave to them, it's just dust in the winds of time. If what I've done isn't a purpose for the improvement of those around me, then let no one say anything about me when I'm gone. If I gave all that I could, and this is what happens, then don't try to remember me. I am neither of you, nor are you of me. Whether a hypothetical group could become my family and community, in a true sense, I don't know, I don't care. I did what I could with those around me, and others did with me as much as they could. And if this is what happens, then my passing is no different than that of an animal; to apply words to my ashes would only disturb my rest. Let me grow with the flowers and rush with the wind. If something were to be said on my behalf, it should have been done while I was still standing, or not at all.

         The Colony and the One Seed-Bearing Plant


         "What's that smell?" I hear as I turn my office chair around.

         "Hey, Barry," I said, "What's going on?" It was the officer for the camp.

         "Roger, what is that?" he made another face and pointed to the waterpipe on the table.

         "What's what?" I asked.

         "That's a bong," he said, "You've been smoking pot. You know the law applies here just as fully as it does back in the states. My job requires that I arrest you. You realize that, right?"

         "Look, Barry, the reason why everyone comes here is to get away from civilization so that they can do their own thing," I said, "Why do you think the pilgrims volunteered as the first colonists? Because they were granted religious freedom, which they didn't have in their homeland."

         "Being this far away from a court doesn't exempt you from criminal proceedings," he said. His tone didn't convince me.

         "You've been in Greg's room," I said, "You saw the massive amounts of hardcore pornography tacked to his wall. He's only nineteen. He doesn't have a license for ultra-porn yet. Are you going to bring him in, too?"

         "That sounds too vice-squad for me," he replied.

         "What about Dave?" I asked, "You know that he and some of the others were the ones who stole the crate of expensive whiskey."

         "Yeah, you were there when we planned that," he said, "It was for the good of the colony. A few months ago there was an expensive whiskey shortage. We had to make sure that wouldn't happen again."

         "Exactly," I said, "We had to work together as a group to defend our collective-interests. We all break the rules. The point is we're far enough to get away with it. We still maintain the functioning of this colony, and with too many of us in jail, their millions of government investment stop making a return."

         "All right, smoke all you want," he said, "But when the captain gets back, you keep your room door closed when doing this. You got it?"

         "You're the man, Barry," I smiled. As he turned to leave, I felt some relief, but then he stopped.

         "Roger, is there a light in your closet?" He opens the door. Twelve plants, three different species, all growing in an automated hydroponic system.

         "Are those the metal halide lamps from the science-wing of the storage warehouse?"

         "Yes, they are, and you would know, too, because those lights hadn't been touched in ages. No one's losing there."

         "You're using company equipment to grow Marijuana?" he said.

         "Does this really effect anyone in a bad way?" I asked.

         "I'm just going to shake my head and walk out," he said, "I was never here... except for doing my rounds."

         "Thanks, Barry," I said, "Try to stay warm. Antarctica is a bitch all year round."

         Two days later, Mort patiently listened as I unravelled the story. "It wouldn't surprise me if he just didn't care either way. Barry would've taken any excuse to get out of paperwork."

         We were walking towards the Slopes, a perfect, little hill sitting right in the shadow of a much larger mountain. "I felt as much, too," I said, "The situation didn't worry me."

         "Barry's not a hard one to get around," he said, "And at heart, I trust him. Living with just a few people necessarily means an almost extreme socialization with them."

         "So, what do you got?"

         "Jamaican redhair," he said, "Randy dropped it off with this morning. He came knocking nice and early at eight o'clock. Obviously still feeling the jetlag from his trip to Buenos Aires. We were both very pleased with the quality. Our mainland connection did well again. You'll agree, oh trust me, you'll agree."

         "You rarely fail me, Mort," I smiled.

         "I was talking with Dave the other day," Mort said, "He's ready to try it."

         "You think?" I asked, and then more skeptically, "Did he say that?"

         "No, I didn't ask directly," he replied, "I've asked him if he had ever smoked. He said no and I got the chance to educate him on the plant."

         "Was it such an out-of-the-blue conversation, that he probably suspected you'd offer?" I asked.

         "I don't think so," he said, "He was wholly convinced of the lies told to him by the government. At the least, the impression I left was that the subject matter was unfairly conveyed by authorities."

         "He could be ready for it," I said, "There is a time for everyone. Curiosity, willingness, and trust can slowly overcome the mind's inhibitions." I looked ahead. We were halfway to the Slopes.

         "The scent of the plant has its allure," he smiled. My attention drifted to the falling snow. Strong winds beat trails into the ground. The ice particles become less and less numerous as we reached the summit. We came to an ice ledge fixed with a ladder. I looked back to the camp, seeing only a few, bright lights transformed into a blurring and dim florescence. Mort threw his backpack up and over, and then proceeded to climb. I followed.

         We walked for a few feet. It became more noticable that this semi-sheltered area of the mountain retained its human traces. We stopped at the construction site. Several years ago, the company made a decision to drill a well here. After it became uncovered that these decisions were made on inaccurate reports, the materials were completely abandoned.

         There was one large pipe sitting at a ninety degree angle against a support railing. At the end towards the ground, there was another piping ficture attached to it that created a bowl-shape. Mort pulled out a plastic bag of pot and proceeded to load the aluminum tube. I grabbed the industrial torch and sat on a pile of tires we've been using as a makeshift seat.

         "How much are you loading?" I asked.

         "Seven grams," he said.

         "A quarter ounce sounds good," I replied. The tingling aroma filled my nostrils. It was the smell of love. The buds at the bottom of the chamber produce a crunch noise as Mort loads it. It's starting to freeze. "It's a good temperature outside for this," I said.

         "Okay, it's ready," he said, "You can go first." I handed him the torch and stood at one side of the pipe. I lifted my ski mask up and placed my face on the opening. In a second, he torched the dried plant, instantly engulfing it in flames. A frozen smoke makes its way passed my mouth and into my lungs. I can feel each cell carrying the nitrogen, the oxygen, and the carbon dioxide, and then unintentionally pulling in the THC and the cannabinoids. I inhaled the enormous cloud of smoke with a strong and steady pace. It produced no irritation, but felt as though I were taking a full, cool breath. The smell of the plant was thickly coating my mouth and asophagus. It were as though the only thing I tasted was the plant itself.

         You Are Pretty


    My veins are running with pure alcohol and my muscles are nothing beyond incendeniary explosives. The body I was born with has become a bomb. Bringing the most natural of compassionate feelings to a world dominated by tradition and authority has exposed me to a brutalizing conditioning. It was a very slow and gradual process. At first, my blood's alcohol level would increase by a quarter or a half of a percent, and I could feel my body mass metabolizing into toxic and harmful explosives. Weeks would pass. I soon find myself detached from more and more elements of society's common norm. People and places I could rely on failed me because of who I became. And now, I am a fully functional bomb. I have will power, a hairpin trigger, and less than a promise that this will make my life better.

    It was almost surreal attaching those packages of dynamite to my body.


    There have been too many nights when my rage for this world has gone nowhere, where my thoughts would weave themselves into the most antagonizing and hurtful figures, only to disassemble and return at another fateful hour.

         Mountain of Death


    Yesterday, I would have had no problem with dying. At least that would have been dignified.

    i don't know

    "Look at the hail... Look as it piles and stacks. If only I could characterize it, to personify it, to make it an object, then I wouldn't feel so ridiculous in hating it..."

         Says Who?


    When will you know that BloodLogic has become the master of electronic communication? You will know when all government satellites are crashing onto the moon, when all national television networks are simultaneously broadcasting footage of conditions in sweatshops, and when all military vehicles are forced to discharge their EMPs, causing massive debilitation to all mechanical capabilities of the armed forces. That is when you know that my job will be done.

         Realizing My Role in the Economic Substructure


    I just paid $1.79 for a single roll of toilet paper. Not even good toilet paper. If you had to shit more than ten times in a day, your ass would be raw. I picked it up at the corner store just around the block. It had been an interesting saturday. I did my laundry, helped a friend move a couch into a new apartment, and managed to spend the evening watching cartoons and drinking beer. It happened after my dinner. There was a looming rumble in my intestines and I could start to feel internal movement. Locking the door to the bathroom, I realize there's only three pieces of toilet paper left, dangling from the cardboard tube like a weightless and dead spiderweb. A new twist to what seems to be a rather pre-planned day. Instead of taking the bus to the inside of town, I walked one block and grabbed a single roll of toilet paper. $1.79. Downtown, four rolls of store-bought toilet paper go for $1.09, but there I was, holding faith in my sphincter and paying $1.79 for a single roll. As a younger person, I always imagined a more dignified existence than being exploited for the urge to shit.

    Don't get me wrong; I'm thankful that there is a convenience store around the corner carrying toilet paper, cigarettes, alcohol, and crackpipes in one-user consumption amounts. Who would want to take a shit without toilet paper? Or, for that matter, who would want to smoke crack without a crackpipe? The logic of knowing human nature as a means of understanding economic activity is clear. Some are going to come up and to me and say that that it's my own fault that I didn't take means to prevent an absence of toilet paper from happening. Yeah, it's true. I knew I was probably going to be running low that week when I went grocery shopping last sunday, and I really thought I put it on the list, but I guess I forgot.



    Having Windows XP on your computer system is like being involved with a crazy girl. You know she does things irrationally and without your input, so you make sure to keep sharp objects out of sight and to give all the pill bottles to your friends to hold. After a while, you realize that she's much easier to deal with if you're constantly sedating her.

         Who Am I?


    Besides, if there was no revolution here to be won, no oppression to overthrow, this life would be quite dull. I can grit my teeth and endure the persecution... I have an intimate understanding of these pains. My own suffering is my closest familiar.

         A Good Start


    "What do you call your women who love too easily?"

    "We call them sluts."

    "And what do you call the haggard-looking males, those who are easily suspected of mischief and more easily convicted?"

    "Those are punks."

    "All right then... That sounds like a good start."

         Boycott Me!


    If there is one good training for a philosopher, it is to make them self-train themselves in any in-depth science. It is not so much as knowing and being able to explain that makes a philosopher so much as it is not knowing and then being able to understand.

         I Want to Overthrow Capitalism


    Like our founding fathers and their fathers before them, I share an adament will to overthrow the Capitalist system; and I want to replace with a social order where each has a fair opportunity for their own economic development. Sure, only some of our founding fathers spoke of these issues, but those were the founding fathers who spoke against slavery, wars, censorship, and tyrannical governments.

         My Time Here


         I think it is necessary at this point to reflect, to delve in to those deeper, darker, less travelled areas of the subconscious. As I've grown and developed, I've managed to look at those monsters I discover unflinchingly, to stare them in the eye and feel the fear in my heart slowly drain out, almost like a stream I can remember from my childhood. But now, so much of my life has been changing. I've lost some friends, gained some allies. I've explored some new parts of my mind and discarded some old ideologies, almost like tactless fads. Too bad it wasn't sexual exploration -- not only does it come with discoveries, but orgasms and cuddling, too. I've found a new place to call home, found a new place to feel trapped. I fell in love and before my mind could realize it, my heart was already saying, "But, it's not real... let it go, before this hope turns to witless misery."

         Honestly, I feel optimistic. As a programmer, I've managed to manipulate and control things that seem to be a mystery to so many people. In a way, I feel almost as dignified as the clandestine LSD chemist. My work is mysterious, but the change and hope I create is valued by all members of the underground -- by all people who believe in creating a better world. However, the question of whether my work as programmer (or, "illicit hacker") will provide for my living is another matter up to debate. In these two weeks that I spent, working with C and developing my foundational education for this higher programming languange, I've managed to build a program that will effectively allow me to gain monetary sustenance. How, you ask? It's always the question that's at the fringes of my mind. How, and what chance of success do I have. As a master of crime, as much as a master of computers (I hope), I've learned that to leave accounts of one's intent to commit crime is foolish. But, like any human being, my urge, my desire, to express the torments and burnings of my mind is powerful. So, I shall say it as I have: I have discovered a means by which I can satisfy my living requirements. I can only hope that it succeeds.

         But, of course, there is a chance I am doomed to failure. And, without a means of living, I doubt that I will be much efficient as an illegal hacker, slowly but surely taking down the system that ruined his life and the lives of every good citizen. Of course, though, I have plans to expand my operations, to cover new territories, to find new ways of making money. I know I can do it. It is simply a matter of studying the programming language, something I never did with BASIC, and then developing more advanced techniques of programming.

         With all this said, my transference of carreer from criminal professional to criminal professional, I can only say one thing: life is life, and I'm just living. Hopefully, one day, I won't have to struggle, I won't have to worry, and I won't have to be afraid... Hope... It is my driver.



    "So, what did the revolution get you?"
    "Me? Well.... The rest of this cigarette is mine. I know that."

    People who expect to look defiant are lost, little boys.... and when it comes to the moment at hand, those whose lives are most lost and most insignificant and most over looked, are in fact, the ones most defiant of anything else, if for the sole fact that they are alive.

    "You know, I know where the world is, and the world know's where I am -- and I am completely fine with that fact."
    "You don't know shit, actually."
    "Hhhmmm? Oh, well... then..... fuck you."

    "Well, at least when you grow up, you won't be like them."
    "What the hell kind of response is that?
    "I just want you to take comfort in the knowledge that -- "
    "Maybe the problem is that I do take comfort in everything I know."

    "Bwahahahaha.... and you just think a revolution is where a bunch of guys get a bunch of guns and...... ahahahahahahahaha..... Good one. Now you die."

    "If.... if I act different to you when I'm drugs, then that means I hate you."

    "The ghetto: we are the remnants of an orgasm-blast that took place twenty years ago."

    "Putting the U back into Revolution, and the E back into... oh, god.... how do you spell revolution again?"

    "Yeah, you know.... this crack-cocaine thing, whatever, yeah... I don't think it's catching on like you said it would."

    "This town was a lot different when I was drunk and driving really fast... yeah, and there was.... no, wait, that was it. Drunk. And driving. Really. Fast."

    "It's the city! It's so alive, so full of vitality, moving and breathing and growing!"
    "I 'unno.... I sort of get the dying effect more."

    "That man is drunk with power!"
    "Drunk? Weird. If I would compare power with any drug, it would be crystal meth."

    "You know that thing about drugs? Yeah, that's not a good thing."
    "You mean the doing or selling part?"

         Being Human Doesn't Matter


    And is there any reason it should? To this, I say no; being human has no value at all!

         As Writers


    A good writer is a person of turmoil, of troubles, of suffering and dreams. The good writer will always be unsatisfied. No matter what they accomplish or create, they will continue to feel the aching. It is almost like being close enough to fire to make you writhe, but not close enough to singe or destroy your flesh. No matter where we go, we find our own patterns and behavior roles. Analyzing and understanding other people helps us to understand ourselves. And sometimes, we don't like what we find, or we're really just not too sure. Our pain follows us, and we write because few will listen to us explain where we've been and what we've seen.

         What the Hell


    If you're sitting in a jailcell, and I throw you a spoon, would you use it to dig to freedom, or would you say, "Digging through hard concrete with a simple eating utencil? Such a task is too unworthy of me and I'll leave it for the next person of less worth who equally wants to escape." If your response was the first answer, then you're ready to be an Anarchist. It's easy to let what you know about the world lead you to bitterness, anger, hatred, and even ill-tempered prejudice. It's easy to let your atmosphere dissect, control, and destroy you. It's easy to believe that you can obtain the ends of your own self-interest by making exchanges with those who are holding you down.

         Not Enough People


    "No, the protestors didn't look violent enough, plus, they didn't have enough people. There wasn't a good enough chance of kicking the shit out of some cops and then getting away with it."

    "And that stopped you?"

    "Hell, fucking is to an orgasm what rioting is to kicking the shit out of cops. If you can't achieve that main end, then why bother at all to begin with?"

    "I think your male logic is getting in the way."


         The Lonely Monster


    I saw the best of my generation cut down like beasts, all lured by the enchantment of greed and the never-ending quest for opulence. They strike and slash at each other, their teeth constantly buried into each others' throats; at no point in this city is there a moment where one does not hear them howling at each other, tempting a chance for blood, cruelty, and violence. Monsters have taken over the streets in the downtown district. I still dream about the time I spent among those creatures, among their taunting malice, the reak of a smell that breathes "I must dominate my fellow men!" I trembled, I begged my conscience for an answer, I fell to my knees and prayed for an apocalypse, "where is my great flood? who will save me from the absolute savagery and chaos in our world?" Turning away from the customs of the new barbarian race, I did all that I could to abolish their empire. I slammed my fists against their concrete walls, breathing in rock dust as I worked my fists to a pulp, all in an effort to tear down every building. I lit candles and left them to listening spirits outside of the prisons. I never used the word "hope" unless I meant it in the collective sense. When the monsters would combine into vast, destructive mobs, I would always shout for everyone to go in the opposite direction. And finally, when agitation met resistance, and when life met pain, I could no longer shout, my fists were worn to the bone in my war on concrete; and the last five of these monsters I had befriended left me questioning why I should care at all about what conditions these masses create for themselves. In their day-to-day meetings, they'd snarl and lash at each other. I soon found myself imitating these habits; in short time, I'd feel a rush of power if I could intimidate or threaten. I would scream and flare to make others do my willing, in order to complete my objectives. I started working with them to build their enormous structures, to meld earth with metal and wood in these darkest of rituals. When members outside of the mass tried to tear down our towers and castles, we'd make a mockery of them; they became the pun of all our jokes. But they were never much of a worry. A building protection alliance had been organized long before my arrival to this place. Not that there was any need; those buildings still stand, because those who actually have the power to tear them down would never have an interest in doing so. I helped the beasts post their code of law in public areas so that all could be aware of our plans. When the time came, I beared my claws, my spikes, my venimous fangs, and my tusks, as we were side by side when we went to battle against other armies of beasts, slashing and destroying those who were completely like us in every way. It was thrilling to seek their destruction in our quest for strength and power. One day, my brothers in architecture and slaughtering would discover a foreigner, asking a question about why we battle against each other, why we have adopted such unreal and cruel customs. "How dare you make such a statement about us and who we are! Have you not seen our laws!? Don't you know that we've made it a crime to make the claims you are making!?" And when my first impulse was to attack and fight this person who had came to our glorious city, it was then that I realized, I too had become a monster.

    "Oh what great fiction I will mold from this terrible misery." -- Jim White

         Inspiration = 0


    "And what you do know about the twenty kilos of the missing cocaine?"

    "Dude, I do not know. What cocaine?"

    "See, that's the kind of response of a person when asked that question if they didn't know where the cocaine was. He's confused, baffled, and attempting to understand something far beyond his reach. You can observe it right here."

         Where is Love?


    "Ha, you have a woman who feels she needs to be obedient and faithful to her man no matter what!" Jerry Falwell pats me on the shoulder, "How does it feel? It feels good, doesn't it? I think it feels right. That's why so many men and women have literal belief in the bible: because it feels right. So now that you've tasted the fruits of religious fundamentalist oppression, won't you join our ranks?"

    "Shit, asshole, only after I get to dose you with fifty hits of acid and twenty of mescalin," I turned.

         Kill Me Not


    "Wow, he owned a house before the accident? I should've gotten together with him instead of my dumbass boyfriend who always stole from me."

    "Oh, he thought you were beautiful and kind enough, but of course you wouldn't ever consider him," she didn't console her friend, "And now you live in a dumpster, trailer trash park with your boyfriend, when you could have had him in all the glory that his life has brought him." She put out her cigarette, "I'm sorry, I just..... I promised him I would tell you that when he died. He was kind of explicit about it."

         There Isn't Any


    Whenever I am having a bad trip, it feels like the drug is killing me, but whenever I have a good trip, the drug enlightens me, reviving me from my death experienced at the hands of society.

         New Porn


    There was this woman who I was once in love with, and by the end of our relationship, she had caused me so much pain. My best friend saw her one evening to calm her. Next morning, they were counting their blessings to each other in their sleep. Yeah, raping Daria would have been great for my psyche. All of this time, I have to behave around her, act like I give a rat's ass about her opinion, let her speak when she has something stupid to contribute. I think she's just trying to make my friend and I miserable by trapping him in a sex-based relationship.

         Too Friendly


    "They were a weird couple," he said, "It felt like they were too friendly."

    "What do you mean, 'too friendly?'" I asked.

    "It means he thought they wanted to do spouse-swapping with us," she said.

    "I can't even stand those kind of thoughts," he inputed.

    "And what was the problem?" I asked, "Were they not an attractive couple?"

    They both looked at me.

         What Makes You Love


    The the road you walk is the road they paved. You'd be crucified today for the things you think and the things you say if it weren't for these brave individuals, who were willing to sacrifice themselves so that you and I could experience a real, genuine culture. But their dream has not yet been completely realized. If you don't help me continue the road, then you're not helping future generations escape the pains, the misery, and the suffering that we were forced to endure, the pain we used to resent because of how much we valued truth and justice -- because we knew how these things made us felt, the tears they moved us to, our pleas ignored by vacant-hearted masters. Suffering has satisfied its own purpose to its creator when it stings our nerves dead and lets us accept and believe. But suffering has satisfied its own purpose to the one it is inflicted upon, when it becomes a reason to change things so that such pains will have to be felt again by no one.

         Back to Heaven for an Errand


    "You know, the date today is 06/06/06..." he said, "Did you know that?"

    "That doesn't mean a thing," I said, "I'd be creeped out if I went to sleep on the fifth and woke up on the seventh. Now that would be a miraculous event."

    "But you've done that."

         When Was This Written?


    "Yeah, just keep trying to hit on her, if you want to," her friend said, "It's not going to work. She's a sweetheart and you're a fuckface."

    "How am I a fuckface?" I asked, "I'm just real!"

    "You were telling dead baby jokes last night," she said.

    I struggled: "I was just using humor to raise awareness about a serious issue..."

    "And what was the issue?"

    ".... fine, you win. Fuck ya'll!"

         Fuck Everything


    "I lost some of the skin off of my right hand due to a minor chemical explosion in the bomb/drug lab," the letter started, "It's hard to masturbate now. I wish you were here now more than ever."

    She smiled.

    "And you think that's romantic?" her friend asks.

         Don't Give That To Me


    "You're only offering me sexual favors in return for me spending my money on you," he said, "Your idea of love means making yourself indispensible to one of my needs in order to pressure me to do something for you; but the whole joke is that you get your will without any complaint from me because of the situation I'm stuck in."

    "What are you trying to do?" she asks, confused.

    "I don't know," he turns, "Maybe I'm trying to make myself appealing."

    Gunner makes me believe that nobody knows anything. We are all blindly wandering through these dimly satisfying, emotional experiences. I don't know what I want, and I'm not sure anyone does.

         Where's Your Revolution Now?


    "I wish I was a Feminist, but I'm just too sexual to qualify."

    "Looking through a man's pornor collection is like reviewing his case history from his psychologist."

    "Late in the night, where you can almost believe the worst things about yourself..."

         Who Says What Now?


    "But tolstoy was a Christian!"

    "Yeah, but it wasn't an excuse for him to be cruel, and it wasn't the reason for him to be good."

         This Is All I Can Think Of


    He was a small man and it was a large group. The cuddle puddle was an entertaining social experiment for him. Fortunately, for his primitive, outdated, and closed sexuality, he was capable of finding a position in the group that allowed him to be touching two women. "But no tit," he thought to himself. "Oooooo," his conscience murumrs, as he reaches over a row to place his hand on a woman's breast. "Now I can go to sleep," he thinks, but then his arm slowly drifts towards that middle row, occupied by a pasley skinned male. "No!" he told himself, "Cannot touch a male while physically bonding with a female." So he tried to sleep again, with his arm arched, but no, he failed. "Well, okay, fine," he lays his arm on the man in between, as though he were a child getting an examination by a doctor. Finally, he collapses in to sleep. By mid-morning, it was only him and a big black man cuddling with each other, face-to-face. Someone kicked a stone in the house, and the noise startled the two, as the black man pushed his friend's face into his chest and the friend stuck out his tongue to give affection to whatever force might be guiding him. His eyes open: "...... oh..... jesus......"

         Would You Call This Erotic Porn?


    "Do you love me?" he asked.

    "No," she said, gently caressing the side of his ribcage, "That would mean that I'd want to try and change you."

    "Thank you..." he bites her neck and she cums.

         Hold Me, Don't Hold Me Down


    I just wanted to hurt and be hurt. Fighting is like fucking. For a few seconds, you forget everything, except that you're alive, that the world's interests have conflict with your own, and that you must make compromises to survive. All social etiquette is out the window. Everything that you're told that you have to do is forgotten. The chains enlarge, slipping off of your wrists -- you're not paying attention when the metal clanks against the concrete ground. Push your body against mine. Make me know force. Right now, you're struggling against something larger than yourself, larger than your fight/fuck partner, something greater than battles you're forced into on a daily basis. You're telling someone, "Let me use you as a canvas for all of my pain, my discomfort, my unsatisfied wishes, and my ignored prayers... I can't feel anything right now, and I need you to wake me up."

         Go Fuck Yourself


    "You need to optimize your computer before you start using this piracy software. The security programs that are necessary to prevent your activities from catching the attention of the authorities can bog up system resources because they're so strong and powerful. If you don't optimize, you can still play games, but with the security programs that are preventing you from getting another felony will slow everything down, and you'll be like, 'What the fuck is this shit you put on my computer? Everything is slow! You fucked up my computer!' And then I'll say, 'But I told you to optimize and you ignored me! I so told you!' I'll slam the phone in anger and turn to my imaginary friend, screaming, 'Nobody fucking listens to me! Nobody! I could scream for help and they wouldn't hear me!' Then I'll grab my gun and start muttering things to myself in dark rooms..." And it was at that point in the conversation that wasn't sure how to continue my thought...

         Intoxicate Forever


    "I lost my beer, dammit."

    "It's only one beer."

    "Yeah, but this one was special."


    "Well, it wasn't empty."

         All I Want to Do is Kill You


    He inhales the Marijuana vapors, and says, "It's like a wave of love and hope washing over me, filling in the crevices where guilt and aggression lie, like pouring out vodka over an open wound to disinfect it, taking a shwill every other time..."

         Teenage Lust


    "Anarchism is a wonderful philosophy, because it motivates people to steal from the wealthy and give to the working class."

    "Those who would steal for you, would steal from you."

    "Does that hold true for government? Those who would control other people for you would also control you?"

         I Love Bad Taste


    One day, there'll be a tape released of Pat Buchanon sucking an eleven inch black cock, and then looking up to the gigolo and saying, "No! I can't get off unless you make me do it!"

         I Have an Idea


    "Hey, I have an idea... Why don't you put your hand in to the shape of a vagina, put in over your penis, and then vibrate it constantly while thinking of a woman?"

         Hallowed Ground


    "I missed the first day of training at my job, because I thought they wouldn't hire me since I had a positive THC drug test. But they ended up hiring me anyway and I start tomorrow. I may have missed the first day of training, but hey, that only means that this job is keeping pace with the rest of my life so far."

         Fuck That Shit


    "So, why don't you come back to being homeless, then?"

    "I didn't like the way people looked at me," I said, "I was the French peasant in their Picasso painting, haggard, uninspiring, hopelessness in my heart, intoxication in my mind. It felt like it would be impossible for me to become something that they wouldn't be revolted to look at."

    His eyebrow raised, "You changed for them?"

    "No, I worked a job so I could have my own bedroom, and I wouldn't have to be pity/hate eyecandy for everyone who walked by this hopeless youth sleeping on the sidewalk."

         Today I Lost Everything


    I just failed a drug test for THC; that means I'm going to lose a job that would have lifted me out of poverty. But maybe it's a good thing. I consumed the chemical right after and could instantly feel love, compassion, and sympathy again. Lady Marijuana is holding me right now; she's crying with me.

         Failing the Drug Test


    "I hate this fan. Whenever she e-mails me, she talks about herself and nothing that I've actually written. You know, I'm starting to think that she's just a spammer, but she uses my name and talks about things slightly relevant to my topic, or maybe she's spamming people with her shitty journal entries. And at the end of one e-mail, she was like, 'wow, thinking about this makes me horny,' and that's such a fuckin' shitty thing to say. I wanted to be like: Don't fucking ever tell me that bullshit ever again. Don't ever fucking think that you can make me rise, because I know in the end that you'll just let me fall."

    "Why do you keep using that phrase?"

    "Because it really fits well to the one thing that bothers me most in humans: individuals exploiting the good will and the good intentions of others for personal profit."

         Legalize It Forever


    Eh, THC can stay in fat cells for up to six weeks. All flush products come with a double your money back guarantee. I've seen friends doubled their money, but still, I'd rather just get the job. I mean, if you read the instructions, they say, "To remove pollutants and intoxicants from the system," but there's a little wink wink nudge nudge there, just like headshops that have huge signs, "These pipes are purely for tobacco purposes only." On the east coast, there are incidents where undercover cops go in to headshops and try to talk to the cashier about pot, and then they raid the store. It's very fucked up. And, even if you have state medical marijuana, you aren't protected except for cops (you can't apply for reimbursements from health insurance, your landlord can evict you for growing it, and if you test positive, they're still allowed to fire you). Of course, all of these initiatives are to keep those running the Oregon Medical Marijuana Act safe from federal investigation. When those running the state-sanctioned medical pot programs get busted, it is always suppressed in trial that the pot was used medicinally; and, whenever the jury talks after the trial, they always say they would have acquitted if they knew it was for medical use.

    You may doubt the ability of these flush products, but in this kind of threatening and intimidating atmosphere that surrounds such a peaceful and harmless chemical, there needs to be rogue scientists and a rogue science. And just like any other science, its theories must be demonstrable and observable. And, I've seen this shit work before.

    And speaking of rogue scientists, I've heard that putting crappy, cheap vodka through a Brita water filter will make it taste like Absolut vodka (i.e. $30 a handle/expensive stuff). Of course, I've yet to verify this, but it seems plausible.

    James Brown is on his way!

         I Used To Love Everyone and Everything


    "I'd never rat anyone out," I said.

    "Why not?" she asked.

    "It's just something I couldn't do," I said, "You know, I might take the fall for everyone who I am associated with in a certain task, I might confess my own crimes, but you could administer the thumb screw and I wouldn't talk."

    "What makes you think that?"

    "Because, they're only threatening you with physical, emotional, and mental pain," I said, "But, when you give up your closest friends, the only thing you can know is that there will be nothing left of you to hurt, nothing of you to be taken away."

         Pregnant Men


    "And here, ten extra dollars, for the gas, the food you end up eating to energize yourself, and the drugs you end up taking to relieve the stress from this task."

    "Getting in a physical fight with a drunk, pregnant woman at this point would not help you in your campaign for election, sir."

    "Are you sure? I was really thinking that's what the American people wanted."

    "No, sir, it's not."

    "What if I was on fire?"


    "What if I was on fire, you know? I mean, she's drunk and pregnant; I have to have a handicap, otherwise it wouldn't be fair."

    ".... moving on. Your address at the state house tomorrow --"

    "What if it was a pregnant man?"

         I Will Always Be Alone


    "You people have no understanding of revolutionary zeal, and I'm sorry I ever tried to share this beautiful idea with you..." -- Anarchist to the crowd

         Inspired By No One


    "I ripped off a porn DVD today of a guy choking a woman."

    "Does that make you hot?"

    "No, it makes me laugh." She cringed.

         What Is Really Important


    I slowly stepped towards the beautiful girl with green dread locks, when a raggedy looking hobo comes up to me and says, "Don't go after her! She'll make you rise, and then she'll let you fall..." I looked into his glass eyes and searched for a vein of sincerity, and finding it, I burst into a tearful laughter. By the end, I bought the man a drink and said, "You make life worth living, old man... Keep kicking ass."

         Oh Yeah, That's Good


    The greatest thing in life is to be loved for who you are when you're most sincere about yourself. As an Anarchist-Communist, a social deviant and political/cultural revolutionary, I've only sought out those who could understand me as a dispossessed child with the 21st century American blues. In essence, I desired to become those who I had admired, to be loved by those whom they so easily and carelessly wooed. When I felt that I had put everything in to this beat-up revolution of a cause, I fell in love with the one girl I thought I would be perfect for -- the one girl who I thought would be perfect for me. The circumstances seemed completely right, but I was must've been completely wrong about everything.

         Fucking Destroy It


    I don't really sleep any more. I just kind of lie down to forget things.

    You make me rise, and then you let me fall....

    I mean, happy binge-drinking day!

         I Am Going to Explode


    "Assistant! I need you!" the emperor roared from his bedchambers. "Tomorrow, I am going to walk out on to the city square and I am going to explode."

    "Yes, your majesty," the assistant started taking notes diligently.

    "I would like to spread seeds and young flowers throughout my flesh and blood. They must all grow and reach for the sun on what I have built up all my entire life." And then the emperor said, "If there is one seed or flower that refuses to spring on the soil of my sinews, you must put a bullet in the back of its head."

    The assistant released a sigh... "What?" the emperor asks.

    "...Nobody ever changes."

         Be Mine


    "I thought you said you were destroying something beautiful," she said.

    "I am," I said, "I'm hacking."

    "And you're destroying something beautiful?"

    "Of course," I replied, "There is no way for someone to set up an enormous computer network without some sense of affection or sympathy for the electrons that become the pulse of that machine." I looked at her, as though there was no way to doubt what I was saying, and she could only smile.

         This Stranger Loves Me


    A conversation with a stranger...

    "Hi," she says.

    "Hey," I respond without devoting too much attention.

    "What are you up to?"

    "Hurting bad people," I say without skipping a beat and without letting my conscience analyze the words I use.

    "How's that?"

    I smile and give her some attention, "You know, all it takes to overthrow the system and to destroy all governments, all you need to accomplish that is to want it more than they do. At least, that's all you need once you know what's going on."

    "Interesting," she smiles, disinterested again.

    "Yeah, I know what you're saying... 'so, punker, why isn't the capitalist system falling now?' Yeah, well, I'm working really hard on wanting it more than they do."

         Fuck Me Forever


    "I don't know, dude... He offered me sex with his wife at least over a year ago. What should I do? Go up to him and ask, 'Oh, dude, you remember about a year ago, when you said you hated your wife and you had no problem with me fucking her... well, is that offer still valid?'"

         I Like to Hurt People


    "So, how do you feel?"

    "Like absolute shit. I hate myself."

    "Hopefully you've found an outlet for your aggressive tendencies?"

    "Yeah, I like to hurt people."

         Three Sentence Love Letter (to Stephany)


    I've tried really hard with you. And, obviously I must be a fucking moron for liking someone more than they could possibly like me. It will always be your decision to choose who you think you will be happiest with.

         So I Was Never In Love


    "She broke my heart, my man..."
    "Oh, did she now? I told you she was no good."
    "No, it was my fault... I was playing games with myself. I wasn't really in love."
    "So how do you feel?"
    "I feel like I need a beer."
    "Ha, let me help you out with that, then."

         Average Soldier


    The average soldier of our mechanized industries, who risks life and limb in his task like the great armies, has been approached by the philosophy of every powerful entity. These social institutions all speak to the common individual; they only gain their power so long as the masses continue to listen. I understand that the interests of any single person are dependent upon so many conditions and circumstances. Lust, greed, envy, hate, passion, love, hope, despair, fear. We are pushed in one direction, then ripped towards another.

         Pulling Myself Out of That Dark Tunnel


    That's probably what bothers me most. My movement may have saved some others, but it hasn't saved me. If I smiled and went along to get along, I'd be in a much better position right now all around (economically, socially, sexually, etc.). But, no I couldn't do that, because that's not me. My instincts drew me to this miserable condition, and I only pray that I never curse my thoughts for making me different and enlightened.

         For Stephany


    When most people look back on their life, it's a chance for them to experience humility at the mercy of a open heart. It's much easier for someone to recall what they've done and why they've done it, but it can be very difficult to answer the question of what you will do, or when you know you will do it.

    If I'm going to tell you what I want to be responsible for, then I need to tell you that true human experience means change. The true way to judge a successful life is to see how well we cope with change; that is to say, it is a question of whether we dominated our environment, or whether we were conditioned by our surroundings. The more I learn, the more opportunities I have to change. So I'm presenting this list of things I want to accomplish. Maybe they're just a few goals to help me understand why I cherish everything that I know today. And maybe it's something more. But don't expect me to keep these promises.

    What will I be remembered for? But who will I be remembered by? To help my friends and family remember humanity, to hold the hand of sincerity wherever I walk, to relieve some misery, promise some hope, satisfy some desires -- these are the things I seek. In one phrase: I want to create some good for those I care about.

         Trotsky Made Love to a Woman Tonight


    "There's no connection between Stalin and Lenin. Stalin killed Lenin's friends."

    "Yeah, but everyone was killing Lenin's friends, even Lenin."

         The Fuck Did You Call Me In Here For Then?


    A good writer will make his reader jump, in the same way that a doctor would make his patient's leg kick by tapping the knee. It's an uncontrollable and undeniable burst.

         Nobody Loved You


    When you are young, you only want to love and to be loved. And in that state, you are the most pure and unadultered by social influence. When we find that the rest of the world has very different interests, we start to walk away from these initial desires.

         I Am Completely In Love


    I think we all rise and fall expectingly, knowing that our fate is sealed.

    All of us try to fight it by ourselves. Sometimes, I'm afraid that I'm the only one who can't survive this system. But, given enough thought, I think what I'm most afraid of is the idea that there isn't somebody who can overpower his oppressor, that everyone must carry and be weighed down by the same curse of unchangable social conditions.

    ...obviously this is just a message from an intoxicated friend. I hope you're feeling well when you read this.

         I Died Today


    "Keep going, keep going!" she shouts as he continues to lick her clitoris. There's moaning, grasping, pulling, screaming, scratching, she grabs his head and can't let go -- climax.... Her fingers gently release, tongue slowly withdraws after any affectionary lap. Her heart and breath kept a fast pace. "Oh, my god..." He sat there, almost completely withdrawn from the experience now.

    "It's kind of like dying..."

    A pause. Hesitation. And then she sat up, "What... what did you say?"

    "The way I feel, I mean..." he said, furrowing his brow, "It reminds me of complete release from everything."

    She stared at him for ten seconds. "I'd like you to leave now," she said, picking up her clothes and covering herself. He stood up and walked out, calmly and smoothly.

         I Never Believed In Person Worship


    The whole premise of the anti-drug movement has always been in doubt by wise thinkers. Who can truly believe, that those things which make men happy will simultaneously destroy their lives?

         No, I'm Not a Genius


    I talked on the phone with her. "So, do you just cum in your hand when you masturbate?" she asked.

    "No, I just cum in my shorts and leave it there," I said.

    "Ugh!" she responded, "That stench must be unbelievable!"

    "Is it a good odor or a bad odor?" I asked, "Tell me so I can know how to respond."

         Nobody Loves Me


    "But there is one question... If you had to do life all over again, would you take the same path?"

    "Are you fuckin' kidding me?" I asked, "There's no way I'd ever consider doing life all over again."

         Today, I Fell Apart


    I have an interest in changing and improving society that exceeds my own personal satisfaction that I get from that society in its current state. It doesn't make sense that anyone would do what I do: a sacrifice of personal liberty and happiness to improve the living and working condition of people I haven't even met yet.

    To become a social revolutionary in our world, you must define yourself as an individual whose ideas, thoughts, and passions go against the establishment of society. It is, in effect, to build yourself as something separate from society.

    My involvement in the revolution has consumed a great deal of my time, my blood, and my effort, but it has made me strong in so many ways; it has also made me weak in so many ways.

         So I Told the Waittress


    I have said before, that where there is peace, good men can only want justice. Where there is injustice, however, one will find the desire of resisting a status quo. The good passions of mankind lie with the active individual. The mutually exploitive forms of government create and foster the cruel and harmful vices of mankind.

         Rice Patties


    Good men forget an injustice when the damage has been healed, for they can only desire to remedy their pain. Such individuals are peacable, only seeking open and loving relationships.

         No Charity


    "And pay your rent, you lousy beggars!" the landlady walked back in to her room, "What do you think this is?! A charity!?" The door slams.

    I started to light the blunt, and Joey said, "Horris, do you think this is a charity?"

    "No," I passed him the blunt, "I don't think this is a charity. Do you?"

    "This apartment complex and our landlady? A charity? Why certainly not!"

         Endangered Species


    He calmly stood outside the classroom, peering in with only a slight interest. The mysterious stranger turned around, looking up at the room number and then down the hall. A second passed, and he unlatched the door, arriving to our humble pre-class gathering.

    "You weren't sure if this is the right room?" I pointed out his inadequacies, as they so genuinely reminded me of my own.

    "No," he said, exchanging a glance and then sitting in front of me, "There was a beautiful girl in the hallway, the silhouette of an old lover, and I had to decide if I had the will and the strength to pursue her. And I didn't."

    There was silence until the professor arrived. We were an obedient audience of dead students.

         You Tell Me Who's Crazy


    "I just fulfilled a rape fantasy today," I said.

    "You raped a woman?" my roommate asks in disbelief.

    "No," I replied, "I had sex with a woman, but in my mind, I was raping her."

    "How so?" he asked. I threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and set it for three minutes.

    "In her mind, we were expressing a mutual desire to satisfy our lustful instincts," I said, pacing through the kitchen, my roommate's interest increasing, "But, I was satisfying a desire that had nothing to do with sex. I was satisfying a desire based on hate, violence, and hurt. Next time she sees me, she'll have positive, happy thoughts. Next time I see her, I'll think, 'Wow, the timing is just right... I really am in the mood to destroy something beautiful right now.'"

    "You're a poet, man."

    "You really think so?"



    i'm never cruel without some taste of self-loathing

         Welcoming in the New Year


    I'm in love. That means that I won't have to talk to myself anymore.

         The Conservative


    I have grown conservative with my age. At one time, I believed in liberty and freedom unrelentingly. "Give me your pain, your misery, your suffering and your terror... I can take it, so long as I am given my freedom..." My attitude has changed. At the end of the day, the first thought that comes to mind is not how much others are disadvantaged. I want a bed to sleep in. I don't gamble or risk anything any more. I've lost the will to give up all personal happiness in order to accomplish a greater accomplishment. I have personally changed, because I now have a different consideration of myself; a change from an entire life of "all or nothing."

         When We Fuck


    When we fuck, it's like we're two co-workers on an assembly line. We're both pumping handles, kicking conveyor belts, and pushing buttons just right in a way that only we could know, as experienced laborers. Sweat builds up, and the fact that we're both working together to accomplish the same task gives each of us motivation. We both work as hard as we can, putting in extra thrust and power into our movements. Our muscles burn and sting, but the rush we feel in our lungs and heart makes us feel thrilled. Finally, the walls of the factory start to collapse, all of them in one instantaneous and powerful motion. The bolts on the maintenance box pop out, the central supporting column snaps and collapses, and the furnace is spitting out flames in every direction. Even though the conveyor belt has been tied up, we still push and pull on those gears, together experiencing the glorious moment. Only ten seconds, but that was the one reason we did all of this together. The moment ends, and we're left feeling depleted but satisfied, used but completed. I'm post-orgasm, leaning against the safety railing with my head against an emergency fire extinguisher case. She's still breathing heavily, an uncontrollable smile drawing itself across her face; for these few after-moments, we feel happy in an absolute sense. I wipe some of the sweat from my brow with my grease-soaked gloves. She throws her wrench in to a belt loop. And, before we leave each other's presence, I will tell her that I had a great time fucking.

         On Power


    those who gain power, end up being unable to give it up

    The sacrifice of as many British people or as many German people as necessary for the purposes of building up and maintaining a powerful, colonial, imperialist power. This was the exact premise of both the regimes of Churchill and Hitler. Far from being enemies, they were allies -- they were having a friendly game of poker, fighting over power and betting the lives of their people in their quest for authority.



    "Can we have freedom?"

    "I'm sorry, Timmy, but not this year."

         Amphetamine Addiction


         "Why do you always leave the toilet seat open?"

         "Well, I have an amphetamine addiction and --"

         "What does that have to do with whether you leave the toilet seat open or not!?"

         "You'd find out if you just listened! Anyway, I have an amphetamine addiction and -- wait, you were asking me about the marks on my arm, right?"

         I'm Alive


    But, as all ex-hallucinogen users will say, I simply flew too close to the sun...

         Well, Baby


    "Well, baby, let me say this," he said, backing up in the dirty hallway with her. She tried to ignore him. "Every team that plays has an official winning edge -- their compiled capability. The score given to them is based on their accuracy, their aggressiveness, their strength. Those scores are a good indicator of how the team is going to do. But, what most people don't realize is that there is a difference between your official winning edge and how good you're actually gonna play out there."

    "There is?" she smiled and raised her eyebrows; sarcasm.

    "An official winning edge is not going to tell you if one player is going to make all his shots or if another player is gonna fuck up; it's only a probability," he continued, "When betting on games like this, you can't use the official winning edge of a team. You have to bet on the team with the greatest potential to win."

    She hugged him, and for a moment... she didn't believe anything, except that she was in love with him.

         Ripped To Pieces


    "I mean, she's just not a good person," I said.

    "But I thought you liked your sister?" she asked.

    "Well, yeah, but she's basically a bad person," I said, inhaling from the joint, and then releasing, "Wait, wait, wait," I fumbled, "Let me explain... Yeah, sure, if you're stuck in Nazi Germany and the Fuhrer gives you an order and threatens you with five weeks of torture, then yeah, you have to do what he says. No argument. It's hard to stand up. It's hard to fight a force that is larger than you. But then there are those who received orders from Hitler and laughed as they executed the innocents. My sister... is a laugher."

    "Your sister... is a laugher," she smiled, "That's an interesting way of putting it."

    "Hey, I managed to capture exactly how I feel with that beautiful analogy," I leaned back, packing a bowl of opium.

         Ol' Bugga'


    "You don't drink this early, do you? Wouldn't that make you tired through the whole day?"

    "Not if you keep drinking."

         Addicted To Pain


    "You have been found guilty of Possession of Marijuana," the judge said, "I hereby order you to serve twenty years in a maximum security prison." Bang.

    "Twenty years?" a man in an orange suit says to his lawyer, "Wow, I'm glad I'm only addicted to rape, eh?"

         Landlords For the USA


    "So now I'm renting rooms to tenants, and I guess I'm not allowed to sing the song 'Let's Lynch the Landlord," I said, "It feels like I'm betraying my vows, by voluntarily creating a power/struggle relationship, the result of which would be exploitation. But, I must be practical. There are people out there who need homes to live in. The only thing I can do is to be ridiculously unfair and biased for the renters. I'll lease my rooms out at $150 a month, helping poor families have a better chance. I feel like Robert Owen, who started a mill and offered his workers higher pay and fewer hours than any other factory. As an Anarchist, I oppose power structures, because their results often create exploitive and manipulative relationships, where the oppressed must suffer greatly for the excesses of the ruling class. But, if I can have a power relationship, out of necessity for the current social situation, and avoid creating an exploitive relationship, then I'll take that course of action. I'm sure many in the past have had the same intention and justification, only to create extremely miserable conditions. That is a natural course of action, but unjust nonetheless. Would I ever become a despot? I can do my best to avoid it, and the people of the future will have to judge for themselves."

         I Heard You Love Mister Green Bud, Too


    "I've got a hole right in the crotch of my pants," I said, "I can get my fist in it, but it still seems small enough to be socially acceptable."

    "Yeah, one day you'll be walking down the street, and then plop," she said, giggling.

    "Hey, it's not going to make a plop noise when it comes out," I replied, bringing the pipe to my face.

         Statutory Love


    "A can of PBR at nine o'clock at night?" he asked.

    "Hell yeah," I said, "It's hair off the dog's back. This is for the hangover."

    "Ah, you're hungover from yesterday?"

    "No, no, this is from this afternoon."

         So You've Decided To Kill Yourself


    "I'm listening to Meg Lee Chin," I said, leaning back in my tripped out office chair, "She's like the Ani Difranco of techno... and, I guess, ultimately that's a bad thing."

         Fuck You, This Is Important


    "Well, let me say this... They're a group of digital Christians. You know, webmasters who use geocities as a conversion chapel, with the rulers of the chatroom and the amateur BASIC programmers, playing Dungeons and Dragons using Biblical characters. I'll tell ya' something right now. If you make computers an important part of your life and then use them as an outlet for Christianity, you aren't fuckin' paying attention."

         He Turned and Said to Me


    "Hey, if there's a way to get laid without paying cash, you can tell me right now."

         Dialogue on Life


    "You know, an infant can help you learn how to give a really good blowjob," Angela said, "It's true. They can suck a nipple really well."

    I turned away. "I'm sorry. I try not to think about infants and sex at the same time," I replied.

    "Wow, you are adorable," I heard.

    "Stop following me, Katrina!" I scream.

    "Who are you talking to?" Angela asked.

    "That was Katrina," I said, opening my flask, "She's a fan of my life, like all the others over there dressed in white. My doctor thinks it's just Schitzophrenia, but I think that's just his opinion."

         Fuck Your Cheap Tricks


    "If you could fuck without taking your clothes off, the experience would be cheap and dirty," he said.

    "I'm confused," I replied.

    "Goddammitt... What did I say about smoking this pot?!" he screams, holding his own bag of marijuana in his hand.

    "Okay, dude, you're starting to scare me."

         PBR Savior


    Everyday is another psychic battle, another war blazed over the terrain of our minds. I am enraged, swinging my sword at the enemies of progress: the religious fanatics, the ambitious exploiters, the manipulators of truth and justice, those who seek to control... I meet them at the end of my sword, but my struggles end in pain and suffering. I am wounded. A cut on my thigh continues to bleed. A medic approaches, pulling out a can of PBR from her medickit. She opens it, pouring out the beer over the open wound. My blood is awash in fermented alcohol...

         I Want to Fuck Ani


    "I love Ani Difranco," he said, and then pulling out a blowup doll of her from the closet, he proceeded to hug and kiss it. "Oh, Ani! I love you because I know that only you can teach me how to change!"

    "Uuummm... do you.... do you want to be alone?" I found myself asking this on my way out.

         Ban It!


    "I, Adam West, hereby admit that I listened to more than one Portishead album in the same day. I understand and believe that this is a wrong thing," the mayor started clenching his teeth before the public, just emerging from his trial, "Portishead may be good... but, they certainly shouldn't be played all day, since all of their music sounds the same. I am a changed man, and this is what I believe -- ahhhh, fuck you all! PORTISHEAD RULES!!!" The mayor runs off, as the crowd clamors and bellows, finally exploding in to a mob in search of the individual. "GET HIM!" "BURN THE HERETIC!" "BAN ALL PORTISHEAD!" It was a sad day for the progressives of the future to look back on.

         Classic Punker


    "This evening, thousands died when New Orleans was flooded by Hurricane Katrina."

    "Yes! I don't have overdue books anymore!"



    At a very young age, at a time before my memory is allowed reign, I was hurt by someone I loved very dearly, because they wanted me to do something for them. I submitted to the pain. My life since has been a bitter, agonizing, and soul-destroying struggle for myself, sacrificing almost everything just for this unseen principle of never bowing down before unjust authority. That is why I am the living and breathing revolutionary of this world. Twenty one years has been the expression of a childhood trauma, fighting back at that unseen, unknown person who hurt me, trying to get them back by seeking out true justice. Discovering a truth like this always disturbed me. I considered social and political reform/revolution to be the greatest good achievable. It was, in a way, the ultimate good, a religion of sort, with its own prejudices and its own bigotries. I know why I fight so hard for these ideals: I was hurt a long time ago by someone I trusted, I submitted, and have always fought back harder and tougher because of this. True innocence was the moment of my life when all I felt was love, when the memories of abuse and cruelty couldn't turn in to bitterness. When I shed the layer around me that I call "the revolutionary," when I stand outside myself as a greater being, I discover a human being who has been on the verge of collapse for a long time, his conditions slowly improving, but still completely tired of the struggle. I have come a long way, but the journey is far from over. It is still just the beginning. I am ready to take on the system now as a completely different human being. I know the source of my struggle. It comes from an old betrayal of one I loved, my submission to it, and my absolute hatred of submission since then.

         Survival is Key


    i cave in at the least sign of pressure at every situation because i generally feel that I am at the end of my rope, the end of my line -- I have sowed so much, but have little to harvest. I need to look at what I can do, but most importantly, I must look at and understand what I have done, and that I owe it to what I have achieved to complete the journey. Long is the path, as they say, and I need to accept this. But, we shouldn't be letting our guard down for anything or at any time. I feel like I might lose this hallucinogenically induced emotion. These feelings flow in and out, dreams almost. I did not forget. I adaptated to new situations. Nothing has changed. I am still the same man, just as clean and honorable. The changes that have come are not signs of losing faith -- they are signs of my willingness to survive in any situation. I must survive, only so that my work can accomplish the task of revolution. I have the strength and the ability to make this desire come to life and improve civilization and my existence considerably.

         Nothing Loves Me


    "But, um, why are you doing that?"

    "We're adding pressure here so that the child's left ear will be deformed."

    "As I asked... why are you doing this?"

    "Well, we want our kid to be just a little bit different, so that she gets picked on in school, learns to defend herself and fights back, only to sympathize with the plight of others... you know, develop character."

         Fuck You


    "So, what are you going to do for Thanksgiving?"

    "I'm going to ingest as many illegal things as I possibly can."

         So Please Just Leave


    "So, I guess this is so long, Ben," she said.

    "But, even if we just smoked pot?" I asked, "Then, wouldn't your parents let you hang out with me?"

    "Unfortunately, it doesn't matter," she replied, throwing on the other strap of her backpack, "Drugs are drugs. Marijuana is just as bad as heroin, and using any drug is the last thing that my parents can know about me."

    "The heroin wasn't good?" I asked.

    "No, the heroin was good," she smiled, "It's just them knowing about it is too bad for me to risk being with you."

         Subscribe to Hell


    I put down the pipe, after killing off a substantial portion of a gram, and starting to shwill the vodka.

    "What?!" she asked, "You're drinking alcohol after smoking all that shit?"

    "Hey," I said, mixing another drinking, "I'm just killing the bad now."

         Fuck Making Sense


    A Marijuana'd out Punkerslut ambles down the street. A girl passing notices his Crass patch, and yells out "White Powuh'", demonstrating a beautiful accent. Punkerslut fell back a little, grabbing his friend, "Hey, whoa, I did not see that coming... I was just accosted. You saw it!"

         We Are One


    We are a dark movement, fascinated with torture, hopelessly addicted to all the drugs that can cause mental illness. In five years, I'll run in to my long-lost best friend, enjoying a nice position in a corporation as an outsourcing contractor. I'll ask him one thing: "You haven't forgotten our way of life, have you?!" I was asking if he had given up sex and drugs. It takes a special breed of people to live and feast on certain human stimulus, bound up and kept tightly by fetishes, constantly exploring the frontier of human consciousness with hallucinogen, amphetamine, stimulant, depressent, and even benzodiazepine. Millions will reach up in their vanity to grab these things, out of their ignorance and cowardice, as I imagine the case was with Republicans who secretly use drugs and have sex with their own gender. Human nature is frail. It will collapse in to a violent tyranny the moment we accept pleasure but not its philosophy.

         My Rights Are Being Oppressed


    A man staggers down the street, walking by a preacher screaming "God hates fags!" with a sign reading "Intolerance to Sin!" The man coughs a little and spits out a wad of phlegm. He struggles down another block, passing a salesman who followed him for twenty feet, speaking really fast: "If you have a driver's license and a job, you could own this car for only eight dollars a month!" The man lays down on a bench, coughing and spitting out more saliva. A group of kids with mohawks walks by the man on the bench, as they argue with each other, "I'm more hardcore!" -- "No! I'm more hardcore!" Closeup on the man's face: his eyes fade and roll back almost. Ten. Fifteen minutes. A bark. He looks up. It's a Saint Bernard. For the first time today, he genuinely wants this situation explained. Letting the dog sniff his hand, he notices a can hanging from the dog's collar. He reaches and pulls it out. It's a 24 ouncer of Steel Reserve. He cracks it and starts drinking. Que "I Fought the Law" by Clash.

         I'm Not Drunk


    "You probably shouldn't drink with that forty near the computer."

    "Psh, I do it all the time."

    "Don't you worry about spilling it on the keyboard?"

    "No, the bottleneck prevents the beer from flowing out more than a quarter mouthful at a time. What has been the source of my hatred for bottled alcohol now becomes its one point of salvation."

         Destroy Me


    "I want to destroy something beautiful..." I wake up, just in time to recollect what I just muttered. Then a sarcastic pose, "No, I'm certainly not suffering from any painful psychosis. Definitely not." I roll over and try to not think so that I could fall asleep again...

         Be Damned


    "Well, the fact that Southern Comfort tastes like candy doesn't change the burn sensation you feel from drinking liquor."

    "Actually, yes it does," I pointed to the label, with a picture of a joyful man in overalls with his index finger pointing up, and the words: "DID YOU KNOW? The caramel flavor prevents your typical alcohol burn!"

    "I'll be damned," he said.

         Make This One Die


    All of the Dutch cities no longer persecute those who possess, consume, produce, or distribute marijuana. Ever since the fall of the Third Reich, the European people have been much and much less likely to believe in the idea of authority. "Befehl ist befehl" was the defense of those who stood at Nuremberg: Orders are orders. Law is law. Our European brothers have finally picked up the ideas of Anarchism. International law forbids the people of all European countries from using this drug. Their governments, much more Democratic than our American one, are refusing to arrest and prosecute Marijuana. And, Anarchism takes its first breath in our seemingly terrifying century: Breaking the law in order to defend the innocent is necessary to social harmony and justice.

         Working Class


    working class shmuck

    Social clubs exist solely for the sake of the elitist class of society. They exist in the forms of bars and nightspots. In order to become part of the community of one of these establishments, you must possess wealth. The filter process has done its job: you are only allowed to exchange conversation and ideas with those of the same economic strata.

         Take Off


    "Yeah, I like blowjobs because I still have some unresolved issues concerning the give-take part of a relationship."

         Massively Upping the Dose


    "Ambien... He went to jail for one of those Schedule four drugs. You know, the ones that don't really get you high, but find their way on to the list of controlled substances just because congress thinks they can be dangerous to your health. Well, some hotshot kids found a way to get high off of it."

    "Yeah, how?"

    "The same way as they found a way to get high off of Tussin and Dramamine: massively upping the dosage from the recommended amount."

         I Hate


    I hate people who quote Thoreau and put Dead Poets Society as their reference.

         My Drugs


    My argument has always been that every drug can produce any physiological response. Heroin, ninety nine times out of one hundred, may produce a negative influence upon the user, but that one other time, it will be the key which helps a person break through prejudices and develop emotionally. LSD, the alleged key of enlightenment and peace, has occasionally produced an addicted person comparable to crack feind. The argument of a true psychonaut differs greatly from the calls of NORML folks and psychedelic gurus -- we feel that every drug can provide a different route to the same enlightenment, enriching the experience. To abolish all of the ills associated with the drug world, its addictions and its weaknesses, society must make two concessions: it must legalize all drugs and provide an education that will demand people to appreciate their liberty.

         Don't Jump


    "I don't think white men should date Indian women," he said.

    "Why not?" I asked, "Why shouldn't I date an Indian woman, for example? If I dated an Indian woman, it would mean that she belongs to me, not in a property sense, but in the sense that we loved each other to the point where we meant more to each other than to anyone else."

         Leave Me on the Steps


    I remember those cold and hard years I spent alone. I remember them well. My memories taunt me, and I can't seem to let go. The painful misery I suffered, when my family stood silent, is a ball and chain that I must carry. I should recount the events, that they might be properly understood.

    I was suspended from using the computer system at school. This is odd. I didn't do anything. I was given a notification of a terms-of-service violation. Okay, I'll deal. A week later, another TOS violation.... "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait... you guys are making shit up. How can I violate the terms of service if I'm not allowed to use the computers?" I checked in with the principal. He had a rather large stack of my essays and writings on his desk, most of them about religion. He asked me about the curse words in some of them (oooooooooooo). I proposed my dilemma to him, and he asked the technicians (who suspended me) why I was suspended. They said nothing. He got me allowed back in to the computer class, without much investigating **WHY** I was denied.

    The journey doesn't end. I called every number on a list of "discrimination hotlines" given to us earlier that year by the school, to call if we are ever discriminated against. Only one phone number out of 10 or 15 worked. And they refused to help my complaint, because I wasn't discriminated against based on my race. I came home one day, and my father told me he had talked with the school. "Have you been writing essays on Pedophilia?" he asked me. How the fuck did they know about this? My writings were on a website. I was being punished in school, for voicing an opinion outside of school? Well, fuckin' hoorah! My family is awesome.

         Fuck the Law


    The whole legal process leaves me feeling unclean and victimized. The police officers had the power, vested in authority, to compel me in to a situation that was both demeaning and a violation of my natural rights as a human being. All my life, I have been telling myself that my arguments and my ideas are correct, despite the repricussions that come from authoritarian figures, punishing me and telling me that I am wrong. "I know I'm right. I know my ideas are true. Authority corrupts the best. I want liberty." But, by the 20,000th time you get slapped for doing something you believe in, your arguments don't matter any more. It's not an admission that they are false, by any standards. I simply feel myself developing morally, mentally, and physically like a slave. I kick and scream and tear and claw... I fight harder and harder, until I have nothing left to give, and I'm left alone and miserable.... and still, being a revolutionary for the masses is not enough to protect my rights as an individual. Like being mugged at gun point in an alley, the search and seizure of American police officers leaves you feeling victimized, oppressed, and destroyed. There is absolutely nothing you can do and the worst part is that they have no right to what they are doing. You will always be afraid of them from that point on, because there will never be any recourse in either situation. Trauma.

    I've been eroded over the years by these systems and their painful reactions to my subversive activity. I am chipping away, losing everything while in hot pursuit of a goal that never seemed quite tangible. The value of the revolution is inconceivable. If every man and woman should seek it out, it would eliminate every social and economic misery. Trying to achieve this goal, I have lost everything, because the forces that oppose our social revolution have strength and a willingness to serve their own interests. The whole game of life has become tiresome, uninteresting, and unamusing. It seems that everything is stuck on repeat. All the same people are subject to all the same vices. Authority always creates misery. Free Trade is the defender of the state. Never a short supply of tyrants or dictators. Nothing changes. The next five hundred years will be like the last five hundred years: dull and repetitive.

    I'm not tired of the idea, I'm tired of the struggle for it.

    My faith has not swerved, but perhaps all hope has.

    I wish there was a way to take a vacation from life that is more effective than drugs yet not quite suicide.

    The man who openly mocks and attacks authority -- we plead with him to stop. He is biting the shins of a vicious and cruel giant. Stop now while you have the chance, we tell him. But, he refuses on all grounds, making the condition worse for himself. He is carried away and put somewhere far from the public's sight for a long, long time. He was the only pure individual. I should stop asking myself this question: Have I sacrificed enough personal happiness in order to accomplish the revolution?

    Hallucinogens work, by relaxing the mind and body, so that your conscience can approach ideas that it would otherwise never consider.

         Buy Crack


    "You spare any change?"

    "Sorry, I'm broke."

    "Hey... you want to buy some crack?"

    "Well, hell! I'm never too broke for crack!"



    "Yeah, but if you did do it, you'd be attracting a lot of attention from the authorities and your other crimes might come to light," she said.

    "Oooo! If I was committing that kind of crime, I wouldn't need to commit those other crimes anyway, because I'd be getting so much money!"

    "I wouldn't do that exactly," I stepped in, "I mean, you could continue your illegal activities on a minimal scale without attracting much attention. It might be mean the difference between 7 and 9 years of not having a job."

    "Aw, you always have my best interests at heart," he replied.



    "He fits the profile of your average terrorist, computer hacker, or kid who shoots up his school," he said, "He's very disaffected."

    "Disa--... are you making up words again?"

         Health Effects


    "Oh, come on," she said, "You know that pot is just as unhealthy as heroin."

    "I'm not sure about that indictment," I said, arguing with my junkie friend.

    "You smoke pot, it destroys your lungs," she continued, "I shoot heroin, it destroys my veins. Both of our bodies suffer damage from our own addictions."

    "Yes, we are both addicted, no doubt," I replied, "But, there is still a vast difference between heroin and marijuana as far as health effects are concerned. No one has ever smoked enough pot to die, whereas people have shot enough heroin to kill themselves... frequently."

    "Yeah, but you might be stoned and driving, and you might get in a car crash," she said.

    "It's probably worse on heroin," I replied.

    "But your confidence is higher, so you're more likely to do something risky like drive," she said.

    "Not necessarily true..." I spoke. I realized a better way to go about this: "Look, if you love marijuana more than you love heroin, but you're sitting alone telling yourself 'oh, my health cannot take marijuana, I should just stick with heroin because it's healthier' -- well, if you're telling yourself that, I've got some news for ya'..."

         Subhuman Structures


    "How can you believe that?" I asked, "There is no way that --"

    "There would be more support and acceptance of your ideas if they could ever prove themselves practical, but that just isn't happening!" she reasserted.

    "How can you look at the world of psychedelic drugs and tell me that there is nothing there?"

    "Is there something there?"

    "Every person decides and pursues goals according to so many hidden, unknown psychological structures. We always tell ourselves and believe that we are seeking a goal because it will be the thing that brings us greatest happiness compared to all the choices laid before us. But, there are is always a powerful influence from the subconscious. The subconscious is a history of a person's trauma, neglect, and other unhealthy experiences. Reverse psychology, for instance, where a child will want something only when another child has it. In that case, the individual wanted something not because it would truly satisfy them -- they wanted it only because another wanted it. It is the earliest and most human example of the subconscious. To say that human experience would fail to produce more hidden psychological tendencies is ignorance. These mental processes become completely voluntary, and people are absolutely unable to shed these painful layers of subconscious and unhappiness they've collected. Just like the gag reflex or the blink reflex, there is absolutely no way to change. But, there is a drug that relaxes the muscles of your brain that produce all the negative influence of the subconscious. For a few fleeting, but beautiful hours, you are in a world where you are completely free. With the consumption of a hallucinogen, a person loses all those filters, all the suppressed memories, all of the painful memories, every part of the soul that was striving to be free, but was restricted and inhibited... Intoxication is the greatest liberty. It brings you back to a very early time in your life, when the thought of anything unpleasant was very distant."



    He leaned back, as the hemlock rushed down his throat, as the DMT pulsed through his veins... "And I'm ready to die right now," he said, "Because all of my interactions with the rest of the world only make me feel terrible. I am doing this to release every memory, letting pigeons go from the cages where they became diseased and feeble... I am dying, because it is the only thing that could end all of this misery."

         No Idea


    "I believe that the state must be abolished, so that people can associate into groups by their own will, and so that groups can federate with each other by their unanimous decisions. Free association will open up economic exchanges that are mutual and non-exploitive. In such a world, people would be able to develop and mature spiritually, personally, and emotionally; the purpose of society would no longer be to serve the interests of the ruling class and the capitalists who bribe them. The purpose of a free society would be to serve the interests of the individual, making everything necessary to proper development and education available. We might work... only one hour a day in such a world." I took in a bong hit.

    "It must be fun to live in a fantasy world," she said to me.

    I released... Everything started to turn purple. I said: "You have no idea..."



    I wish you were at my office with me, Lars, so we could make fun of the office stereotypes together. "Oooo, there's the guy who never takes his jacket off and walks around telling people how they can become more efficient. His voice can be heard for three cubicles. No one really knows what his job title is or if he even works here."

         Biological Intentions


    "Ah," he releases as he orgasms, and then, in the moment of reflection, he spites back: "Ha! Take that, so-called biological intentions!"

         RIAA Fights Back


    The RIAA lawyer paced distreetly in the courtroom. "We shall target the electric company in this lawsuit!" he declared to the judge, "Since they provided electricity to the electronic pirates! And, I guess... we'll only subpoena the ISP." One man in overalls in the audience jumps up screaming "Yee-hawwww!!!"

         Concerning My Involvement in the Mars Insurgence


    A letter to militiamen of the underground,

         For a long time, I have puzzled over the events that have led to my recent travels and the difficulties that I have encountered. New information on different events would come to me from different sources, and the story would change a little bit. The antagonists, the protagonists, the traitors, the allies, every role and every intention would morph and evolve. As new information came to light, new theories had to be developed to explain the mechanics and the dynamics of secret Federation groups responsible for covert government actions.

         First, allow me to describe my education. Like any other youth of Independent Federation, I was assigned to schooling. Eighteen years, to be exact. I caused trouble for the administration of the schools. Nothing too grand, of course. Just a few bombs and a little bit of propaganda. In the end, it wasn't those actions that gave me trouble, but it was the actions of a citizen in a Democracy that brought me difficulties: my interaction with others and the expression of my ideas with them. Expressing some anti-Independent Federation feelings with others generally had some approval and some disapproval. The school staff, needless to say, was always opposed.

         By the time I returned to my former place in the I.F., after a year of staying away, I was placed in an institution of applied skill; the school was in Tar Glah, southern Mars. My involvement there was relatively limited. At first, I was alienated from the people at this place, unable to share or communicate any natural sentiments with them; we were simply people of different worlds. I was enrolled by the middle of 3204. However, I was finally acquianted with local lieutenants of the Mars insurgence there. This was late 3204. They were involved in the supply and distribution chain of weapons manufacturing. It was an amazing sight to see these hard-working indigenious militia-men supplying arms and equipment to the front lines. Very surprising, too. I was slowly introduced to the members of the groups, everyone seeming to share the same veil of security. Once I was verified by other members as being "the real deal," I was informally inducted: given access and contact to the most influential organizers of the insurgence. It was by late 3204 that I was introduced to Zahn.

         Zahn was an interesting character. He was known to the local revolutionaries as the "hyperbomb messiah;" he had single-handedly discovered a technique to easily and safely producing anti-personnel bombs. Plus, he was involved with a girl named Galatica, who was particularly famous for her exotic dancing. Her eight inch tongue made her instantly likable. But, by early 3205, those two had left the learning institute. They had planned to do some serious damage to the Independent Federation by opening supply chains to the Mars insurgents with other types of explosives. When he left, he gave me his technique. I carried on his activities from early 3205 to early-mid 3205. A knock on my door at 2 A.M. had told me that maybe I should have taken my father's advice on who I should consider my friends.

         There were four Independent Federation agents standing there. At first, they were friendly enough. I let them in to talk. But, the mood and the atmosphere changed rather quickly. They asked my friends to leave the room, and everything started to get a bit more edgy. "Unless you do what we tell you to do," one agent told me, "Your life will be fucked up." There was nothing I could do. They were all armed and my weapons weren't exactly in sight. Besides, these weren't just local soldiers tossing rooms looking for something. They knew exactly what I had. In fact, I was expecting a huge package with enough bomb material for over 300 plasma grenades. I was expecting it that day, and had told my contacts in the learning institute that it would be here by then -- there were local militiamen that I supplied to, as well as fought alongside when I felt it was safe enough for me. However, my battles and the stories of my armed conflict with the I.F. isn't the matter of this piece. There is something slightly more important to discuss concerning the I.F....

         My contacts were aware of the incoming shipment. But, my supplier told me that he wasn't going to make it that night, that he had gotten held up. When they went through my room, they kept asking for the specific explosive that I had coming. They were sorely disappointed. However, I had enough residue of other bomb-making material and weaponry to have them force me out of the school at night. The items that were confiscated: legal literature (concerning the revolutionary movement of Mars), weapons that were legal to I.F. police, but not to citizens, and of course, perfectly legal items to which they explained, "We will test this in a laboratory for explosive." They also wanted to seize my documents and my notes. However, they decided to abandon that theory, after searching through my papers and finding nothing but personal memoirs. I wasn't just a stupid kid; I knew not to record my crimes. One day, my activities will be remembered with heartfelt pride, as people appreciate their freedom on a liberated and autonomous Mars.

         The tone and method of the interrogation was interesting. They knew the exact weapons I had at my disposal (as part of my personal equipment), plus the weapons that I was supplying to my comrades. They asked me for names. I told them I couldn't remember. "Those people you have coming in from the third moon," the one officer told me, "Tell those fuckers to stay out or we'll cut them." My eyes squinted... Karlon and Chiz? How the fuck do they know about Karlon and Chiz? I tried not to let them see my surprise at them knowing. Before I could fully complete that thought, the interrogating officer came at me with another quip: "And, I don't want to hear any of your arguments about society or politics. I don't need to hear any bullshit militiaman rhetoric." He know who the weapons were for... He knew that I was involved with the Mars Insurgence. This was the first peculiarity that I noticed. It's important to note, because that area of Mars, beyond just Tar Glah, is notorious for weapons smuggling. The corporate armies of Neptune and Jupiter are known to suppress indigenous life there with illegal shipments coming from this sector of Mars. I.F. estimates suggest that only two out of ten crates confiscated were intended for use in the Mars Insurgence. I gave them no sign or indication at all that I was smuggling for the insurgence; they knew it. They knew why I was doing this and who I was doing it for. They asked me to give them a rough number of the militiamen I was serving. I said, "I guess, maybe ten..." I knew personally that it had to be well over one hundred.

         Fortunately, my father only lived shortly off of the northern cap of Mars. He picked me up and brought me home in a couple hours. Once I returned home, I spent several hours making contacts and talking to people on clean lines. Several hours before they had paid me a visit, the agents had picked up a friend of mine and tortured him. The only information he gave them, he said, was that I might be involved with propaganda for the underground, a minor crime compared to what he knew I was doing. I paid off an officer in the bureau who got me a copy of the confession report -- my friend was telling the truth. He told me that they asked him about Zahn, and that they had been carrying an investigation on him; they even mentioned his girlfriend. I was highly offended that I.F. agents would go as far as to embed themselves in to the personal lives of the Mars Insurgence, or at least suspects for the underground. Why would the police care about a girl with some exotic tastes, even if she was just fucking the leading arms supplier of the region? These are all questions that I still wonder about. I suppose I really need to just settle with the idea that these fuckers will do anything they can to crush our spirit of resistance.

         The trial was a farce. It was a territory trial, meaning that they required no evidence to extradite me from the region; if they had decided that I was a big enough problem, they could actually have brought me to a federal trial, where I would face real penalties. Instead, they had settled on extradition. For the next three months, I continued to help move supplies and gear to the guerilla bases. The very next day after I had ordered a shipment of explosives, the I.F. completed their Operation Red Kill, a covert operation to eliminate and obstruct the primary fuel lines for revolutionary ammunitions. Ten high-ranking operatives, two known for distributing over 40,000 pounds of explosives each week, were arrested the very next day. At first, I called this a coincidence. 40,000 pounds in one week? At most, I used 100 to 200 pounds every week with the local militias and our battles. Maybe it was a coincidence. I was a militiaman with the insurgence, but just not important enough to dedicate an enormous amount of time and effort to. Perhaps that is there reasoning, perhaps not. Maybe it's just another question we will never be able to answer.

         At this time, I decided it was time for me to leave. How did the I.F. agents know about my activities, my beliefs, the people I talked to? How did they know about Karlon and Chiz; I was the only one in our region to have much contact with them. They were militiamen from Taklana Gorge, a territory on the opposite side of the planet. There are two plausible theories: there was a rat in my +100 ranks, or there was a surveillance unit tailing me. Chances are, it was a little bit of both. The soldiers who fought alongside me were the only ones who knew about my personal cache of weapons -- which the interrogators could list more accurately and quickly than I could. Though my ranks exceeded 100, only my close comrades knew about my weapons cache, less than ten. I imagine some dumb fucker got caught with one of my weapons. Caving in to torture, he dropped my name to stop the pain. The events that would occur to me later in my journey through life gave me more evidence to support the theory that I was and still am being watched by covert government groups.

         Let me continue with the story... After ten high-ranking operatives of the revolutionary movement were imprisoned for at least twenty five years of solitary confinement, I fled. My story, to all friends and to all family members, was that I was going back to Earth. This seemed like a plausible story to all of them: I had lived on Earth once in the past. I had connections and friends out there. Since I didn't know who I could trust, I made sure everyone thought I was going to Earth. And, when I left, I went straight to the cold depths of Neptune. I had fellow soldiers in the movement there who could give me a place to sleep and a troop of militiamen to fight with. While on Neptune, I kept contact some family members. They tried to trace calls I made to them... I had reason to think that they doubted that I really went to Earth. Plus, I had a strong feeling that my family always were skeptical about that. They wanted very much to watch me depart, but I told them that this wasn't possible and that I couldn't explain.

         I continued my activity as an arms distributor to the local insurgents of the new region. Now, I was supplying the Neptune Insurgence. Things went on, without problem or difficulty, for at least four months. At the end of the four months, when I was having no problems, I decided that I felt safe. My family wanted to see me, since it had been a while. I told them where I was, explaining "Oh, well, I just travel around a lot... I finally got to Neptune." I came back, and things felt fine. I didn't notice any prying eyes or any voices coming from the walls. Maybe they're just done with me, since they completed Operation Red Kill? But... things aren't always as they seem. When I returned to Neptune and continued my operations, problems came up. There was one intergalactic arms producer who supplied solely to revolutionary groups; his name is Obrox. Though his equipment and weapons weren't nearly as one fourth as powerful as the targets of Operation Red Kill, they were still vaulable and a great use to us. I made an order from him, a standard order. His two delivery boys got picked up and sent back to him in a crate. He told me that he was not having problems with this, so he sent two more delivery boys; one of them was captured, tortured, and released, after refusing to divulge information -- his delivery was succesful. His partner, however, was tortured and caved in. There was a public execution in the underground city of Yass Dharken. This gave me and Obrox an good figure: 75% of packages are getting intercepted by I.F. agents.

         The first thing that came to mind was this... They're following me. They're back on my trail. The I.F. fuckers are spying on me. I wasn't safe any more. I kept contact with Obrox. We were desperate to maintain our relationship. I had been a year-long distributor. He knew I had problems on Mars, and he knew I didn't give out his name; he trusted me. We tried a meeting spot in the woods with another shipment, with two delivery boys. Again, they were intercepted. Obrox and I had worked together on one last possible deal. I wasn't going to receive the shipment. Fortunately, my revolutionary comrades here provided me with contacts to insurgent sympathizers in the higher echelons of society. I had one of them use a shipping department of a factory to receive the weapons. The two delivery boys, instead of meeting me, met my friend. Both of them came through, on time, without a single fuckin' problem. I was relieved: there's a way to maintain this one contact I have with a weapons producer. But, there was something else that bothered me a great deal more... I removed myself from the weapons equation, and the shipment came through fine. What does that mean? I'm being watched. Someone has been watching me since I came back to Neptune, since it was commonly known among friends and family on Mars that I was on Neptune instead of Earth.

         The I.F. isn't done with me. And I'm certainly not done with it. There's a need for an enormous amount of revolutionary activity on the part of all militiamen before these secret government forces can be fully overthrown. It is now late 3205, and I'm fighting on the streets with urban guerilla tactics, using very ineffective weapons of a local arms producer. However, several days ago, I made contact with Obrox. We made plans for another shipment. Hopefully, this next shipment will be enough to demolish an entire prison system, releasing hundreds of imprisoned youth and insurgents. Our plans are being carried out the same as the last time, when both delivery boys came through without problems. If this shipment makes it through, then I'll know that I'm being watched... and that does scare me. Since the government has microscopic surveillance technology, you cannot really feel safe with any thought or phrase that the Independent Federation might find antagonistic to their principles. Let's just hope... that I can stay out of their clutches and continue my activities as a local militiaman.

         Heroin Doctor


    "Do you have a bus pass?" he asked me.

    "Ugh? Oh, no, I... I must've fallen asleep..." I muttered.

    "That's no excuse," the fare inspector asked.

    "Oh, come on..." I pleaded with him, "My doctor upped my heroin medication this month. I've been falling asleep in all sorts of public places!"

         Fuck Me


    "Oh god, that was one delicious woman I ingested," my friend says to me, putting his hand on my shoulder and almost whimpering like a hurt puppy, "The act of sex is the greatest overall appreciation of a woman, her form, her impulses, her nature, everything... When you see her cumming, you can finally see her for who she is; you feel all that she has felt, you understand all that she understands. The orgasm frees her from all social obligations. You see her in that moment for who she really is. And, it's an all-encompassing feeling... I'm sorry, I've had too much to drink..." He left me, and went to go greet another friend. I didn't say a word, and he already started with another mutual friend of ours. I could hear: "Dude, I fucked this wicked hot chick, and get this..."

    My date looked to me. "What the fuck does that mean?" she asked, "You can appreciate a woman the most when she's fucking or sucking? Is that what he just said?"

    "Well, with my friends," I said, after shwigging, "We have this sort of rule. If a person, by his own art and craft, is capable of having extravagant and wonderful lifestyles, without hurting themselves or others around him, we leave them alone. If my best friend tells me that he gets sexually arroused by eighteenth century philosophers, that means I'm buying him a book by Rousseau for Christmas. He's a little artist and the world is his palette. Let him create, even if that means understanding so-called 'true philosophy' best by the sex act."

    "That's sick," she said, "I don't think I feel comfortable spending the evening with you. I'm taking this Zima to go."

    "Uummmmm," I said, trying to stop her, "You better stay long enough for me to explain my fetish about the bottles of alcoholic products directed towards the female demographic... and the implications of this fetish on your well-being."

         What's This?


    "Yeah, I used heroin casually in the past," I said, "But, that was only for three days at a time. If it went over that, I stopped."

    "That didn't always work," he said.

    "I know," I replied, sucking on the joint, "I did get strung out on that shit. I just had to learn to control myself." We had changed. At one point in our lives, we were trying to unfetter every part of our conscience, set free every emotion and quarelling conviction, but now we were suppressing parts of our mind, parts of our heart, because of what they might lead to. Our lives had become damage control.



    "Yeah, make sure that baby has an odd number of spikes in its head," he said.

    "Why?" I asked. She held up the plastic infant. It had a heart-shaped hole on its chest, a syringe sticking out of its eye, a missing arm, and just enough red paint to impress the midevil minimalists.

    "If a punk has spiked hair, it has to be an odd number, otherwise its bad luck," he told me. The toy doll had ten nails sticking out of its head.

    "But, I don't think that quite applies here," I said, "There's a difference between spiking your mohawk and having steel nails put through your skull."

    "They're the same thing," he told me, "They're like a piercing. Don't have an even number."

    "So, if someone drove four spikes through your head, you'd move closer to him and beg him to put a fifth one in, to make it an odd number?"

    "No, I'd take one out, and I'd be totally fine."

         Assume This


    "We hate all music, and especially rap!" he joined in to the chant, and then stopped to explain it to me: "You see, they did some experimental music with rap, so that's the joke." I looked at him, looked at the stereo (which he had turned down), and then I turned back to him: "You could have just assumed that I knew that."

         Progressive Jazz


    "Hey..." I poked my head in to the room, "Do you guys want to come in to my room to smoke pot and listen to progressive jazz?"

         Get Excited


    "Yeah, I got this new watch... it has a lifetime warranty," he said.

    "Wow, did you groundscore that, or buy it?"

    "Yeah, I groundscored a lifetime warranty with a watch," he said sarcastically.

    I smiled. "Hey, some people can get really excited about some things," I said in my defense.

         Melting Plastic


    "Hey, do you guys have that glue that melts plastic and gets you high? I need it for melting plastic."

         General Says


    "It's been entirely too long before I've had the chance to perform the sex act on someone's face..." the general said.

    "I... what?"



    And what about the droogies? Weren't they a high school clique? The droogies?

    ... the people who were obsessed with Clockwork Orange?

    No, the people who used drugs.

    Yeah, the people obsessed with Clockwork Orange.

         Unethical Means


    A long line of people had come. It seemed that they trailed off in to the shroud of a polluted Los Angeles air, like some Dali painting. Today was voting day in our corporate system. However, the political parties were not allowed to canvas on this day. It was the day of silence. No person was allowed to promote one political idea or another one; everyone was to be left to his own conscience. At best, this measure was effective in preventing swing voting: people trying desperately on the final day to get people to vote for them, using unethical means. But, the officers of the political parties were still standing by, watching, listening nervously to the clutter and moan of the crowd.

    "So, what makes your party so different?" a heavyset man asks the officer of the Republican tent.

    "Well, it is voting day, so I can't discuss..." then he looked around and leaned in closer, "We want to cut taxes, which means that more money goes in to your pocket. You know what that means, right? That means more money for booze, for women, for... reefer, if that's your thing."

    "Hey, I likes the sound of this political party," he said.

    "Care to make a twenty dollar donation?" the party officer asked.

    "Sure, give me a twenty..." he said, looking around, and exchanging a pamphlet for a twenty dollar bill. The political party candidate put his hands in his pockets, slyly looking around. And from nowhere -- "FREEZE!!! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST FOR DISTRIBUTION OF POLITICAL IDEAS!!!" -- "OH, SHIT!!! IT WAS A CONTROLLED BUY!! FUCK!! I'LL NEVER TALK, YOU FUCKIN' PIGS!!!"

         Popularity Kills


    "Isn't that great? KMFDM is rated as the best underground, German industrial band, ever!" Sascha Konietzko says to his intern as he walks on the street.

    "Excuse me, Mr. Konietzko?" an office executive walks up.


    "You've been downgraded," he said, "You're now the best semi-mainstream, American, nu-metal band... ever."




    "My problem, with the Bolshevik revolution, was that it wasn't Communist enough, heh heh," I said, and then I sat up again, to full attention. "Or... it wasn't Communist at all. It wasn't Communist enough.... at all... enough."

    "Which are we going with?" he asked.

    "I don't know," I replied, "You're the biographer. You make something up."

    Saturday, August 6, 2005

    "What... what does that mean?" I asked.

    "You know what it means," he said, "You make something up. You have a salary for a reason. Because you need it. That's why you need this job and that's why you need to do what I say. I am your boss, and you shouldn't doubt that for a second. Now, like you should remember, when I tell you to make something up, that means you try to understand what my attitudes about the topic are, and then you put it in eloquent, beautiful, and poetic language. You got that?" I nodded. "Okay, then... Write down my opinions on the Bolshevik Revolution."

    "Yes, sir, Mr. Oppenheimer," I saluted, and started the first sentence of the first chapter: "I like cookies. That may be a bad way to start my autobiography, but at least I've got a way cool deathbed quote in the mail for all my fans."

         I Guess I Do


    "I'm a hopeless romantic," I said.

    "What does that mean?" she asked.

    "It means that I think I can solve any girl's painful and miserable emotions about society fade away, or at least make them seem not as bad, by having ruthless amounts of sex with her," I said.

    "I'm... I'm not really sure how to classify that view," she said, squinting.

    "Yeah, I've thought about it, too," I said, "I mean, it's obviously not an Oedipus Complex. I doubt that it's Freudian, but then again, I do have dreams entailing this activity of being a homeless romantic. It couldn't be from insomnia coupled with heavy use of uppers and downers... or could it be."

    "Well, yeah, that might be a valid cause of it," she said, "You have a lot of potential causes of problems in sexual development."

    "Yeah, I guess I do," I said.

         Try To Avoid


    "Well, I try to have fun at class by participating, and making the situation cater to my personal interests," she said.

    "That's an interesting strategy," I replied, keeping pace with her as we walked down the sidewalk, "However, my tactics are slightly different. I try to think of different ways to pretend that I'm dead. That way, class seems to be meaningless, and I can let the emotional part of my mind float off to somewhere pleasant."

         The Social Lie


    In some deep, dark corner of cyber space, I came across this phrase: "I would really have liked that scene, but it had one of those girls' whose tits were small and hard as rocks." The person who wrote this... From this statement, I come to believe that this person had a sort of relationship with others. In this piece, he relates to others, and offers them an experience that they can relate to. Or, one might be forced to draw the opposite conclusion: his peers and friends are individuals who are completely ignorant of the sex topic. They are united by their equal ignorance of the sex art. All they have to draw themselves together in unity and comradery is this thin layer of sarcasm that covers all of their words. And I start to think, that this person must have been cultivated to obtain their habits, since this is the only way that a person develops in society. Civilization's progress has made way for this person to declare that they know everything, only to feel united when similar liars combine in their chant. They must have been reared this way. The system of teachers, parents, mentors, police officers, and others of the community have completely failed this individual. His culture peaks in the presence of those who know little, and take great pride in their alleged intelligence, or they take great pride in attributes that have little to no real value. There is a community understanding among such persons when it comes to how they deal with these situations, in proving themselves in sexuality or sexual knowledge, and using this as a form of pride. Civilization may not be crumbling or ripping at the seems, but it sure feels like I am.

         Part of the World


    "You don't understand," I said, "That's the point. You're a part of the scene. You're not a person; you're just an additional gear in this completely inanimate object. So, when you're asking me how the industrial or punk scene is, you're asking me how satisfied people are with the fashion, music, and attitude styles of other individuals in this area. You're not a person. You're a part of lifeless body."

         Question This


    "Oh, man," he said, "If you had to pick, what would you rather be? The girl sucking the donkey's dick, or the girl eating out the girl sucking the donkey's dick?"

    "You mean... which one gets me more arroused?"

    "That's definitely one approach to the question."

         Somewhere Love


    "Somewhere, in this telephone wire, there's a telemarketer looking for love. He says it's priceless, but he's betting you'd pay $24.95 a month for it."



    "I don't think that's real," she said, leaning her ear towards the window, as we both listened for sounds of screaming and someone who kept repeating "Just get a doctor and she'll be okay!"

    "It might be real," I said, optimistic, but cautious.

    "Just because you want something to be real doesn't make it so," she said.

    "That's not true," I retorted, "Why, that's simply not true at all. Wanting something makes it real, actually." I was a little indignant on this point.

    "I suppose," she retired her argument, "But, it's definitely scripted."

    "You mean, what we were hearing, was on a television set or radio?" I asked.

    "Yeah," she replied, "It was scripted."

    "And, what does that mean?" I asked. We were both listening closely to the voices outside our windows, still somewhat faithful that we were hearing truth.

    "It means, like you said, that what we're hearing is probably read from a script," she said, leaving the window and going back to the kitchen counter, cutting vegetables.

    "And, what does that mean?"

    She smiled, and started, "It means that the way a person writes a story, is very different and very unlike the way things happen in real life."

    "Do you think it's intended?" I asked.

    "It might be," she said, "Most authors want their stories to sound real. That's the real point of literature: to use words to express something real. In order to create wonderful literature, some authors have tried to be painfully and thoroughly literal in order to accomplish the task of realistic literature, that is to say, literature they call acclaim as good. It's the modern literature movement, which declares that in order to capture the very most real parts of life, we must exaggerate in our writing, and create awkward, honest, and beautiful moments, expressed as tragedy or comedy."



    "Hey, I'm looking to get rid of my bike," I said, lucratively to my friends, "Do you know a good side-of-the-road to dump it at?"

         Thirty Six Years Old


    I'm 36 years old. I'm 36 years old and I'm a used up revolutionary.

    I just got back to the cabin in the woods. Feeling the strong sturdy walls, smelling the permeating odor of wood, and watching the snow collect all help me remember a little bit about building this house. I remember watching snow flakes pile up; it helped to motivate me, because I knew I'd want this project done before the end of summer. I'm here with my girlfriend of six years. She is this incredible, unbelievable woman, with the greatest traits of patience, intelligence, and compassion. She is the reason that I try to be more than I am. But, I haven't been with her in six months. And the conversation was dark and cold, during the whole ride through the snow to get to the cabin.

    Right now, I can see her leaning in a wooden chair that a friend built for me. I am watching her eyes, enjoying the casual snowfall, never following any one snow flake or snow pattern, but appreciating the beauty. I want to say that she is free, but no; she looks and acts the way I might have felt as a homeless youth.

    I just packed a bowl of weed to smoke up in the hookah, which I also built. It was an especially designed apparatus, so that ice frozen in plastic casings could be dropped in to the bong water and pulled out easily, thus creating refrigerated bong water. I tried to hit it, but I couldn't get anything out of it. I sighed: "Do you want a hit?" She shook her head.

    "I don't use drugs any more," she replied. As I struggled to smoke this marijuana, she started to look the way I wanted to feel... sedated and free.

    The problem with the hookah finally came to me. I have to push down on the bong stem, against the rubber sealant, so that proper air pressure can create --- ahhhhh............ I wonder, if the ancient societies would forget certain technologies, only to pick them up later when it was necessary and to show that they were still skilled. I'm wondering what that felt like.

         On the Phone


    "You brought this upon yourself," I hear a voice from behind.

    I looked up from doing the dishes. "Yes," I said, without turning around, "I didn't clean the dishes after I ate. And now, I'm cleaning them and they're more difficult to clean. Thank you. Yes, I know I brought this on myself." I turned around. He was on the phone. "...... ohhhhhhhh..."

         No More Television


    "The cemetery's 49 graves are to be moved to Israel - one of the most emotionally charged issues in the pullout."

    "Okay, so what?" I said, "The Israelite citizens are going to be forced to move out of a territory that they all knew did not belong to them. When they moved in to those homes, they were well aware that they were forcing millions of people out of the area that they and their family lived on for thousands of years. They were creating a ghetto for this 'inferior race,' and denying it social, political, and economic rights. Gee, do you think someone along the line was like, 'Hey, isn't this the same thing that happened to our people in Germany and all throughout our history of persecution?' and of course, someone replied, 'No, this is different. It's okay to kill, loot, and rape if you're a Jew, but not a German,' to which the other replied, 'Oh, okay, so long as we're thinking and not just acting blindly on our primitive prejudices and in accordance with oppressive governments.' Those fucks."

    "Okay, you... no more television for you."

         My Luck


    "Yeah, right!" I said, "I bet with my luck, I end up falling in love with her, and then she turns out to be the type of girl who doesn't like sex."

         Glaucon Replied


    "When a man masturbates to porn, he fucks to the porn star that he is looking at, just as he fucks to the person he is fucking when he has sex," I said, "It is just as though erotic activity, whether solo or in couples or groups, is the playing of an instrument always, and the target that caused the arrousal is the thing being truly being fucked. Do you agree?"

    "I must, for it is the basis of my concept of truth and goodness," Glaucon replied.

    "So," I continued, "It must be argued, that when a man fantasizes about a woman while masturbating, it is the same type of mental process as when a man fucks a woman thinking about her. Masturbation is not an alternative to sex, because sex would always be most preferred; they are different ways of accomplishing the same task, and neither is superior to the other."

    "Uh, Socrates?" Adeimantus said, "What the hell are you talking about?"

         Life is Unintentional


    "Tengo lo ud-bay," the general said, "That's the transmission we picked up from the phone tap."

    "Good lord," the president said, "What does it mean?"

    "We've translated it, using several thousand cyphers," the general said, "It means: 'We have the Marijuana.' It's a combination of Spanish and Pig-Latin."

    "Unbelievable," the president replied, "That means that they have untapped mental and intellectual powers."

    "Actually, sir," the general began, "We have reason to believe that the encoding was unintentional."



    "And this brick represents community, a cornerstone in the foundation of god..." he said, leaning over some random slab of sidewalk.

    "Yo," I said, "You're seriously losing your shit with that drug."

         Vouche For Me


    "Friend!" John spoke to me in a booming and loud voice, and then in a closer and lower tone, "Um, I need your help with a situation I got on my hands."

    "What's troubling you?" I asked, looking up from my laptop.

    "Well," he said, bringing his eyes up from the floor, "You see... I loaded more pot in my bowl than I can smoke, and I don't think I can finish it by myself."

    "So, you need my help to smoke it?" I said, with a big smile, "Heh, well, I suppose I could hel --"

    "Normally, I wouldn't ever think about asking you," he clarified, "I'd rather pass out on Marijuana smoke and then wake up a few hours later to kill the bowl than share shit with you. I need you to help me kill this bowl, though, because the snow gnomes are in the room. And, if I don't finish this bowl in front of them, they'll think I'm a bowl-coward."

    Not sure how to respond, I just stood up and followed him in to his room. Holding out his hand to a pile of McDonald's happy meal toys, he almost screamed, "These are the snow gnomes! Let us all sit down, and finish this bowl together, like friends." We both sat down, and he passed me the hose of the hookah.

    I held it in my hand, and before my brain forced me to hit it, I said, "Oh, I get it... you're crazy. Aheh... heh heh..." I smiled widely.

    He only gave me a blank stare. Then he leaned in closer to the pile of McDonald's happy meal toys, and I could hear him muttering, "Don't worry, gnomey pals. This guy is cool. I can vouche for him."

         Not So Nice


    "So, I hear your fetish is in blowjobs?"


    "Why is that?"

    "Actually, it's just that I get off on the idea of someone doing something for me."


         Like a Socket Wrench


    "I have a great deal of weed right now," I said to my roommate, "One and a half bowls for only $1."

    "That's okay, I guess," he said, "I mean, last time, it was two bowls for one dollar, and those bowls were lacking considerably. I needed both of them just to get as far. What happened to the Ben who used to pack those bowls to the brim for only one dollar? Where did that pothead for justice go?"

    "He realized that he was getting ripped off by paying for more marijuana than he smokes," I said, irritated at the gesture that I would willfully profit off the shitty jobs that any other poor person is forced to work. I was only concerned about the working class job I was stuck with and how many hours I was forced to work there for my pay.

    "But, how can you measure what is one dollar worth of Marijuana?" he asked.

    "I don't know," I said, "Until you start buying an eighth at a time from a real drug dealer, we'll always be at odds, because we will both want the Marijuana as an end to intoxication and pure bliss. But, we will always be in conflict with each other over price, because the higher we each pay, the less we each smoke... it will always be war!!"

         Kill Her


    "Wow, that girl's hot," I said, "Would you fuck her?"

    "Nah," he replied, "I like to get to know a girl before I kill her."

    "Before you... kill her?"


    "What?" I asked, "You said kill her. I asked if you wanted to fuck her."

    "No, you didn't."

    "I did," I said, "It must have been a Freudian slip on your part. You let it out, as your subconscious screams for the sexual fantasy of killing a woman during sexual intercourse."

    "I think it was a Freudian slip on your part. You misheard what I had said," he told me, "It was your Freudian slip because you heard something that was not spoken aloud."

    "Highly doubtful," I replied, as we kept arguing throughout the afternoon.

         Life is Taxing


    I spoke to the girl with a mohawk and five piercings, "Wow, I just absolutely love you Cindi, you with your badass attitude, your drugs, and your possible leftist attitudes."

    "No, me and the crew vote Republican," she said, examining her nails, "We don't think there is anything hardcore about a high capital gains tax."

         Almost Amazing


    "Ha!" I shouted, pointing my finger up, "I remember now! There was one girl who satisfied my Freudian complex, by being loving, self-sacrificing, and otherwise irrational emotionally. And she was in love with me, and would do anything for me, and I told her that I had to walk my own path. I felt that a relationship with someone whose emotions were irrational was harmful, no matter how loving it was. And yet, it was the perfect relationship for my Freudian sub-conscious. This proves... that I am making rational decisions outside of my hidden subconscience structures. Or, at least, that most of them are starting to fade and die."

    "That's... almost... amazing...." she said, throwing a cheeto in to her mouth.

         What I Do


    "He's a scumbag, you think just because he comes crawling back to you when you need him most, it doesn't mean he's worth a shit," I said, "But, then again, you are lonely, and you might want him, so I wouldn't look down on you for starting a relationship with him again."

    "What kind of social revolutionary are you?" she asked, "First, you condemn man for his weaknesses, and then you pardon him for them."

    "Hey, I'm an Anarcho-Communist," I said, as I loaded the bowl, "That's what I do."

         Pent Up Hostility


    "Clearly, you have serious emotional problems," I said, turning away from our patient and going over to the minibar.

    "Really? Is that what this all means?" he asked me.

    I looked over my shoulder while mixing gin and carbonated water. "Yeah, it does," I replied, "But don't worry, it's nothing near what I have. My emotional problems are intense as hell. I'm not going to get into them specifically, and I may only know some of your emotional problems, but I'm sure that mine are a million times worse than yours. Good god, I am packing such a little, flaming ball of rage, hostility, sadness, and pain when I have my first psychoanalysis in twenty years."

    "Why would someone brag about that?" he said.

    "Good question."

    "I still masturbate to fantasies where I'm killing the person by having sex with them, in the same act," he said. There was a silence.

    "Okay," I said, slowly moving across the room, "Maybe you do have some issues that might need to be... addressed. But, I obviously have the higher degree of insanity."

    "One, why, and two, why does it matter?"

    I sat down. "Well, there are certain colors that when I see them, I respond with a powerful sexual arrousal, and there are certain other colors that do the opposite," I said, "My case history goes back a while to some very early moments of existence, when my parents were murderers... who tried to kill me."

    "That so did not happen."

         Cheese Kirk


    "Why is there a piece of cheese here!?" Kirk asked.

    "I wanted to eat it," Spock replied.

    "But, where is the bread and lettuce and tomatto if it is sandwich? Where is the tortilla if it is a nacho? Where is the cracker if it is just bread and crackers? Spock, tell me this!"

    "Captain, I wanted to eat the cheese for its own sake, on its own merits," Spock said, moving to the other side of the room, "You see, captain, I wanted the cheese as its own end, and not as an addition to a different end, such as a sandwich or bagel."

    "My god, Spock," Kirk replied, moving in closer on the cheese and expressing powerful emotions, "This is a most intense moment ever!"

         One and Only


    "Bullshit! I was in love with the orgasm, not you!"

         That's It


    "How can you have any desire to create such a society, where all of the people are in control of themselves. Don't you know what mobs, crowds, and riots have done to this world? And now you want to give them all the political and economic power in the world?"

    "Sure, whenever you look back in history, the greatest tragedies came from people doing for themselves what was their own duty. We've never experienced a holocaust, a war, a famine, a depression, or any other tragedy because the people were scared, frightened, and coerced in to accepting an absolute ruler to have control over them. Yeap. That's right."

         Oh God


    "Ohhhhhhhgooodddd....." the computer nerd moaned, as he orgasmed inside of her, "Oh, god.... that is what I have been missing for the last two years. Shit. I think I'm gonna take up lying and deception in order to get laid. That honesty shit wasn't ever with the intent of getting laid, but now I have a new motivation instead of being witty, intelligent, and thoughtful."

         Marijuana Brand Names


    One: "Oh, cool! They just legalized Marijuana for all Americans!"

    Two: "Oh, sweet! Soon there will be Marijuana sold in stores, and I'll get that underground brand of Marijuana, probably called 'Kronic', even though it costs a just little bit more, just so I can oppose the megacorporate brand names of our day."

    One: "Are you kidding me? My favorite beer is Pabst Blue Ribbon, and I like my pot like I like my beer: union-made and cheap. That's all I would ever demand of a brand name if I were going to purchase it with a free conscience. Would you seriously want a Starbucks of Marijuana, where 'dopetacular' is the size name for a small bag?"

         The Wise Man


    "Don't be afraid to think something about yourself if it is true," the wise apostle said to his student.

    "Okay, then I'm super awesome!" the student replied.

    "Hhhmmmm..." the wise man thought for a moment, "... wait, I changed my mind."

         Real Addiction


    Real addiction means being asked if you wanted complete, unrestricted access to a drug, and no matter what your answer is, you always regret it. You say yes, and plea that it can be taken back because you don't trust yourself; you say no, and plea that it can be taken back because your want for it will never go away. And every time you go back to change your decision, it's with slow, uncertain steps, incomplete behavior, disparaged thoughts...



    Because I don't know where I'll fuck up, but I know that I will fuck up, accept this apology, and listen to reason above authority more than anything...

         Burning Mass


    "I don't know... That nugget of Marijuana definitely did fall right in to his unwashed, unclothed crotch."

    "Well, it was only there for a few seconds. Besides, it's not like we're eating it. We're just smoking it."

    "Yeah, but it is still entering your body in some way. I mean, if I wouldn't touch, eat, smell, lick, or taste something, shouldn't I be equally weary of inhaling the fumes off of the burning mass?"



    wouldst thou toketh?

         Still Smoking Weed All Day (Ninja)


    I am bitter and alone, because of the terms that I have forced myself to come to. Women will not take offense, if you buy them drinks, feed them compliments, purchase them commodities, and all the while, make yourself look well, in order to convince them to have sex with you. Their suffering comes when the man confesses, in one cruel way or another, that it was all solely for sexual pursuit. Perhaps women regret the fact that they had sex only because of the wealth of their partner. But, women will take great offense, if you offer them a purely platonic and largely sexual relationship, in a polite and courteous manner; not only will the offense be great, but it is bordering on sexual harassment and multi-million dollar court settlements. So I am bitter, and alone. Progressive reformers have worked long and hard to eliminate sexist bigotry; it is oh so sad that the Feminists have become persecutors themselves. Finally, I am philosophical, because I see these things, and I admit: such is power.

         Smoke Weed All Day (Samurai)


    "By meditation and practice in skilled combat, you will become masters of your mind," the distinguished dojo master spoke, without meeting his students in their eyes as they watched his obviously routine pacing.

    "But how is it that combat, that the ability to cause the destruction of another person's body, will ever give enlightenment?" a student asked.

    "Pick up your bamboo pole," his master instructed. He did so. "Holding both hands together, swing it in the air and stop it." He did this. The pole swung fast and came to an unsteady stop that kept jittering. "Now hold your hands apart and swing." He did this. The pole swung slower, but it came to an immediate and steady stop. "This is the lesson..." his master continued pacing, "When you want accuracy and effective control of aim, then you must keep your hands apart on the handle. When you want powerful and strong swings, then you must keep your hands together. You cannot have one, but at the sacrifice of the other. In this practice, you learn to balance. The art of the soldier's combat is in his swiftness, his finesse, the actions that demonstrate him as a glorious and self-disciplined combatant. Combat is its own art, as when you fight for truth and goodness, you are the defender of all that uplifts mankind. Fighting, then, is a principle, and when you are upholding a principle that you believe in and love, you must make certain sacrifices, but you must understand the balance that exists with this. By training like this, you will gain peace of mind and contentness of heart."



    "You want some DMT?"

    "Are you kids talking about drugs?"

    "No, I didn't say anything."

    "You just said DMT."

    "We were talking about programming... DMT stands for .... divided... mathematical... tryptamine."



    "Man, I hate carrying a bag of potatos inside of a bag of potatos."

    "You mean, another bag of potatos?"

    "No, just a bag of a bag of potatos."

         We Are Pirates


    My friend and I meet each other, and this is the first question we always ask each other. "Is your computer operating to distribute copyrighted media to the masses?" We were digital pirates. Like our ancestors, we are glorified by all subversives and attacked by all old power. All of our computers are hooked together in this international network, to get music from the storage space of any user in the world. Some of us are just mildly interested in this. We see it as an easy way to get cheap, high-quality music, that will help inspire us to better heights, without paying anything; no profits fall in to the pockets of Corporate America or military funding as a tax, while we are helping the artists accomplish their goal: "To have their music appreciated, loved, and understood by listeners." We feel that, whatever expenses we incur, whatever debt we become morally obligated to these artists and bands and orchestras for the music they blessed us with, we have paid back in our activity to create more just economic conditions. And one of the chief end aims of economic justice, is the idea of the laborers getting the wealth they create. Musical artists today receive such a small royalty, while idle corporate pigs get wealthy off of the money they obtain. The others of us, who understand and believe in these bitter, ironic views of society, we feel that these international piracy networks are a beautiful, wondrous thing that we must contribute to directly. We do what we can to obtain as much music as we can, tapping in to numerous networks and sub-networks, getting in to private and clandestine pirate groups, meeting people online and exchanging harddisks with them, and then scoring ourselves on how much music we can upload in a day. Our movement has our heroes, those who fight the RIAA in the courts, those who launch lobbying campaigns against the greedy followers of moloch. We are, in many ways, much like our revolutionary brethren. And we adaptate and avoid the pitfalls that our enemies set up for us. We use wireless networking, we protect ourselves with internet privacy laws, we block IP ranges of RIAA and other anti-piracy groups, we do all that is necessary to protect ourselves from criminal proceedings. Despite the efforts of a multi-billion dollar business, operating in cooperation with an oppressive government, there is still this digital highwaymen group, sometimes existing in the millions. And we admire every other liberationist group. We attend feedings at Food Not Bombs, though we may have never participating in food gathering. We march in the protests of anarchist collectives, though we played no role in the organizational setup. Like all of these other movements that have strength and solidarity, we also hold these elements in our activity. While we may not participate fully in these underground groups, we do support them. And when those revolutionaries are ever in need of downloading a song by a punk rock anarchist band, or an underground rap artist talking about government oppression, or independent canadian music that all oppose the government, when those revolutionaries need some media, we'll have it ready. After all, otherwise we wouldn't been succeeding in our jobs as pirates of the copyright. The money that people would otherwise spend on CDs, that would be funnelled to groups and organizations that only work to brainwash the American public, that money is staying in the pockets of the people. That's what we believe.

    we are pirates.



    Oooooooo, scrumptious phenithylamines and tryptamines!

         The Truth


    "Oh, god. She's getting a job, too? But she was the only unemployed housemember. Dammit, you know this means that our house is going to look like crap now. When I had no job, I helped out. But now that I am employed, when I'm not working, I am concentrating on wasting time, getting loaded on all sorts of different drugs, and doing as few chores as I could with as terrible quality as I could get away with. And that's the truth."

         I Mean Yes


    "I wanted to fuck my lover with my clothes on, so that he has to use his imagination for certain parts, and so the experience stands out from the rest," she said.

    "Oh, and so when he sees you, he knows he can try to fuck you, clothed or not?"

    "No, well, I mean yes..."

         I Mean No


    "Well, at least she admires you?"

    "Me getting admired has never helped me satisfy my sexual appetite."

    "Do you always have to use the word 'appetite' like that?"



    The mysterious stranger walked through the corridors of the hospital, firing shot after shot upon innocent victims. As he walked with his calm casual pace, it felt almost like he was completely invincible to the world of misery he had created. It was a musical track, where the screaming never stopped, but was reduced to moaning; a melody where the only interruptions in the sound of feet kicking around bullet shells was the sound of gunfire. At the end of his conquest, he looked around. He then moved closely towards one of the corpses that he wasn't sure he had killed. Eight shots were released in to the cadaver. Our hitman leaned his ear against the wounded man's lips. He wasn't breathing. "I'm sorry," our stranger of the story said, "My conscience required that I make sure that you aren't breathing when I leave." He then trecked on.

         What I Am Sick and Tired of in Life Right Now


    I am sick and tired of being poor, of working so hard and so long to get so little; I am tired of living like I'm the shadow of something great -- no will, no intentions. I am sick and tired of these thoughts that come to mind whenever I am in the company of complete strangers. I'm tired of the idea that I can be less than these people, that different means better or worse.

    I want a girl that I can introduce to a beautiful world of underground literature and illicit chemicals, a girl who can brighten my day by using stories from her childhood as though they were allegorical tales, a lover whose voice does not hesitate for bigotry... And, let it be known, that I am not speaking these words as though my were is void without the female touch, but rather, it should be known, that these words represent the greatest part of being whole: knowing what I want, and searching for it. Somewhere in these processes of life, I can truly feel the moments of existence going by like they were painted by a god of some sort; somber moments, where I let the world know how poetic I can be.

    What kind of people are these? They are all people. Roughly, they all have the same emotions, the same displaced sense of ambition... I should get to know some of them, before moving on. My stay here is only so long, and should my ship leave, I'll have no fond memories to float in while I'm at journey again. I'll be leaning on the bars of that battleship, letting the seagulls rush towards distributed parts of my lunch, and the only memories I could conjure are those that are old and faint... Perhaps I'll recollect the scent of this city, perhaps I'll be able to recall the way that it breathed; I can count the times it made me feel intimidated, the times it made me feel alone. I'm already on that ship sailing away, and I've decided that I didn't like the way I've lived, with the time I had at my disposal. Perhaps a little misguided, perhaps a little arrogant, perhaps a little alone and a smidgeon shy... All these things, perhaps, but I wish I could say all was deliberate; I wish I could say, that these habits I formed, these drugs I did, these faces I fell asleep dreaming of in vodka puddles, at least, I wish, I could say they were all deliberate. I was never in a displeasing situation unless it was willful. I was never in a situation that commanded stress and vice, unless I had placed myself there. I was never rejected from a sexual encounter, unless I believed in some imperfect ideal about sexuality. Those things that happened to me, the learning, the independence, were all willed by me, they were all things that I brought to myself; that is, to say, I lived my life according to my own initiative, according to the way, I believe, that my heroes would have acted.

    The way that I deal with the situations brought to me, I can honestly hope, is the way that Giordano Bruno would have reacted to them. With a small touch of hedonism in every action, a glimmering spark of human personality surfacing in emotions too complicated... Leaning against counters in empty stores, commenting about the loss Capitalism has given us and how much cooler I would look if I had a cigarette. Deliberate living means acting in a way that those you admire and respect would act. This only translates to: acting according to your own ideals and principles, to behave in this life as your morals, principles, and personal dictates have it. Let the crumbs fall where they may, let the wounds be dealt like cards! If you, as an individual and a person, have decided to live your life the way that you saw fit, to satisfy every hunger, to cure every curiosity, to treat inhibition and social taboos as the only true social sin -- to live in body as your mind would have it, to be, completely, and totally, free.

    I'm totally losing my mind on this drug . So, I might as well let my mind wander. I wonder what interesting and great things I'll come across. Goddammit, it's just a twenty-first century boy, effected and moved by his world like anyone else living here, and he has pretty much the same passions and the same desires as those who surround him. So, ultimately, he needs to be a good person, to get inside that society, and become part with its members. I may do so in such that I have gained this new wisdom from this powerful and mysterious drug. (I keep writing in an attempt to control the situation, to make me feel like I am in control, and not like this trip is controling me -- it's a natural fear of most hippies, hipsters, or kids who take lots of drugs). But, I feel I should shy away from that topic. It is only giving me..... tha-jeeblies.

    I must get myself inside the social stratosphere of Portland. I must comingle. (I must drink and eat apples to sober up! -- And write myself a note never to get this high on this drug again, without a sitter; which, this should definitely be a fundamental rule, seeing as I've had that problem in the past before (the so-called "DMT Overdose"). In that case, just like this, I treated -- crap, I'm back on the same subject of poisoning. Well, I was just talking about it because it was n mind.


    I read this sentence and I feel a cool wind over me, where I then ask, "Just how high am I?" And, following, "How do I stop being high?" EAT FOOD! DRINK WATER!

    I mean, the drug is only in the body for twenty minutes! TWENTY MINUTES!

    Most actual poisonings require that the substance be in the blood stream, until the target had died, where it remained. It has been an hour. It feels like a century. I am trying to refrain from waking Jordan up, to listen to my meanderings. Hell, he's got a job. I don't. I'm just a small-time, wasting junkie, no good to myself, and no good to others. (I pollute, I bring my --

    calm down, calm down......
    I will come down.

    Reading these words, while initially thinking it would bring hope, actually just spurs on the badness of the trip.

    But I mean, hey! If I am here to talk about how fuckin' high I am, what fuckin' unbelievable thoughts I am having, then I can't be dying. No way! It's such an awkward fear. I sometimes wonder where it comes from. I wonder if it's just a serious doubt that, hey, someday, we will cease to exist. We just have to deal with that. I mean, I seriously don't think I'm on the brink of anything like that. But, if I were, I've notified my top men: Jordan C. Clark (I'm not sure if his middle name is a C or not, but when I told him, he smiled). If anything were to happen, such as pass out and asphyxiate on my own vomit, he'd be there for me. Again, I seriously doubt it is going to get to that. I remember Big Matt, who would take a fuckload of acid and then shoot crystal meth. He did fine, he turned out good. He said, though, that it was all laughs and giggles, he never had any of this crazy, lose your mind shit, time. You know, the reason why we do hallucinogens, to tap in to some unresourced part of the mind! And, while I am here, I have to say: I am quite frightened. So, indeed, this shall be an unintentional log of my trip, of where in the human mind I am travelling, of what wondrous and amazing things I shall uncover. Our history of the world will be much more complete then.

    I will come down. I will come down.

    Again, just repeating that to myself so I can calm down, and not feel like this is a poisoning, which it probably is, which I am treating, with water and apples. And yes, it is working out fine for me. I am realizing that when I need to be sober, I will be sober; I will come down from this high and walk away a better man. If anything else, a man who certainly won't casually thrown 5-MeO-AMT into a club sandwich and chomp away "like I only have to get high!" The high is definitely an immersive one, making you feel that, for any second, any possible thing you think, becomes real; the images you look at, that you see through your eyes, they are lined with green and pink tracers, undertonings, like an artist had come in to touch up a picture.

    Okay, okay, really high again.
    I will come down. I will come down.

    Yes, that's just my, going back to the surface to get more breaths of air so that I can proceed, evolve, and get the fuck off this planet. (Oooo! The words on the screen moved!) [<-- We shall all be laughing our asses off at how hilarious that was once I do come down.] Boy, I am so high right now, but I definitely am sensing a comedown, and, possibly, a sudden grasp of reality. If it's another mirror, I'll break the rims and smash them together.

    Wow, I really am coming down, which almost makes me feel sad that I have to depart from this mission of good will to the outter regions of human consciousness. It was a wonderful world, full of many creatures, many surprises, many good kicks, and many more good memories! I know, for a fact, that when I do wake up next time (if there is a next time -ahilk ahilk) that I will be the much more incredibly wiser Ben... or maybe just a wingnut, who was made, by experimenting with vast quantities of Hallucinogen drugs.... mixed together... all at one time.

    No, sorry, I'm coming down. Fuck you. I'm getting sober. My thoughts run less fluidly, I actually can feel an urge to piss..... yeah, one second.....

    Oh, we will look back to this moment in my life, how I thought I could die at any moment, how I thought that how high I was would determine the point at which I black out and asphyxiate, and we will laugh.

    Yes, I'm still high on those crazy drugs, but, my dear copilot in this trip, I regret to inform you, that this trip is ending early.

    I proceed to drink water, and eat crisp fruit. (Thoughtful remarks, not stupid dumb ones!)

    As I sober up, perhaps more thoughtful remarks (which will prove evident the possibility of using drugs to change one's perception!) as I sober up, at least.

    I am coming down, AND I KNOW THIS. I AM COMING DOWN.

    Yeah, it's just spurts of the drug like that, that remind me that I'm still peaking, and, remind me fuller, that I do not want to be in this place at which my mind currently habitates. All of the rules, the regulations, the policies, on thought exchange and thinking things through -- it's all be changed, evolved. "Man, you seriously took too much shit," I can hear a man at a gas station in an attendant's uniform saying. That may very well be true.

    But, I must be honest with myself and be honest with myself now.
    I am definitely coming down. I can feel it in all of my muscles and in my brain.
    I am becoming something not resembling a fuckin' jack-o-lantern... or a pumpkin.

    Okay, so the trip is definitely settling down. I know this. I can confirm this. The problem, that is to say, the negative aspect of the bad trip, as we near up to enemy forces on this here hill with our guns locked and loaded -- the problem with the bad trip, is that it creates a type of psychosis. That is to say, a condition more aptly known as PTS, or Post-Traumatic Stress syndrome. Those who have it, have had extreme stressful situations on their mind and their psyches. Most people who have it are Vietnam veterans, or aging hipsters like me.
    I can picture it... nightmares, randomly feeling on edge like terror has crept in to my heart.... That is the psychosis of Tryptamine Torture. (Aha! Yes! I am here associating with all people who are knowledgeable and thoughtful in matters of the drug world -- a Tryptamine, dear reader, is a member of the Hallucinogen class!) And, as I am speaking, here trying to maintain my sanity, colors or randomly turning red and green and blue... I am getting attacked by a gay ass neon light show from 1985. I might feel like I am losing it, but I've been here before, I know exactly what this is, and I'll get through it.

    Yes, another half hour! We are definitely sobering up!

    And, again, not doing this without friends to help you through it. Stupid ass tripper, you should have brought Twitch and Marlena to help you through it. They definitely would've appreciated the high. I know Brent does. "Like meth, it's really edgy," and yes, dear reader, I understand the irony of his words: right now, it's too edgy. As these images flash across my eyes, as tribal patterns randomly appear all over my skin and as I can see sweat being created glands on my hands, I start to think that I might be too high, that I might have seriously broken something in my mind. Yes, yes, that was frightening. Fortunately, we're a bit further ahead in the story. Oh, what I am thinking about is the embarassment! I am starting to loathe it, like a little school girl (Yes, I said school girl -- and I am okay with that).

    But, yes! The embarassment! I am going to have to face Jordan, look him eye to eye, and act like nothing happened. Awkwardness! Is that the reason why our lives are led on strings and cables, like we are just actors to some great play that does not even satisfy our own intellectual meanderings for ethics, sociology, and the such? Perhaps.

    But, yes, I am coming down.

    I am coming down, and I'll have to understand and believe that. I really do.

    Hopefully, as I am coming down, one of the reasons why I write this, and why perhaps, it seems like I keep pointing this out (as I am in a rather volatile zone of the brain), but I only do that to help myself feel like I am connected to some part of reality. I wonder, if these words read to a reader, will sound like someone's voice in the dark, trying to find his way, lost, alone, eager to satisfy the quellings within. Because, honestly dear reader, I'd beg if I could turn this condition off right now. I'd fuckin' beg.

    But, hopefully, that won't be necessary. I am already feeling the comedown, which..... still seems like a weird peak.

    Damn, comedown.... I tell so many people that it lasts 16-24 hours. It never does. The only time I've heard of that happening resulted in a seriously bad 24 trip that Walker has -- and, as we all know, Walker definitely does exaggerate his stories. And, he was a wingnut. And.... a lightweight... On top of all that previously mentioned of his character.

    So, yeah, I'm mellowing out; I can close my eyes, and rock in my chair, bring my hands to my face to warm them, and feel like all is right, and all is well, because I'm on an express trip back to sanity (see for restrictions where void or prohibited). [<-- That doesn't sound good.] I seem to use "as I said" and "however" too often. Damn stupid british sounding-ness-proper-ness..... Yeah.

    I am coming down, and I am almost depressed. In between feeling terrified for my life and violating social standards, etc., etc., I really do think I learned something. Not just "don't trip without a sitter ever again" or "give this drug a rest." No, no, I am already very familiar with all of that. Those were valid rules regardless.

    Again, I wonder if it is this negative psychosis, this PTS syndrome crap, that is what so many psychedelic gurus have discussed, and talked about, and stewed over their coffees and teas about. I wonder if the bad trip is an essential element of hippy culture, in the question: does it validate you, make you go further, try to expand your horizons, in all words, completely and totally revives you. All social groups seem to look positively upon people that are both good to themselves and good to others; for ones lacking in one, will lack in the other. (You see how fuckin' high I am!!!)... It's great.

    All you need, is a tiny little blad of this drug, the smallest most impecable size, a size that could randomly be floating in the air at any point, a size so small, that a shoeful would mean millions of doses and billions of dollars in the illegal market. As the colors of these words change to tan, and neon pink, and fuckin' retarded ass green. Yeah, thanks hallucinations, for playing such a positive role in my trip. Ass.

    I definitely feel myself coming down. I mean, shit, how high could I be for? It is a rational fear, though, I guess, when you are seriously stuck in a dark place of your mind, and thinking about irrational paranoia, etc., etc.. At that moment, in psychosis, under the use of massive quantities of hallucinogens, yeah, you tend to need someone to talk to, someone's shoulder to sit on. Not necessarily, as to detract from the spirituality and meaning of the trip. Rather, it is to help encourage them! Encourage them by giving an ear to hear the voice of insanity ramble, in long text documents like ones like these! (okay, yeah, something is definitely broken up there... fuck, it's gonna take so long to repair this psychosis! I thought we were making good work!) One dumbass trip sends it all back to hell. But, no, maybe... Actually, will I retain anything from this trip? Like I've alluded to many of other times, we do these drugs as a revitalization process, so that once sober and (hopefully) sane again, we will be better to perform our actions in the world, whether those are socializing habits or political or economic habits, and to exercise those habits in the world. In a lot of ways, I can see this being mislabelled as "self-help" (and I laugh at those who call it an "AMT overdose" -- which it is, arguably). This is not self-help, so much as it is self-damage. I can feel someone ripping out chords of my brain like they're a mechanic, and pulling at chords and gears that are making it word, and the voice of this fuckin' goddamn monkey, keeps following my thoughts, bringing me to weird places, weird ideas, weird conclusions -- many of them are sarcastic, many are intellectual, many or thoughtful, I suppose, though, the fun for us is picking out which is which. Yes, I have reverted back to the original trip. A trip so massively and unbelievably powerful, a poisoning in its own right, yes, but we overlook that fact (for the fact that I am going to live and that this is not a poisoning -- because, if it was, I'd be looking at Jordan from the floor, hearing voices, which I am....) Yes, I am hearing voices.

    I will come down. I will come down. This situation is only temporary.

    Oh, won't we laugh! (He was so motherfuckin' high, that he got all bent out of shape and wrote this really weird manifesto.... while on drugs! Which cooberates his other story, about drugs being capable of unlocking parts of the brain! I'm interested!) Yes, dear readers (if there are any of you out there), you will read these words and tremble, as I report back, from the inner sanctoms, of.... this universe's homo sapien mind. While I'm visiting, I hope he doesn't mind if I move around the furniture.

    Hey! wh00! Coming down is fun!

    My friend: "Well, why would you call it an AMT overdose?"

    Me: "Primarily, because, I had taken a dosage that exceeded my expectation of the high."

    My friend: "So, then, why did you dose so much? What were you trying to accomplish?"

    Me, responding to this lovely interviewer girl, "I..... had heard..... that taking drugs can take you to places you haven't been before. My first use, was purely experimental. I was a homeless kid, new to the faces, new to the scene, and new to the awkward habits of these people. I took their drugs, only to see what would become of it, only to see if it would help me realize that I am a better or worse person because of my actions (as it goes, this is the supreme end of all experimentation: to find a new and comfortable habit). I mean, look at this guy right now, this guy writhing in pain about the social ramifications of his actions, like all of us." Why would he be now making these proclamations and declaring these theories? A notable sign of a bad trip: the user starts reciting the facts about the last guy who tried this drug and (a) died, or (b) went insane. I suppose, though, I'll just have to take better care of myself in the future. (And delete the hell out of this document.)

    Maybe I am not really coming down [<-- Oh, yes! Another conspiracy theory! A frightened sign of incoming skitzophrenia and psychosis]. Nah, I feel like I am coming down. I feel like I am reaching some sort of grasp thing of sanity. Maybe I'm just learning to better accept the trip, and that it's not done with me yet. Maybe I am learning that this is not, was not, and would never be a poisoning, but simply mental experimentation.

    I almost feel like I am going to be so dishonered and distrusted among my friends once I return sober. I wonder where this comes from, probably from the fact that I did something I shouldn't have (these doses) and proceeded to go fuckin' insane. Yeap. It's definitely something checked off on their friend's lists. I close my eyes, and again, it's that gay ass laser storm... except with words and images crossing back and forth... I keep my eyes closed, hoping to try and connect with the substance better, like I am losing myself -- which, yeah, it definitely does feel like now........ ........

    Yes, we will have to look back to this misfortunate event, and say, "This must never happen again. These drugs are fuckin' nuts.... Head tripper! Experiment with good and close and trusted friends! Otherwise, you will lose your way in the dark woods."

    The fact that I am talking, definitely indicates that I am not dead. So, I probably shouldn't have to fear that. (Well, typing.*) But, if I were dead, something which I will have to face one day, if I were dead, I would accept it, I'd obligingly take its hand, not just as a thing that must be done, but as a thing that completes me. Without it, there is no me. It's an integral part of the super-human structure: a time delay. You have X hours and X minutes to get the experiences, the wealth, and the memories. The real question is: how much do you want it? Are any of these phrases, these words and sentences, that I'm dropping, are any of them gold? Are any of them the missing key, that will now prove the connection betwene psychedelic drug use and psychotherapy? That is, to ask, after these words have met the eyes of a reader, will it be decided that LSD and analogs will create a general unhappiness among the people, or will it be decided that LSD and analogs will create a better happiness in all subjects and a better understanding of humanity?

    In a good way, I have reverted to the first trip, where I think I did pass out on the sidewalk for many an hour, and woke up tripping fuckin' balls. Yes, it was a poisoning, but one that came about by the presence of Chlorpheramine Maleate (CPM) in the pills I was taking -- they were Coriciden pills. The kids in that part of the woods of society, wow, they really have their science down: "We can feel good if we take these pills?" -- "All right!" If that were genuinely the case, if LSD and its analogues were simply viewed as degenerative of all healthy habits, that is to say, if LSD was deemed a menace to the public, it would probably be from this, these kids getting incredible kicks and doing nothing but staying high (or, at least, so the public is informed).

    Worst case scenario: tomorrow I wake up with an enormous respect for the places that drugs can put my mind in. The calming piece of psychosis. This definitely reminds me of my last trip, the Dimethyltryptamine overdose. There is an extremely surreal lost of reality. Ideas act and behave in ways that they would never intermingle with before. I do feel enlightened, like certain aspects of the brain have been opened up. But, will I feel enlightened when I am sober again? Will I feel like I am a human being, who must also become a social and economic being, before continuing in this present direction in life? That is to say (another thing I like to add in between sentences).

    It is now 4:00 AM, and I am just starting to grasp ahold of the trip. I think I'll direct it to somewhere peaceful, down and out in canoe, having my hallucinations make coffee for me (instead of poping out of my veins and stabbing me). [Yes, something definitely did break up there, I'm not sure what, but it's definitely broken.] My thoughts scatter so easily, and pick up seemingly new trails with no effort or problem, and it seems that I am quite at a loss for what topic to discuss. Should I continue with the trip, or should I discuss the philosophical nature of drugs, and the legalization for them that must be had (to avoid further... slipups)? As high as I fuckin' am right now, I think I'm doing a little of both, and that I just need to be okay with that. [Did I mention that it will be broken for a long time?] "because strangers are just friends you have to met!" The reason why that slogan is openly detested be everyone on all sides, is because it sucks. It's not enough to get beneath the deep, rooty layers of human personality, to really motivate people to be good for themselves and good for others. You need a fuckin' whopping dose of 5-MeO-AMT, and smoke a bunch of weed, and yeah, good bye human personality (human anything) for weeks.

    Between these lines, these proverbs and social phrases, I wonder if I am leaving any genuine wisdom. I wonder if I am convincing anyone that psychedelic drug use (like the hitherto described journey/abort mission) will open your mind to new horizons. Or, perhaps, these are simply meanderings by some tweaker, too spun, way too fuckin' high, crammed up in his little apartment, and freaking out randomly. I truly wonder what choice is going to be made... (Hhmmmmm, it seems that my legs have just disconnected themselves -- I'm quite worried now.) ;)

    I just hope that, after this, my brain will work reasonably functional. And, I won't become one of those stories, "Of the person who took the trip that sealed their life." (as a wingnut probably) Yeah, pissing the color green on the silhouette of words on a document, yeah, it's never the way it is in person as the way it was described in the advertisement. (You know, the one for, ummm, AMT.) Maybe, when I come down, I will be a great bit smarter. I will look to the world with a bigger stride of confidence, realizing that I am neither superextraordinary, or superunextraordinary, only that I am my own person, and it is my ideas that give me any value. Mental expression, as an art, is practiced among the top artists of liberality. [Yeah, just what the fuck am I talking about?]

    This gayass lightstorm is still up on my ass. Won't.... quit it..... with the lasers and the robots... fuckin' retarded 5-MeO-AMT. I'm sorry. By making the color green appear everyone, and seeing shit that doesn't exist, I don't see how any of this is enlightenment. And I'm sorry. Truly. I might be looking at strands of human DNA, I might be unraveling some ancient mystery about the psyche, about myself, about my perceptions of the world. But, why the hallucinations? I think I could have done just as well, if not better, without them. They do nothing but illuminate the world with a gloomy sense. They're never fun to talk to. They usually just talk back, anyway. So fuck them.

    Hey, wouldn't that be hilarious if the only conclusion I got out of all this, was that I shouldn't worry about shit as much? That would be quite trippy. And hilarious. Okay, I'm trying to engrain that in to my head right now, but... yeah, at the moment, I'm still etching in "Do not use 5-MeO-anything ever again" in huge letters. It could take a while to get this monument done, yeah.

    I feel that, maybe I am not coming down, but that I am learning a good strategy for coping with this trip, seeing as it's definitely been settling down. Who the fuck knows.

    No more hallucinogens for me!!!!

    It will definitely be a long time before I use AMT or any powerful hallucinogens again. I will dose again, though, another day, and force myself to look at these images, to feel the words, that I am coming up with today, as I write. When disconnected, people are so much more capable of making objective decisions about standards. (Much like the Kantian philosophy preached -- to observe every social issue from the third party.) The worst thing you can get from a drug, these hallucinations, you know, they're not that bad, once you give them names and understand their behaviors. It just... takes a certain degree of becoming accustomed.... to insanity.

    Wow, in judging my own actions, I usually draw upon the standards of others. Maybe, what I need to do more, is to judge my actions, based upon my own standards -- you know, be the independent ruler of my own mind!

    Fuckin' A, it looks like a wind swept in to the room and is blowing everything around, first fast paced, and then slowy, and back again. Shit just seems to be tilting in every motherfuckin' direction. I cannot want a better life for anyone -- everyone must better their lives out of their own initiative and willpower. So, I'm so fuckin' high.......I wonder if I can just think this away.

    I almost feel as though I have failed on some elemental, quintesequatial part of my being, that I wasn't capable of containing the trip, I allowed it to get me so high to wake someone up so I can gain control. But, I think of this emotion coming to mind, and I start to think that I've been letting my actions be guided by this false principle -- by this fear, of the, to-happen, .. Yes. I said something was broken all right.

    Oh, nice, this document is nearing 30k. 30 fuckin' K of some wingnut go off on random subjects and going to random directions, under the use of some of the world's arguably most powerful substances: the psychedelics. Yes, I let the to-happen guide me all too often in the decisions I've taken in this life, and I need to let that slide more often. After all, I am only human, but I am not the creation of designer or creator, but simple and probably very fallible.

    sunday, april 24, 2005, 5-MeO-AMT


    I have sobered up. Perhaps, then, I could probably give a much more detailed, thorough description of the thing that just happened to me. Initially, I was ramping: using small doses, continually, until I had reached a state of pure ecstacy and enlightenment. As far as trips go, I prefer to go right to the fuckin' edge, so I can look down the edge of the cliff and still feel comfortable -- so I could receive the wisdom that comes with a several hours of no doors or walls. Last night, I just went about 100 yards passed that point. I lost everything. I laid in my bed, and looked to the ceiling. A hole large, 4 by 4 foot hole appeared; beyond it, there was a blue sky, and the most bright sun I have yet seen. I have seen god walk in to my room, drapped in the most hippy uniform, awkwardly based on the painting patterns on the wall. It very much looked liked something from a Salvador Dali painting. As I walked through my room, I could hear voices, songs. When I neared one part of the room, one song would start up by the Weakerthans, but when I walked to the other, a different one started. (Of course, an actual song by the Weakerthans WAS playing, but I was constantly misidentifying it.) The reason why I had seen the terror was because of a achieving a state of simply "too fucked up-ed-ness." I was losing the ability to decipher what was a hallucination and what was not. I wasn't sure, that when I was hearing neighbors in the yard next door, exchange words, I wasn't sure what I was hearing. There would be babbling, and then a clear sentence, "No, that's not what I mean, and you know it," and then more babbling, and then, "I'll pay you back!" I almost felt afraid that they were talking about me. That voice in your head, that directs your thoughts, had become the voice of someone completely unfamiliar to me. I heard it, and it sounded like a demon. I could not control what thoughts entered in to mind, so I sang along with each song that came on. There was a very real fear in my heart that everything I was looking at was a hallucination, and in the real world, I was laying on my back, asphyxiating on vomit. I couldn't think. When I asked a friend to help me through this, I said, "I don't know, should I eat? Should I drink? Should I do what my body tells me to do?" He told me, "Sure, if you want to throw up, then throw up. If not, then don't." I replied, "Should I throw up? Am I supposed to be throwing up?" In the words of Hunter S. Thompson, "You've gone completely sideways."

    At the end of the experience, when I had finally sobered up, I started to believe (and I'm still convinced of this), that I am not the person who inhabits this body. The memories of my previous life, my real life, must have been wiped away, and the human being that I am now, who for the past day has been operating on behavior roles to obtain what he needed as a human, I am convinced that the person I am not is not who I really am. Maybe an interesting, philosophical, intellectual, witty, and anti-social revolutionary of sorts. But I feel that there was an extremely painful transference of my previous life to this one.

    Insane is one word for it. But psychologists would call it "experimental psychosis."



    "What's cooking?" -- "Heroin!"

         The Matter at Hand


         It has always been mine quest to use psychedelic drugs as a means of exploring the deeper and darker parts of my psyche. When I first used psychedelic drugs (interestingly, also my first use of drugs ever), it was Dextromethorphan, a drug that we have affectionately called DXM. I remember feeling as though someone had dropped a bomb on my brain, as though all the rules and regulations that necessarily do control the way I interact with the world and other people -- as if all the rules and regulations had been suspended. I remember laying on my back, against the brick sidewalks of Boston, watching the gulls pass overhead, in no particular order, as the sun was slowly setting. I felt completely anesthesized, and I remember seeing an ambulence parked at Harvard Square, where all of us young kids were hanging out and (apparently) getting high and wasted. The paramedics had their gloved hands folded, politely exchanging brief conversation, as they watched the children play nonchalantly. I remember thinking that the whole situation was particularly odd. But, then again, when it feels like you've left your brain in a blender, accidentally turned it, and then tried to put it back in -- perception tends to disintegrate.

         At the moment, I am at an unfortunate situation, a moment in life where I am filled with the emotions of discontent and confusion. Hopefully, the Salvia Divinorum (dried leaf) I smoked will help to loosen up those parts of the brain that are so forged on habits that lead me to misery. Once loose, I can manipulate, alter, remove, destroy, replace these sub-conscience psychological structures, those that form the basis for my decision-making, my judgment, my opinion of self (ego), my opinion of others, etc., etc.. These hidden, sub-conscience psychological structures are the foundation to the way so many people behave and act. They are the hidden mechanics that are hard at work when a person creates something that sociologists have called "behavior." As wisdom has it, it is not responding and reacting like a conscious being that gives you consciousness -- it is the act of thought; yes, it is still a strange and mysterious principle.

         What is the unfortunate malady that I am currently suffering? Well, I feel like I have lost my confidence and ability to introduce myself to strangers. It almost feels humiliating, that through my writing and my essays, my strong declarations of individuality and freedom and liberty, through all of this, I still lack one of the most basic elements of being human: that of being able to walk up to a random and unknown girl, and to introduce myself to her. There was once a time, when I was a little younger, a little more naive, maybe a little more dedicated to revolution, that I would scoff at all social policy, at all social etiquette, at the rules and tariffs that are imposed in this game of society. I still do. I feel that a great deal needs to be reformed, or at least revolutionized. At the moment, it seems that this problem is rather depressing, for at the same time that I am lonely, I feel like I hate all the people around me before I know them. This comes from disappointment after disappointment, in myself and in my friends, how I notice the same characteristic hope in achieve in other people that I once had (when, in fact, my hope might have been too liberal with the truth of the matter). There was one moment, in my mockery of social rules, that I hoped I would make a society through my writing, from fans and mutual acquiantances of fans, lovers of my work, that we could combine and work together for better goals in ourselves and others. This ideal appealed to me, because it would be simple and I wouldn't have to grow and develop through any awkward or straining mental change.

         So, I think it is sufficient to say, the way that I interact with other people around me has always been something that was underdeveloped. This did not start in high school or junior high school, when I was becoming a publicly declared non-conformist, where I separated myself from the majority of all society. This did not start with a firm conviction that Capitalism has done nothing for the masses, nor the idea that it is inhumane to slaughter animals for their flesh, nor did it start with the conclusion that sexuality will blossom only with freedom. Yes, it was these actions in my recent past that have led me to my present condition. There is no doubt about that. However, these actions I took in high school that have made me feel as though I was a separate part of society, and not just another organ to the same body, these actions started much earlier in my childhood.

         As a very young child, I grew fond and affectionate of childhood heroes, of the Ninja Turtles, of all those television programs that showed some mysterious, dark actor undoing some injustice through unliked means. Not so oddly, I grew up to become a revolutionary on behalf of a political philosophy that few understand and fewer accept. Beyond that, I became an expert at Nintendo and Sega, often times, preferring to spend time alone in my room with a gaming system, instead of with others. While other children spent their time so frequently going over each other's houses, attending events, and all that other nonsense, I was alone gaming, neurons in my brain making enormous leaps and conquering unbelievable feets. It has always seemed that my gaming ability was considerably above par, even when I was new to a game and found myself beating those who spent years mastering it.

         So, it does seem that my socialibility has always been underdeveloped, and I don't think this statement is what many humans have called "making excuses for." I genuinely believe that this is the cause of the present condition at hand. So, a cause is understood. The cure is not quite so readily available. To help direct my mind in the right direction, I think I shall recite those memory cells that describe a time where I once had an improved socialibility.

         The first of those times, I shall recur as my experience in New Orleans. I was in a very different place, a very different surrounding, with no means to support myself. As a matter of neccesity, I needed to make allies. I found many good friends there, went through many interesting experiences, but in the end, I felt that all that was good out of that city was done, and that it was time for me to leave. Perhaps that was true, or perhaps, it was my socialibility reverting back to a previous nature. I felt as though I was not meeting any new or interesting people, anyone worth knowing as a friend or lover.

         The second of those times, I shall call my experience in college. It was a very new atmosphere, and at first, I was withdrawn, out of the crowd, unwilling to make new friends. However, some approached me, and I became their allies and long-trusted brothers. My response to this was to become my own active agent of society. Often times out of matter of "social experimentation" or "helping others see what a farce we live in our day-to-day existence," I would walk up to random girls, and explain some innocent or naive feeling: "I think you're beautiful," or "We should have sex," or "Can I kiss you?" Out of these things, I would introduce myself to new girls and (often) get rejected. Despite the fact that I was routinely being rejected as a sexual encounter (yeah, with all my wit), I was very satisfied with that status quo, with the situation at hand. It was mostly because I had become an agent of my own will, and those barriers and hindrances that are common to the daily lot of people were unknown to me, that I had elevated myself to some supreme level of human social existence, and was satisfied with it. But now, it feels as though I have reverted back to my own nature.

         When thinking of the college or homeless situations, I think that there was almost unifying factors in both cases. On the streets, I identified with other kids as "the other homeless people who go to the same feedings as me," and in school, I identified with other kids as "the other students that attend these classes and fuckin' hate homework." It was natural, in my understanding, to communicate with these other individuals, so I did. But now, it feels as though I am an isolated person. In college, I felt that I had reached a supreme social level by being able to communicate my desires with others, but now, I feel that it was the sense of "separation from society" that has along been a burden to my development of socialibility. Just being another part of society is not enough to merit the confidence necessary to start a (possibly awkward) conversation with a stranger.

         I've been begging some girls I know from the US to come visit me, and I've felt that as always been a sort of lameness. But, that's not quite it. I simply want to get around something that seems bothersome to hit direct on, and underneath my hopes of a hot girl knocking on my door, I've always known this. The fact is that, no matter what my underdevelopment of social skills, I am here now, in this city of Portland, and I should understand that any kind of person could be holding any kind of personality, so to make myself available to everyone. And, regardless of the origin of my failing confidence to meet new people, I need to, as a means of acquiring happiness and peace for myself. There is no way to skip this phase of human development. It is something that I need to hit directly head on. It is something... that is simply waiting for me to come at it. Until them, I am wasting time.



    "They're going to give me a uniform at my job, right?"

    "Yeah, why?"

    "Good, so I can go in looking like crap for the interview, right?"

    "Well, define crap."

    "Violating only a few of the public decency laws."

         The Fact Has Always Been


    The fact has always been that I never wanted to grow up. I never wanted to face awkward social situations or "relationships with a twist." I looked to the day I started buying laundry detergent with fear and hatred. What I always wanted to do was act like an unconscious fool at a party all the time, always saying what I thought, always saying what I felt. I didn't want to turn in to those people who allowed their emotions to control their reason, who allowed an entire inhuman society control the way that they look and feel about others. Ultimately, I wanted to always build my website, to always be writing, to create controversy and discussion by my words. I wanted a career out of changing opinions, a method of income by doing what I loved most. I reached, I stretched, I submitted novels to publishers, I read rejection letters with loathing, I pushed, I shuved, I screamed. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I failed at making a living out of the thing that I loved the most. I always wanted writing to be the greatest part of my life: in providing income for myself, in challenging my creative talents, in changing the world around me, in fulfilling some sort of ethical obligation, in making history. But, it failed to do the most simple and primary of those: income. It managed to succeed a great deal, and show great promise, for the other interests I have. But, alas, I almost feel quite positively that I cannot push it further in the direction of creating income. This sadness comes at the fact that I have found a new way of life that promises marginal income. My response is this: what, then, do I do with this old website hobby -- this thing that I have promised to myself over and over in the trenches, that I would return to and nurture? I don't think I'll be able to push it as far as I'd, to make powerful, gigantic strides the way I have always hoped. Perhaps, though... This is just another break from being Punkerslut. Perhaps, after five years of steady and mountainous income, I will be able to throw off that profession, and spend all my time with this website, this thing that I had always wanted to advance.

    Maybe I should accept that. After all, Einstein created wealth for himself as a patent clerk, that he might one day spend all of his hours creating. Many authors, novelists, revolutionaries, poets, all of them can offer the same arguments. Some people spent over three decades in prison so that they could end their life in creating world peace. Perhaps I am impatient, and should wait longer for my website to create wealth, before I go diving in to this new profession. Perhaps my new profession is opening up a new path for my life. Perhaps I'm just having difficulty in letting go of the past -- perhaps, I need to leave behind these phrases of "I will return, until then, I shall wait," and I need to pick up some new words, like, "There is a time and place for everything. But, it is always the time to live, and never the time to die." My interest in political reform/revolution has been consistent throughout the years. And my interest in convincing other people to change the world has always been consistent. And, I always wanted to express this interest with my website. It sometimes feels, though, like I'll never get back to that habit of spending 12 hours a day, submitting essays to magazines, talking to people, writing new pieces, reading ancient literature, gathering research... maybe when I left my parents' house, I should have thought that it would take longer than just a week or two to get back in to my normal habit of maintaining my website. Perhaps, like the people around me who have been succesful in my eyes, I need to let go of some things for now, and move forward in my own life.

    For Life,
    Punkerslut (always)

    ... why is it that I must either be at this new profession, or I must either be a hacker? Why is it that I must either be at a new profession while waiting to return to another life (a life on hold), or at a full life with happiness and security and contentness? I ask these questions to myself, finally reaching and grasping parts of my subconscience that wanted to remain dormant for years, and I start to think that I've been falling victim to the same patterns of life for years. I look at myself, the actions I've taken, the systems I created to help me, only to take over my life, and I start to believe that I need to let these things go, release them, because these questions (about whether it is time to live or time to die) are completely ruining parts of my life that could otherwise be beautiful and pleasant. And, ultimately again, we will all one day die. If I died tomorrow, and I could say a few words about the weeks of life before I died, I would say that I died struggling. This... is not a good outcome.

    But, then, without spending all of my time researching, learning, improving myself and those around me, I won't be able to learn life's most hidden and dark secrets. I won't be able to learn the exact specifications that create a person's sexuality; I won't be able to learn about every South American psychoactive and its potential to be used in Western medicine; I won't be able to learn the arguments from Aquinas himself and then use them against Christianity. I won't be able to do these things, and I've always dreamed about it. And then, finally, publishing my results. With my new profession, these things will be very difficult to obtain. Or, perhaps, I'm looking at this thing all wrong.

    I always treated my website as my sole purpose, my primary end. Perhaps I need to change that. Perhaps, I must learn to call it a hobby, a way for me to speak out to the world, a small little helper in defense of everyone's personal revolution. And, I need to learn to treat my new job, my new career, as an ultimate end. Perhaps that is it. I do not know. I am unsure. Maybe it's just that, I don't need to call this a temporary break from my website, my one life's ultimate devotion; maybe I need to call this a permanent break from calling my website my ultimate end. I'm almost scared that this means I don't care about progressive politics any more, when I am certainly much more fierce and adament about the political sphere today than I was several years ago. Sadly, it might just turn in to one of those things I tell to friends in the future, "Hey, way back in the day, I did this cool thing, yeah, I got so in to it..." I think of this future and I become saddened.

    I think it's just, while I might put my website on break, I can't, and shouldn't ever, put my life on break. I must go on, learning, changing, evolving, adaptating, for my own good. In order to make my own life better at this point, I must be willing to put myself in a lot of situations that will make myself very uncomfortable. And I need to deal with that. I think I will be able to, though. I've been evolving and adaptating ever since I learned to speak. This is just another step in the process of life for me.

    I really would like to have been able to be that writer, that revolutionary, to have my activity support me. But, this new profession I've discovered, which has already secured for me income, promises many rewarding experiences, and a way to help the cause significantly. I just can't go on living life unless I leave the past.

         Love is Coding


    scanf("%s", TellMeWhatToBelieve);

    love = TellMeWhatToBelieve;

    if(love == "true")

         printf("Then maybe I need someone to teach me "

          "some new ways about living like I am already dead.");

    if(love == "false")

         printf("Nothing new, nothing old... "

          "Just a continuation.")


    if(strcmp(love, "living like death") == 0)

    printf("I'm sitting in a bar, having someone explain to me what blue balls means, and I start to wonder where life went...");

         My Insane Self to my Sober Self


         As a man who is now in a deep and hidden complex within the human brain, now that I have tapped in to the energy of a mind that has no closed doors (nor walls, even), I feel as though I would like to leave a message for my sober self. There are revelations, thoughts, emotions, that can be described with words, and make the speaker of these words confident. But once we feel our message is complete, our thoughts wrestle and tear with each other, and we soon start to believe that these words, these simple and elegant words of wisdom, all of them are insufficient to properly explain the meaning of our intent. When I look to my sober (and "reasonably-minded") self, when I look in to the habits of life that have burdened my spirit, the preconceived ideas of misfortune looming around every corner, when I look to this person, there are so many simple and useful ideas I can offer to him. But, I feel these words alone are not adequate to the task.

         I will grab him and say, "Everyday is just another day closer to your goals and as you're working towards creating a better world, for yourself and for others, you are getting closer and closer to your goals." I see these words and believe them now. I savor them as though reminiscing about a poem by Shelley. I want to tell him that love is something that just happens, there is never a season when it is in and there is never a season when it is out; I want to tell him that life is and always has been its own reason -- the labor and thought of a single day are not solely so that days can keep coming, they are for that day as much as they are for the days ahead. There can never be 12 hour shifts and no overtime pay for one week and the next week is being strung out on heroin, alcohol, and Marijuana. Everytime is the time for self-enjoyment as much as it is time for labor. The two ought to be mixed. The moment we have achieved a several hour rush in working towards life's goals, I should relax, either by use of mildly hallucinogenic drugs or watching a movie (taking a moment to appreciate myself). I look back to my sober self, the self I was before I decided to take this journey, I look back and I want to say, "This doubt and skepticism you keep having, about whether it is the moment for you to live, or the moment for you to die, this doubt and skepticism need to go." I would encourage myself, let him know that there is so much work that can be done, and so many goals that can be realized with this.

         "The only thing you really need to know, is that these things you feel are real to you, and in that alone, does it make them mean something. Forever." I speak these words now, today, while I look to my old self -- looking strong and feeling weak, always speaking on his way out, and I feel these words completely. I know, with an undying intensity, that these words are true, they are real, they satisfy the evidence at hand. I speak these things to my old self, and I feel that I haven't accomplished them, and I feel, more importantly, that my old self will simply not understand the language -- it will be a dialect to a foreign tongue.

         I write these words in an essay, in the hopes that maybe by writing them down, I will find myself rediscovering them once sobriety has taken root again. I suppose that is the writing process in itself: to reenact the experiences I have in to different positions, and knowing what I know about the human personality, I will be able to create a fantasy exchange that holds a universal meaning, something that anyone can relate to and say, "I have had those feelings; I understand their connection to real world matters."

         As of late, I've been living life as though it were a side effect, as though everything I did (labor or pleasure) was simply a part of a play put on, as though these actions and exchanges I share with others are not meaningful in any contemplation of the terms. I can hear a sarcastic voice in the background of all this writing, a sober self speaking, "Well, what have you learned from your trip? There is still so much to be done." Yes, brother, but know this: you have satisfied a desire, an urge, an impulse, that would have otherwise consumed you in misery and displeasure. This is not the ending of a long life of drug-balanced moods, but the beginning to a long and enduring prosperation of this.

         I look back to the ways I created in the past, to the relationships I forged, to the understandings I would create about the world around me, I see and feel all of this, my fingers toss through the texture of this, and I need my sober self to realize that. He must realize that we are creating and involving. And to get fuckin' inside this human process.

         I did this for a reason. I intoxicated my mind with a substance known as a hallucinogen. I look at my actions, like any philosophical mind, I want to know why I did this. There is intoxication; that is to say, there is a high, a feeling of enjoyment, an immediate sense of pleasure -- all of the other things that are associated with illicit drug use. There is no doubt to that. However, there are some otherwise not-so-immediately noticable effects. Tomorrow, my physical body will be sore, my emotional remnants still placing themselves together, and my mind will still be arguing with itself over what's real and what was a hallucination, what was a genuine fact or an actual paradigm. But, will I be different? That seems to be the point to all this. Why would I ever be interested in feeling like I lost everything that made up my basic thought processes -- what would be the point in feeling like my spirit was being stretched out endless -- what would be the point in the merciless hallucinations? Would they serve any purpose, or is this simply a goal of self-inebriation? Am I simply activating and deactivating random parts of my brain for the sole sake of self-destruction, or is there truly a method to all this madness?

         Like I said, there is a high to the feeling of tripping, but what exactly is our attraction to it? That is to ask, what exactly is it that attracts so-called "mind-expanding" people to this set of chemicals? An uneducated mind would look to the behaviors of a person on hallucinogens and, if a conservative man, would probably say, "Thinking he's seen ghosts or demons, thinking he himself is a demon or a god or a succubus, and then simply hearing the voice of god -- the only reason why psychedelic drug users feel this gives them meaning is because of the visions of false prophets." He will attribute that there is no actual meaning or actual purpose; LSD and related chemicals inebriate their users, and that is always the sole purpose of any drug. These LSD users can't possible be out seeking self-realization. They will agree with themselves over and over if the issue isn't agreed upon. The question has always been, "In what way can people better themselves by hallucinogens?" The question has never been: "Have the psychedelic drugs done anything to harm us?" There are absolutely no addiction stories about LSD. There are no terrible tales of being strung out, withdrawal symptoms, and stealing from friends to get high.

         The reason why I feel unsatisfied with myself right now is because for the longest time, I've been chasing a state of happiness and peace that has always seemed to be within my reach. And it feels like I've been chasing this place for a very long time, set back so often, the traveling directions changing all the time, everything a fleeting and fickle plan to become happy, while in the meantime, I am stuck in some shitty sadsville. What I need my sober self to realize is that there is neither. Everytime is the time for now. But, don't make that out to be: tomorrow time is fucked. That is simply a rule and a lesson I have learned. And I will use everything I know to get me as far as I can in this quest.

         There are now feelings that make these words mean something. "There is a purpose in life, follow it," now actually means something, besides a snobby relative.



    I would treat men who regard women as trophies no different than I treat men who regard intoxication as a title.

    It is admitted by all men of sense that crime is caused by poverty, and that the two go together -- without one, the other could not exist.

    They will call drug abuse a crime when I speak of it as a disease, but when the issue comes to poverty, both of our positions are reversed. I say it is a crime, when they speak of it solely as a disease, as a thing to be treated not cured, as a target of rhetoric and propaganda.

         My Life As It Is


         My life is shadowed. I'm starting to notice my own behavior patterns -- a confused god looking down on his own creation. I want to be free. It feels almost like I am reaching that ideal a little bit each day. I started to use heroin regularly. And, like everything else that I became apart of, like everything else that provided me with happiness and security and peace, regardless of how much it is looked down upon by society, I am proud of it. In the distorted world of politics, I alligned myself with Vegetarians, Anarchists, Communists, just about every sort of group whose sole objective was to liberate, even if we were up against an enormous machine. A political ideology was not enough to be looked down upon. I am a nerd. Even in to my adulthood, I love computer games. I love programming. And now, I love heroin. I use it once every three months. The emotions it can bring out are reminiscent of psychedelic drugs. I'm responsible about its use, the way I have been responsible about all drug use. So it happens, I am a computer nerd, with amphetamine dreams and heroin realities, a few repressed memories from childhood, and a lot of reasons to think that falling in love right now would be the best thing for me.

         The New Years Revolution of 2005


         The idea of having a commune in which friends and comrades of the same ideology can congregate and give support to each other is a well-regarded idea in the underground. However, as we all have noted, as we all have discovered in the pieces and writings of past authors, a commune can easily fall victim to the same illnesses and diseases that governments and states do. In these situations, the commune becomes a place that is not without the abuse and the violence of corrupt dictatorships. It is full of vice, of misery, of some form of slavery or another. In essence, it takes on the form of Capitalist and ruler -- the two greatest exploiters that have joined hands since the dawn of time. In some communes, the illness of the organization is caused when the head of the household assigns chores and duties to be performed by the lower members, without their consent. In others, it is the head of the household becoming drunk with power and using their power to create unhealthy rules and regulations. Essentially, the primary cause of a failing commune is lack of Democracy -- that is to say, when the power of the household is held within the hands of one person who has absolute say over others.

         In the commune that I am currently a part of, we are not even bound by ideological similarities. We are bound by similar views, all of us admittedly Leftists, but the greatest drawing power is a common bond, a friendship, and the prospect of keeping rent below $200 per person. However, as I have noted in the past to my other commune members, it seemed that there was a deterioration in the quality of the community. It seemed to be stemming from the head of the household, a female I have known for over two years by the name of Stray. Her name was on the lease of the house and we all paid in cash. There was no written contract, just a verbal consent. The trade-off to those of us looking for low rent was a price of $100 to $150, depending on how many people were there at a given time. Legally, she had complete control over the household. Absolute authority. There were many times when I would remark to my fellow housemates that authority corrupts the best, and the only reason why the house was doomed was the simple fact that the fish was rotting at the head.

         There were times when Stray would throw out housemates over very simple disagreements, not whether the housemates were threats to other housemates or whether they posed a threat to the house, or didn't pay rent, etc., etc.. She started to pass legislation over the house that had no logic and no reasoning. For example, Marijuana smoking was banned in the living room for two months, because the people there who smoked weed were on her shitlist. And then, when someone offered her any resistance or had any disagreement with her, there was the looming, potential of being thrown out. There was no lease, no written contract, no real way to prove that we had a right to be living there, except the very circumstantial verbal contract. In one case, she had threatened indirectly to kick me out back on to the streets. She had this habit of telling everyone but the person involved about her thoughts on certain things -- which led to bullshit piling up very fast.

         Some of the recent rulings by her were particularly stupid. She admitted to taking rent money to buy stuff, with the promise of paying it back. Also, one of the housemates who was in a polyamorous relationship with Stray had another girlfriend -- that Stray banned from the house over simple jealousy. I confronted Stray about that, only to be disagreed with. I felt a little more uneasy about the whole situation. In another situation, she disallowed us from having extremely alcoholic parties when she was absent. She had to be involved. Yes, my dear readers, this is where I have been living. Needless to say, an underground started to swell. I fuelled the fire by spreading ideas of a mass emigration to another building to rent, arguing that what was being done simply sucked and was antagonistic to all of our interests.

         Tonight, though, Stray's boyfriend had broken up with her. She kept throwing advances at him and trying to get back together, but he was very much done with her. I remember waking up at about 3:30 AM, hearing screaming and fighting in their room. I heard her boyfriend scream out, "Someone call the police!" in the middle of the rumbling. I got up, grabbed the phone, and disappeared outside where I dialed 9-1-1. As I was talking to the operator, saying, "There's a Domestic Disturbance, and I'm not sure which member is at fault," I saw Stray's boyfriend bolt out of the house as Stray threw a wine bottle at him, missing, and shattering, and then another, also missing and shattering. The wine bottle was one inch thick glass -- very capable of killing someone. Hearing these, the operator told me not to get involved. As I learned later, she also threw glass ashtrays at other housemates, and kicked another housemate in the stomach. One of the housemates tackled Stray, and managed to pull her off of him -- she had managed to rip out a sizable chunk of his hair. Her boyfriend was very injured: he managed two deep scrapes on his forehead, a bleeding bite wound on his hand, deep scratches on his back, and cuts all over his chest. As she left the house, he yelled out, "Fuckin' have fun when the cops arrive!" She took off on her bike, stopping for a moment to spit on him. She was drunk as fuck off of three bottles of wine.

         The police arrived, took formal statements and police reports from several of the housemates, and quickly apprehended Stray, who was under arrest. At first, the house seemed to be in shock. One of the housemates said, "I want nothing to do with this house, I just want to leave as soon as I can." The boyfriend who was assaulted said, "I need to leave this place behind forever." It seemed that hopelessness loomed on the horizon, when I brought up the following idea... "It's quite clear that she posed a physical threat to other housemates. We simply need to confront the landlord to change the name on the lease." Nobody wanted to take that responsibility, so I offered to do it, and several other housemates agreed to be on the lease. I convinced the boyfriend to call the District Attorney and press charges (at first, he didn't want to), and several of us are in the process of getting restraining orders -- which, effectively, would prevent her from even coming to a house that is in her own name. With all of this, the landlord will assuredly grant a change of lease name. What else could he do? The one person on the lease is in jail and not allowed on the property.

         Honestly, I really wanted to write this article because it felt like it was necessary to get it out of my system. However, there are some lessons to be learned here. Those who do not destroy power are destroyed by power. We are now in the process of relegislating the house. Drugs are permitted once again to reign free. Several people will be on the lease, to spread out the legal power of the technical authorities. All the old rules were immediately stricken down. As I said, "And the peasants rejoiced and danced, for they were free again." We will also be giving more power to other housemates not on the lease, by giving receipts in exchange for rent. And, also, the house will be clean. Since it was Stray who was responsible for almost all the messes, with the argument that "it was her house, etc.," now it will be clean. As you can clearly see, some positive changes have happened here, in our New Years Revolution of 2005. Please, take to heart the lessons we have painfully learned. Power corrupts the best.

         Punkerslut's Old Writings


    Ah, yes! The great humanitarians have come to have a scholarly debate concerning the placement of the human! The greatest of all animals - the one who has managed to cause the most death and suffering to its own and other species - is placed at the center according to popular opinion.

    Let me declare that if sentience has any value, if the capability of suffering overrides other attributes, if the ability to think deserves value, then all who claim that humans are special are fools by little estimation. The great Humanist movement holds an equal respect as does the White Pride movement, if my opinion is to warrant any considerable respect. I am no Secular Humanist; I am a Secular Animalist!

    An Animal is slaughtered for food, clothing, whatnot. The reasons, always the same: self interest. The justifications, always various. A cow is enslaved today much for the same reasons an African human was enslaved two centuries ago. African humans were enslaved because they had black skin. Non-human animals today are enslaved because they are born with four legs and not two legs; they are born with paws or hooves and not hands; the are born with wings or fins and not arms. They are discriminated against because of arbitrary, physical characteristics. And on these grounds, billions are slaughtered! I sincerely believe that a white man and a black man are both capable of feeling suffering and desire. If skin color cannot be properly used to seperate moral agents, on what grounds may one claim as such on quantity of legs, how one travels, or if one makes moo sounds - on grounds of mere classification of species! I am no animal lover and I deny all allegations as such. Would anyone call an anti-Racist a nigger lover?

    Non-human animals are capable of feeling all the pains and joys as any human being! To kill and consume their bodies an account that it pleases your tongue is morally frightening! If a human is killed or slaughtered, it would be a crime by law. But if an animal is killed - for whatever reasons: experiments, hunting, factory farming, etc. - it is viewed not as a horrendous thing, but as a trophy of our superiority! My Godlessness... No wonder Henry Salt, the great Animal Liberationist, named his Autobiography "Seventy Years Among Savages!"

    I do not believe that a moral line rests between white humans and black humans. Nor do I believe that a moral line rests between humans and non-humans. I place moral value in one place: sentience, the capability of suffering. If one is a male or female, white or black, human or subhuman, I am indifferent. These are not qualities anyone should search for if they wish to be fairly giving out the rights to life and liberty. There is only one thing which should be a trait in determining who deserves the right to life and liberty. This trait is sentience, the capability of suffering. Humans and non-human animals are both sentient beings. How petty one must be a Racist, and how petty one must also be to be a Speciesist!

    There is only one level of moral regard: sentience, consciousness... Man is no more supreme over non-humans than a white man can declare he is supreme over a black man! How arrogant any human may be to think so!

    Of course, there are the "arguments" for unjustified murder, slaughter of innocents, genocide...

    "Animals consume each other," - Aye, but salamanders are cannibals and primates are known to steal food from each other. Ought we imitate these actions as well? I think not!
    "Taste," - Does an orgasm justify rape?
    "Plants;" - They are not sentient. They are outside the realm of moral inquiry.
    "Intelligence matters," - May we consume infants, the insane, the senile simply because they have a low IQ? How conviently ignorant one is when they selectively choose a trait that they inhibit and matters not! Judge not on male/female, white/black, and definitely not on intelligent/stupid.

    Of course, there is the God argument. Not only is the justification that God created animals for our food so perfect a justification for eating meat. It is the perfect justification for Atheism! What does your God say about slaves?

    EXODUS 21
    20 "If a man beats his male or female slave with a rod and the slave dies as a direct result, he must be punished,
    21 but he is not to be punished if the slave gets up after a day or two, since the slave is his property.

    How kind and compassionate your God must be to admit such a law!

    Amos 3:6 reads, "Does evil befall a city unless the Lord has done it." Lamentations 3:38 reads, "Is it not from the mouth of the Most High that good and evil come?" Isaiah 45:6-7 reads, "And God said 'I am the lord, there is no other.... I make weal and create woe, I am the lord who do all these things." In Joshua 6:21, God utterly destroyed all in the city, both men and women, young and old, oxen, sheep, and asses, with the edge of the sword. In Chapter 31 of Numbers, Mosses was displeased that his army took prisoners from a village instead of brutally killing them all and gave the following order: "Now therefore, kill every male among the little ones, and kill every women who has known man by lying with him. But all the young girls who have not known man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves!" In 2 Samuel 24:1, God killed 70,000 people because David took a census of them. In 2 Kings 2:23-24, God sent 2 bears to rip apart 42 children for making fun of a prophet. God killed the first-born of every Egyptian family in Exodus 12:29. Perhaps the verse that sets the whole tone through the rest of the novel called the Bible is the following...

    Genesis 3:16 - To the woman he [God] said, "I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you."

    What God says and does only makes him less deserving of worship. When Lincoln freed the slaves, he was undermining God's authority. When Susan B. Anthony, an Agnostic, fought for women's rights to vote, she undercut the principles of Sexism in the Bible. When Thomas Paine fought for independence and abolitionism, he was disregarding (and spitting on in "The Age of Reason") the Holy Bible. What have we seen from history? MORAL REFORM IS IN THE HANDS OF THE ANTICHRIST!!!!

    There are few arguments that can be used to justify slavery of non-humans. One may shift the existence of sentience from animal to plant and whatnot. Animals are sentient beings, they feel pain. Charles Darwin wrote "The Expression of the Emotions of Man and Animals." Much of it still holds true today. Plants have no nervous system, thus no sentience. That is no philosophical argument. It was a scientific one. The only way one may justify slavery of non-humans is to either admit the complete nonexistence of an Objective Morality or to justly draw a line that can rest between humans and non-humans, but not between white humans and black humans. Concerning the existence of an Objective Morality, it would be much too time consuming to describe in this thread.

    In closing, let me state that sentience is the only thing which deserves any value. If looking for skin color is unjust, then looking for Species must also be unjust.

    "Racists violate the principle of equality by giving greater weight to the interests of members of their own race when there is a clash between their interests and the interests of those of another race. Sexists violate the principle of equality by favoring the interests of their own sex. Similarly, speciesists allow the interests of their own species to override the greater interests of members of other species. The pattern is identical in each case." - Peter Singer, Animal Liberation, page 9, by Peter Singer

    "I want YOU to join the ALF today!"

         Economic Theory


    Collective Ownership of the Means of Production

         "...even when a hundred workmen are dismissed, that the work may be done with one by means of machinery, the goods are not reduced to the hundredth part of their price." In 1815, Simonde de Sismondi offered this eloquent idea to the field of economics. As evidence, he pointed to the stocking-frame, a device that economized labor almost in this proportion. He further states, "Notwithstanding the invention of large mills for spinning wool, silk, cotton, women continue to be employed in spinning with the wheel, or even with the distaff." [*1] Even though society is more capable of producing and satisfying its own needs, the economy is never directed towards the interests of society's members. The methods of growth, the infrastructure, and fabric of the economy, all of this is directed towards maximizing the interests of a small few.

         The principle of Socialism is simple. An economy driven by the interest of profit will only create an unjust and inhumane distribution of wealth. The economy must be driven in the interest of the people if there is to be any true social justice. This theory of economics is in complete contradiction to that of Capitalism. The proponents of the Free Enterprise system argue that each individual seeking their own self-interest can only result in greater prosperity for the whole. When an owner of business seeks to increase their profit, does this translate to nothing more than a reduction of payroll or an increase of price? The community is burdened by this self-interest. Counter to this force, there is the self-interest of the consumer and the worker. Every member of the community is outweighed in the ability to influence economic exchanges when compared to the lords of industry. The laborer's price is usually determined by the learing threat of hunger, a threat that isn't so real to the industrialist. The purchaser of goods must face a system of distribution dominated by the capitalist class. In their competition with each other, the prices of their goods cannot fall below their cost of business. And so, the economy is maintained by self-interest, but its end result does not benefit society.

         Society's ability of production will always grow at a rate greater than its ability to provide for all of its members. Human behavior has allowed no other trends to come from Capitalism, whether organized by private entrepeneurs or a bureaucratic and oligarchical state. If people are better capable of providing for themselves, by the economy of their technology and organization, then why would the total, distributed product be less? This question will demonstrate some of the essential differences between an economy driven for the interests of profit and one driven for the interests of the people. Quoting a social scientist of the ninteenth century...

    There is a nail association, which at the beginning of the year advanced prices ten cents a keg. Last November it ordered a suspension of the nail machines for five weeks, to the great distress of eight thousand workmen, who are also machines-self-feeders.


    The whiskey distillers’ pool is a combination of all the distillers north of the Ohio River from Pittsburg to the Pacific Ocean. It regulates production, export, and prices. Its success at Washington, in securing legislation several years ago granting whiskey-makers the privilege, given to no other tax-payer, of a postponement of the time for payment of taxes, is a significant reminder of Trajan's saying. The demand for whiskey so far falls short of the capacity of the pool to produce, that a large number of distilleries are kept idle, drawing pensions from the combination, in some cases as high as $500 a day.


    On the third of April the largest and most influential meeting of cotton manufacturers ever held in the South came together at Augusta to take measures to cure the devastating plague of too much cotton cloth. A plan was unanimously adopted for the organization of a Southern Manufacturers' Association for the same general purposes as the New England Manufacturers' Association. The convention recommended its members to imitate the action of the Almighty in making a short crop of cotton by making a short crop of yarns and cloth, and referred to a committee the preparation of plans for a more thorough pool. [*2]

         It is in the interest of profit to keep needing and wanting. Sociology dictates that human beings have some understanding on how to advance their self-interests. History's case examples demonstrate the profit-interest in action. The presence of monopolies was not noticable in the economy until the necessary boost provided by the industrial revolution. A sharp rise in productive ability was accompanied not by a greater distribution of the social product, but a burgeoning elite class. These are economic relationships that have always existed. To quote Adam Smith...

    We rarely hear, it has been said, of the combinations of masters, though frequently of those of workmen. But whoever imagines, upon this account, that masters rarely combine, is as ignorant of the world as of the subject. Masters are always and everywhere in a sort of tacit, but constant and uniform combination, not to raise the wages of labour above their actual rate. To violate this combination is everywhere a most unpopular action, and a sort of reproach to a master among his neighbours and equals. We seldom, indeed, hear of this combination, because it is the usual, and one may say, the natural state of things, which nobody ever hears of. [*3]

         The possession of property by the economic elites in the United States has remained virtually unchanged in fifty years. Though there are numerous cases such as 3COM, PGE, Enron, and countless other corporate disasters, it is still argued by many that these are exceptions to a general rule. It is not simply a matter in the distribution of wealth, but a matter of directing the operation of the economy in a means that benefit the whole. A free enterprise economy values its success according to a single indicator: profit. To raise its value, it can only lower the living conditions of the rest of society. When the industry is owned and operated by the masses, then can we expect the abuses of a profit-driven economy to cease. The right to work, a fair part of the social product, and a voice in directing the means of production -- all of these are the economic rights of Communism. Totalitarian dictatorships that seek to establish the Socialist economy are bound in their own hypocrisy. Centralizing power and authority in politics couldn't be accompanied by anything but the centralizing of power and authority in society, culture, and of course, the economy. Communist China, Cuba, and the USSR had simply turned their economy into state-run capitalism. These nations never granted their people the rights of Socialism; on the contrary, these states simply re-established themselves as the new class. Communism cannot be realized through government, but only on its ruins.

    *1. "Political Economy," by Simonde de Sismondi, 1815, Chapter 7.
    *2. "The Lords of Industry," by Henry Demarest Lloyd, 1888.
    *3. "The Wealth of Nations," by Adam Smith, 1776, Book 1, Chapter 8.



    When the state is attacked, the formality of a trial is involved. The accused are read their rights, their right to remain silent and their right to lawyer, and an entire department of justice is erected, the District Attorney, to effectively prosecute their enemies. Powers are vested to certain lawyers, to force certain people to show up at trial, at the writ of a subpoena, to force men to speak, at the threat of law. Yet, when the individual is attacked by the state, these things do not exist. There is no lawyer appointed to the man whose life has been stolen. There is no department of justice to defend this man. This individual has no powers, no rights, and consequently, no justice. And, as I read over these words again and again, I can see how society has organized itself so that the individual is underprivileged, but the state is a ruthless tyrant.

         A Learning Experience Through Drugs


         I am almost quite certain, that if there truly exists a purpose to life, it is for each and every person to finally come to terms with what they believe they must face upon death. Whether religious or not. You may be have appealed to reason more than mysticism, but you might still be afraid of that reality: the absolute, dark, deep sleep that awaits you upon death. Terrified that you will not be conscious again, and that maybe, just maybe, all of this life is for nothing. You might appeal to spirituality more than the thousands of books that surround you; you may have accepted every word of every preacher and priest as the very words of god, slowly trickling down to the eager ears of those pew-fillers. But, still, you're terrified. You realize that you must face a judge, that you will essentially live forever. Just as soon as this prospect fills you with relief, you become disappointed. Alive forever? What if you become bored, what if you exploit every aspect of interest in this world, and simply regress towards a sadistic, cruel soul -- a spirit that has so much hate for itself, that it must pour out this seething brutality to all that would listen. Or, perhaps your terror does not lie there. Perhaps it is the simple fact of being judged, of the past experiences of your life being looked over by a god. Maybe you're afraid you won't pass the test.

         But this is the nature of the independent's spirit: always displeased, always unsatisfied, writhing and turning once it thought it had achieved the most possible comfortable position. I could honestly believe that this was the spirit of every being, but, no, no, there are too many people who are complacent, even within religious confines. Something so magnificent as having consul with the lord of all creation would seem to be something that could move people to do such great things. It has sedated them, it has filled their spirits with the idea that they can mutter "this life is enough" to their slavers. When it has not done this, it has moved entire people's towards prejudice. It has given so many people the idea that they are right to hate, because, if god wants you to hate, then you certainly cannot be wrong. I seriously doubt any army ever went to battle thinking that god was on the other side. Every person, every race of humans, all descended from the same early progenitor, and yet every one finds themselves special enough to have private discussions with god. When pressed in any other area, they are too ordinary. They feel themselves too ordinary to change society. They find that they are too ordinary to do anything meaningful. Too ordinary to create art. Too ordinary to believe that you should live in the moment, no matter how infantile and commonplace such an idea is. But, if you ask these same people, these "too ordinary" men, if they have conference with god, and they will say but these words: "I am among the few men who has the ear of god; not only do I believe it because of the evidence, but I know so because he has told me. We have very gentle, intimate moments, and on several occasions, before telling me something, he would ask me: 'May I be honest with you?'"

         We will all die, but too many people misunderstand this fact. It is true that our actions that we take live on forever, but anyone who says this when asked about their own mortality, is misplacing values. I'm sure that there are millions of orphans that die unwanted, alone, homeless. If you add or subtract ten thousand, more or less, have their actions truly lived on beyond their deaths? Maybe so, but there is no arguing that they cannot live on in any meaningful fashion. Some people are under the very obscure impression that they will not die; that they, in fact, live on after death. As much as they may hold fast to this awkward belief, there is no denying that the body will die, that it will decompose, that it will rot, just as the bodies of the animals, and the bodies of dead worms. Well, I know something, that maybe some others don't know. I know that by the end of this life, I shall die. My body will rot, not unlike a decaying tree. The processes of thought, reflection, pleasure, and misery, will come to a grinding and complete halt. Just as I stop breathing, so I shall stop thinking. By my consideration of all the evidences available, this seems to me to be the most tennable, logical theory of life and death.

         As a Humanitarian, I am of the firm belief that the world's current condition is an unjust atrocity. I should need to draw no more evidence than this: workers are still building palaces for kings of industry while the common men are starving on bread crumbs and starvation rations. Even if I could convince the people of the world to treat each other as brothers, to live as though they are all a part of a universal kinship, it is all for nothing, no? Because, in the end, every person's body will rot, every person will end, and there will be nothing. Every reform that was made, every revolution made on behalf of a working class, will not be able to be appreciated, when those who can appreciate, no longer flock the world in the numbers that we do today. Some may say that the individual cannot have immortality, but the cycle of breeding and repopulation can be eternal. But, no, no scientist, or even educated person, could ever agree to this. The universe will end in a cold death of all movement. Animate action, not even conscious life, will come to a grinding halt. With all of this true, for what reason can we say that we want to improve our current lot?

         I could be poetic right now, and make some half obtuse and half cynical statement such as: "Well, if we can live in peace and harmony, together, for one or two billion years, that should be enough..." Nor can I pretend to enjoy the idea of death. As a human being, one born with the same instincts and the same basic mindset of any other being, death is perhaps the scariest idea, not even on a reasonable or rational level (but that's the point). No, I'm not going to take some backroute when it comes to answering this argument presented to me. This claim of an inevitable end to everything, as an argument, it is but a phantam pain, but as a serious consideration for a thoughtful person, I have an extreme burning desire to answer it. All that I want to spend my life creating will eventually meet the destruction of entropy...

         I suppose I could begin my argument by saying, "If life does not matter finite, then why should it matter if it is infinite?" Yes, I hear the reasonable arguments biting at my neck, the arguments claiming that in one case, the accomplishments of mankind are able to be enjoyed indefinitely, while in the other case, such enjoyments end. Well, this is nothing but restating exactly what I said. Perhaps it is people being afraid that one day, what they did to help the world, will mean nothing. Or, perhaps it is what I am doing today, possibly meaning nothing in th future. But, no, no, I cannot accept this. I would not refuse tenderness to a person who was on death's door, simply because no matter what I gave them, they couldn't give it to others. And, so, too, if I can give a humane ethic to a society of men and women, whether or not they aid in spreading it, their cherishing of it is enough that I feel like I have done my part.

         The Dex Trips -- It Kicks In...


    I scarf down my lunch in hope of it aiding my Dex ingestion. Holding the white pill in my hand, I look at the one key that will deprive me of any sort of sanity. I swallow. As I walk by and through the building, it kicks in. Very lightly. I see an Army recruitor and pass him by. 20 feet away, I stop and go back. I try to talk to him, but he is trying to convince a hot chick to see him in his office. I yell out, "So, is it fun to kill people?" He ignores me still, but others laugh. So I ask again, "No, it's fun, but being a soldier isn't just that." "Oh, yeah," I said, "Toppling democratically elected presidents in third world nations, too." We disagree and says he doesn't pay attention to any of that, and we obtain a consensus that the primary aspect of his job is "To take orders." I make it to class and my teacher's head has turned into a rock, of particular ugliness, of which the eroding winds have not been so kind.

    The teacher puts a map up on the screen, and I have no fucking clue what I'm looking at. The words "Black Sea" are all that is legible to me.



    On psychedelic drugs, you lose familiarity with things that is normally understood. You look to your hand on a heavy 5-meo-dmt dose, and it slowly turns into the hoof of a pig. But, no, that sentence is somewhat misleading. Your familiarity with the hand turns to the familiarity you have of the pig.

    You see your hand, and you instantly differentiate your thumb from the other fingers. You are FAMILIAR with this. On psychedelics, this familiarity is gone, and your thumb looks to the index finger what the index finger is to the middle finger. The ability to bend your fingers, to manipulate the joints, seems so simple, so obvious, but as you gaze on your hand on psychedelics, those simple and obvious movements are oblivious. They are gone. You see your hand, and you are instantly convinced that it can only aid you, by walking on all fours.

         Sleepy Voice


    Walking down through a variety of ill-lit corridors, among my only friends, my conscience, my humanity, and a few trusted allies, I had decided that I wanted to live my life this way. I had been carrying around a notebook full of tattered torns, scattered drawings, and a tumbling batch of scrambled thoughts. Every moment in our adventure through this life, I had managed to stop, sit, and write, express some thoughts through paper. Eyes dilated, veins constricting, with 5-MeO-AMT as our poison, we decided that the world, as plain as it was, was not completely whole, unless we had our own fix to the frame. We trekked on, merciless in our seeking out whatever we could find unexplored, our dissatisfaction with a world sprawling with thoughtless bodies, our minds caving in to the constant and never-ending stream of

    "Huh!" I said, waking up. I looked up and my eyes came to focus. A train was going by, as the street lights were temporarily blocked with shadows.

    "You okay, man?" Kyle asked, himself very much awake and looking through various books.

    "Yeah, yeah," I said, rubbing the back of my head, "I'm fine."

    "Is everything all right?" a sleepy voice muttered underneath a pillow somewhere in the room. Three of us. Just three.

    "Yeah, everything's fine," Kyle said, "Punker still hasn't gotten used to the train coming back. Don't worry. Go back to sleep."

    "You know," I said, commanding attention of Kyle to me so I could start, "I just had the coolest dream ever. I have to write this down." I pulled out a notebook laying next to my pillow and started writing.

    "What did you dream about?" Kyle said, mildly interested.

    "I dreampt that I was a breaded shrimp, you know, those things you can get at Red Lobster by the bunch?"

         Sober Man to Intoxicated Man


    Sober man to intoxicated man: "Are you aware of your surroundings or are you just trying to amuse yourself?"

    Intoxicated man to sober man: "Can't we do both?"

         What Are You Comparing?


    Guy: Hey, so, after this, you wanna fuck?

    Gal: What!?

    Guy: Ha, I'm just kidding.

    Gal: I bet if I said yes, you'd totally accept it, though.

    Guy: Well, yeah, but it wasn't serious. Like, if I asked someone for a million dollars, I would probably be joking, but if they gave it to me, I'd accept it.

    Gal: You're comparing a load of cash to a warm, wet vagina?

    Guy: Well, you're not -- yeah, actually, you do understand.

         Should I Stay or Should I Go?


    I might just happen to find, that when I am on these streets alone, I truly can or cannot find peace. Alone with the darkness of another still night, I'll ask why I couldn't push my miserable life just a few more steps in the direction of sustainable living. The nI'll remember that I'm an abused kid, peacefully alone and fucked upon this or that. Too dark of a past to discuss, my own condition worsening and worsening -- and people look at me with that daunted gaze, and when they hear stories of serial murderers and vicious rapists, they seem them as having my own past. Abused, beaten, prison time, homeless. To travel through my thoughts must be a journey through a man's mind that had he never known civilization.

    Uncensored and pissed off is probably the most dangerous any of us can get.

    So, will I go? The question of the hour. I don't know. And I have some months to consider it. Dodging bullets + billy clubs like a felon.

    By now, "Rock on" is a corporate logo. And maybe I will atke that jump, and decide to risk life and limb to prove I believe what I say. Most of all, to myself.

    "You smell like gasoline."

    "You want to make love to me, huh?"

    Maybe I'll fall in love and it might mean something. Four counts of attempted murder and a heart of god. This kid, really.

    A criminal and a half.

    Just a sucker in a system that oppressed revolt.

    Fuck -- and it still hurts to live.

         A Few Books and Space


    The man furiously flipped through pages, as his eyes ceaselessly scrolled through the words, not forming sentences, not allowing the culmination of thoughts, not granting access to the repressed parts of his mind: understanding, clarity, thinking. In anger, he tossed the book against the wall, gritting his teeth. He got up out of his chair, and moved to the stereo, where he changed the CD. He started playing, and starting humming along for approximately three seconds. And then a groan, "Argh!" And then he started fast forwarding. Then he skipped three songs.

    "You've been doing this for 28 hours, Luke," she said.

    "Just a few more minutes, that's all it'll take," he said, skipping three more tracks, and then fast forwarding again.

    "What are you expecting to find?" Sharon's voice whispered in the dark alley of life.

    He turned to her, and then back to the stereo. In rage, he knocked it over, picked up a random book, which had hundreds of paper clips attached to certain pages, marking off special observations. He turned to one of these pages.

    "You see this page?" he asked her, turning to her. It was a blank page, containing a copyright. "I felt persecuted on this page. And this one..." he said, turning to a page in the center of the book. Apparently, it was written in French. "On this page, I felt beautiful," he said, "And this one!" He turned to another, as his pose quickly changed. His eyes were loaning to the page a sense of solemnness. Finger tips caressed the page, "This is the page I felt alone on." He could not understand the words, as they were still in a foreign language.

    Sharon turned her head to the side, just enough so he would not be in her direct field of vision. He wasn't noticing this, as he was entrapped in his own magical world. She sat, alone and single-hearted, on a cardboard box full of books and papers. Her legs were limp, dangling back and forth, and her hands were holding the sides of the box, giving her some leverage. Then she turns to him, "What are you looking for?... Luke?"

    He was ignoring her now. Gently, he put back on his glasses that were hanging around his neck by a cheap, fiber wire. He had turned to another page that interested him. Slowly removing the paper clip from that page, he started to read the French words. Very gently, close to himself, he whispered, in a way that you might think he only thought himself mouthing... "Un homme sans coeur a été lapidé à la mort par une foule des enfants..."


    And then, without understanding his change, he continued to whisper, "Slowly, a generation of men and women would come to power, who not only had power that was unprecedent, but who were foolish and ignoble in all aspects... death was commonplace on the riverside this time of year..."

    "Luke!" Sharon finally said, "What are you trying to find!?"

    He dropped the book, as it closed on itself hitting the concrete ground. Turning to her, a teardrop rolled down the side of his face. "I think something inside of me has died..."

         DMT Trip


    You know, I never meant this to sound like a drunken phone call at 3 in the morning... I didn't mean for this to be an encounter coaxed on by the intoxication of subtle substances... But, when I got back to the same place I've been at for months, you were the first person that I thought of. And, as much as you may cast me off as a ragged throw-away... It was you that I thought of first, when I got back to this wretched place.

    And I'm sorry, if you can't stand me like this, but I can't stand me like any other way. Because when I open my eyes, it's like opening old wounds. And when I close out the world, it's like an eclipse of everything I always wanted. I'm trying to breath harder and harder, but I can't feel anything...

    I'll say that I am sorry just one more time, if you promise to forgive me. Just one last time. Because if you're planning on me coming back to this spot, chances are that my survival rate by then would have dropped to 0%.

         The Greatest Criminal on Earth


    the greatest criminal on earth...

    Harriet Tubman with 400 charges of grand theft and 478 charges of criminal trespassing. (at large)

    Martin Luther King with 150 charges of disturbing the peace, 40 charges of obstruction of justice, and 650 charges for criminal trespassing.

    Susan B. Anthony with 1 charge of attempt to vote (time served), 170 charges of obstruction of the due process of law, and 353 charges of criminal property damage.

    John Brown with 3 charges of treason, 20 charges of murder, 47 charges of criminal trespassing, and 14 charges of disrespecting an officer of the law.

    Thomas Paine with 14 charges of treason, 3,728 charges of inciting a riot, and 902 charges of disrespecting an officer.

         The Thug Problem


    "If government were abolished, then there would be no one to defend the innocent." So it is the cry of those who oppose Anarchism, those who work vigilantly against a living and breathing Democracy. Destroy the throne of the monarch, remove the seats of congress, relinquish power and the power structure, and the result would be chaos. And there can be nothing so sure of this, as the fact that the abusive and exploitive will seek out to persecute and enslave those who are weaker. Might is right. Topple the police departments, the government bureaus, the aristocracy, and the people will be left defenseless. Those harboring the natural power of warfare will engage in villainy and cruelty. Few will be exempt from their policy of robbery and theft. Rapine and vice will go unchecked as those who are not cautious fall victim to what would otherwise be classified as crime. Those who oppose the new system of thugs, robbers, and murderers, their cries will go unheard. As much as they muster their courage and strength, as much as they organize for unity, they will still be crushed and obliterated under a systemlessness that manages to keep them in dire poverty and starvation. Screams can be heard as they battle over the streets, combat and warfare over what may otherwise be pleasant without the presence of a thug... If Anarchism is established, so it is argued, then all civility and peace will be the first casualties, as civilization is the first victim... And those to oppose Anarchism, can then say that they were right in their assertions.

    From all that I know and have experienced, I must say this: I completely agree. There are fewer things that can be ascertained and agreed upon.

    Without a protector of the people, there will an unequaled amount of bloodshed and warfare. Organized brutality and cruelty would take form as oppression and exploitation were forced upon an innocent people. Protestors would be killed to defending the idea of free speech, holding anti-establishment opinions would get you incarcerated, speaking your mind would get you charged with treason. People are imprisoned for being young, black, or poor on our streets, under ancient legislation that politicians deemed unnecessary to wipe off the books. For every arrest, every police officer is granted a bonus. Militaristic regimes invade third world nations imposing inhumane working conditions upon the population under the guise of "Free Trade." The rights of the citizens of this nation are completely crushed under a two-party system, which completely alienates the will of the people and imposes a system inherently suseptible to bribery and corruption. Police are killing people for expressing their rage about the accepted ideology, soldiers are murdering civilians and peasants in foreign nations for "global security," personal liberties are being infringed upon, and there is no cruelty left undone, no inhumanity that has not been acted upon.

    I am very convinced, in fact, that government has fulfilled the role of the thug. Official or unofficial are just subjective words. What one calls a thug the other will call a government. In the end, their means and methods are equally a breach of justice, truth, and honor.

         As Sad a Fact as it May Be to Perceive


    As sad a fact as it may be to perceive...

    The technology to digest, intake, and use food with a process that excludes the use of jaws, saliva, or swallowing, will be in place before those who are on starving see an end to their hunger.

         Prejudice (Part Two)


         "I think the problem lies with the Baruul's Jovile," the psychologist told me.

         "Baruul's Jovile?" I asked, "You mean, something that has to do with my sex life?"

         "No, no, not all psychology can be reduced to that, no matter how much Freud you read," he continued, "There is an ancient tale originating in Gaul, of a woman named Baruul and a man named Jovile. Jovile fell desperately in love with this movie, for his looks, her image, her face, and her body. Everything that you might assume came from his lust, actually, arrose from his senses of affection. In this story, we find that -- in fact -- a man's desires on love are not always sex-rooted, as modern culture would assume."

         "Ah, I gotchya," I said.

         "It's also known as BJ's syndrome," he said, as I parted. Afterwards, I talked with my friends.

         "Apparently, BJ's syndrome is what is distressing me with me love for Isabelle," I said, "I fell in love with an image, so thoughtless yet passionate, and... I just need to do something about it."

         John spoke up, "Maybe you need to confront her, and tell her that her personality actually is dead inside."

         "Yeah," Carl said, "That's one real good way to making friends. 'Hi, I think you're hot, but you're ugly on the inside.'"

         Quinn walks up, "Hey, guys, what are we talking about?"

         Completely ignoring Quinn, I say, "Ugh, this is driving me nuts. I have to talk to Isabelle right now about BJ's syndrome."

         "Heh," Quinn said, "Who's getting a blowjob?"



         The history teacher spoke to his class, "Now we will be moving on to the history of the oppression of the two-headed people by the one-headed people."

         Bob quickly and unconsciously glances at John and Dick, the two-headed couple, and then turns away. John and Dick reply to Bob's actions by looking at him.

         "What?" Bob said, "... I wasn't looking at you."



    Let's lose the fucking mohawks!

    Face the truth. The more we rely on a material culture, the easier it will be to imitate us. High school kids who think it's cool to dress the way we do will buy a pair of pants for $70 at Hot Topic and start having an attitude, calling themselves punks, and then some forty year old liberal will praise them for being non-conformists. Let's lose the fucking studs, while we're at it. What's the point of having one thousand metal studs on our jackets? Intimidating as it may be, only idiots will argue that it can be used as a defensive measure. The less we become distinguished members of our own society, the less we dress the way we want, the more difficulty corporate leaders will have in turning our lifestyle into a weekend fad for yuppies and rich kids. Go to your nearest Gap store, and steal a pair of pants. Wear it with pride, and when the logo starts to wear, because that's all you've been wearing for two months, use a highlighter on it, so you'll look just like everyone else. Make sure you have an American Eagle or Abercrombie shirt. Take off your spiked collars. Destroy and burn every part of you that outwardly makes you a punk. Starve the megacorporations of their ability to make a buck off you. World peace and revolution don't sell sweatshop-made clothing. Being assertive and very confrontational towards injustice won't open up a new market for third-world exploitation. Sure as fucking shit, independence and anarchy aren't on sale! They very well may fuckin' sell shoes with the anarchist symbol on it, well good for them, because they would market the image of me pissing on their skulls if they knew it would make them money, even if they didn't understand. The idea of loving people as the greatest act won't make you popular in high school; it's the fuckin' attitude! And, finally, doing what you fuckin' want isn't the best marketing plan for any product, where 90% of the income becomes profit (wealth) of the Capitalist.

    Do what you want...

    So, maybe our material culture really reflects that. Perhaps the fact that we can offend people (at least make them feel uncomfortable, and at most violate their most sacred creeds), perhaps it is this, that we desire. Pushing people out of their secure zones so that they have to consider something else. Nothing does that better than a spike mohawk on a punk screaming, "Fuck the pigs" with a thousand studs on his jacket, kicking over trash cans while running from cops in the suburban mall. Maybe we were just fucking sick and tired of everyone dressing the same. Maybe it just got to us that a monoculture was intellectual displeasing. Mainstream media, covered with a thousand concepts that mean nothing to us, patriotism, nationalism, americanism, militarism -- for a low introductory price of three installments of $29.99.

    Let's lose nothing...

         Salvia Trip, 2 Point 0


    I had woken up early this morning, and after very little consideration and thought, I decided to complete my existence with a dab of Salvia Divinorum. I smoked close to .500 grams in the garage of my parents. It was 8:00 AM and only my father was up. He asked me what I was doing in the garage, but by this point the trip already had me in its thrusting power. I told him I was smoking a cigarette, but in my mind, I told him not to let circles of furious light spew at me whenever he talks. Making it up the stairs, I struggled with every, as the normal activities of a human became the most complicated. I should also note, with a certain sincere tone, that all of these happenings took place while I was carrying a MP3-CD player and listening to Apoptygma Berzerk's rather calm melody. Making it into my room, I was curious, in all confidence, as to its psychedelic nature. Those dark crevices and corners were homes to festering and boiling monsters, of a particularly striped nature. Such detail, provided by this Salvinorin A and B, but I am at a loss to describe them. Boiling with passion, perhaps, may work. I looked all over my other room, and I submit the following psychonaut inquiry: why is everything covered in neon-colored, glowing ants? Motherfuckers move with the speed of light. Or, that's too fast. With the speed of sound. I double checked: No, my finger is not melting. At least, it only feels like it is. It looks like it's on fire, though. Regardless, I enjoy this sensation. This smokey mint flavor still saturates my mouth, in a not-too commercial/advertising way. I am also quite curious why this differs somewhat from my last Savia Divinorum trip. Why, I ask, haven't I been dragged through any holes by goblins? Are they... perhaps waiting for a moment where the intoxication grows stronger, and my mental ability grows weaker still? Everything in my room at this moment taunts me, laughs with the sterile cries of society. Have I done something wrong? Am I... a bad person? Whatever the case, I feel proud and confident in my abilities as a human being, a sort of living creature of consciousness. Boldness and strength, characterized by my very ability. My finger stopped melting, and this pleases me.

         Boston DNC Protest


    Anarchist to US Army Soldiers: "Take off your uniform, get a real job, and then come on down here so I can make you a Vegan breakfast!"

         Capitalism FAQ


    It can be argued that Feudalism and Capitalism produce identical results: perpetual poverty among the working class. But what of the justification for those systems? A Feudalist's argumentation is backed by greed and tyranny, and a Capitalist's claims are justified with nothing less. What can you argue for a system that deprives wealth from those who produce it? What can you say to a system where the ruling class and the rich class are equally the thieving classes? What argumentation can be proposed for it, this so-called "right to property"? There is nothing that can defend it, less the arguments of brutality and ignorance are employed.

    I am a Socialist, and I oppose Capitalism because it produces widespread poverty, and its justification is no greater than that of Feudalism. I am a Socialist, because with fair prices and fair wages, poverty would be eliminated -- because I believe as an industrial society, fairness and justice ought to exist. The reasons why I am a Socialist are the reasons why I am a Vegetarian and an Atheist: because I believe in compassion, fairness, logic, Freethought, and Reason.

         Hacker Psuedonyms


    "We got another hacker here?"


    "What are his aliases?"

    "A Way To Resist, BeingOfSentience, Bitterly Sober, CulturalNihilist, Horizon Revolt, Jesus And TeeVee, Raised On Cement, and Social Dissident."

    "Great, another fucking activist."

         Idle Profits


         Since the defining aspect of the Capitalist is that they live idle off of the labor of others, it would seem illogical to assume that they should have ownership of something which they did not labor upon. As the Capitalist makes their living from the dividends and profits of the industries they possess, they are not applying any labor to land or capital. They are not working, and in the most literal sense, they are not fulfilling the obligation of property by applying labor to the object they wish they to posses. But despite this, most followers of Locke still support Capitalism and the class system.

         In this economy of our modern world powers, purchases and sales are made with a currency, which is used as an exchange rate for other commodities produced by labor. An individual can labor and create something that is worth a certain amount of exchange value, and then sell it. These economic exchanges are just the bartering of laborers trading the things which they have produced for things which they have need or desire. Purchases, then, are just a matter of trading what we ourselves have produced.

         The wealthy Capitalist, then, may have done no work at all whatsoever in the massive, corporate empire of which they are the owners; by defining trade as the exchange of property, or labor's creation, then it would be unjust to restrict or prohibit it. Likewise, those who possess their vast fortunes by means of trade do so justly. This naturally entails a world full of landlords, industrialists, managers, employers, and investors, and their armies of middle class servants, such as the lawyers, the bankers, the judges, and the bureaucrats. None of these contributes anything of value or worth by means of their profession, but the adherents of Locke find these upper and middle classes to be justly in possession of their wealth, even if they contributed no labor to the production of their possessions.

         The logic for this, as above described, is that they acquired their wealth through trading products of value with others. That is the only way one could justify such a system; otherwise, we would be forced to conclude that the capitalist, the corporate executive, the banker, and the stock trader, all of whom may be millionaires, are in possession of wealth that does not belong to them. We would be forced to conclude that they are thieves, and that it is the workers who must seek to reclaim their property. But, if we were to conclude that from Locke's writings, we'd certainly be associating him with Socialist ideologies.

         New Hunger


    Having died and come back to life, I noticed that my appetite for human flesh has increased at least fourfold.



    Our lives can be defined as the moments between the greatest highs and the lowest lows. It can be defined as the habits that make up our outter person, the bashfulness, the affections, the desires and hardships. These things can all be remembered naturally by anyone. Yet there is nothing so crystalline and accurate as a photograph. Whether in a wallet or scrapbook, it remains as an unfaded, unforgotten memory -- a time of passion, a time of fear, a time of life. Photography is a technological means of acheiving something that is close to everyone's heart: capturing the moments of life. Where they cannot be blurred or buried, the memories that constitute themselves through photographs will be with us forever.

    I want to be a photographer.



    The most disturbing trend of our society is in its sexual attitude: it is impolite to talk about what everyone does and what everyone's body tells them to do.

         This Girl I Know


         There's this girl I know, and in many ways, she's betrayed me as a friend. It wasn't over money or drugs or anything material like that. Not even sex. Just, over other people. She lied to me. I didn't like it very well, and I convinced myself, like any other time, that I would just let go. I thought I was strong and that I could just do it. That it was a matter of a certain amount of pain I would have to go through. Because, even though I didn't like to talk about it, or bring out those emotions, I still had feelings for it. Maybe if enough time went by, they would die. Then that pleasing feeling will come, where I know I feel nothing for her. And maybe one day, I would cross her on the street, one out of a million chances, and I could see her smile at me, and I wouldn't blind, I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't laugh. Just death. Just another human body walking past me that I don't know, and that I'm convinced I don't want to know. So I closed my door, refused to talk, to this girl. Months would go by, and I'm still thinking about her. I'm still convinced, though, that if I just hold off long enough, I can ignore her. I push the phone away. A week goes by and I find myself at my worst, drunk as fucking hell. One pint of vodka and several beers. Fuck it. I lost count. I pick up the phone, and call her. No, I didn't care that it was three in the morning. I didn't care at all. In fact, as the phone was ringing on the other end, I was arguing with myself that it was even better that it was three in the morning. As I was about to get into the reasons, someone answered. It just so happened that it wasn't her. I dialed wrong, dumbass that I am. Now I feel bad for that person. I concentrate this time and dial. She answers, and I hear her voice, and I feel like I'm in the sky. We talk, for a little, and instantly, I start talking seriously with her. I jumped on those things in my mind that I wanted to tell her. She immediately picked up on the fact that I'm drunk. We talked for two hours. I remember only one word: when I said "hello." The general thoughts that we exchanged, I remember those. Next morning, I had some orange juice with ice, to help the hangover. At around twelve in the afternoon, the phone rings. I pick it up and it's her. "Well, what the fuck do you want? I thought I said I didn't want you to call me?" She paused for a moment and said, "You called me last night." I furrowed my eyebrow and thought. "Oh, fucking, yeah..." I said, "Yeah, I guess I did." We talked for five minutes, and then I convinced her I had something to do. I didn't, it being a saturday and all, which is the unstated intention of weekends: having nothing to do. Nothing changed. Since I talked to her that night, I just think about her more. So I called her, sober, or mostly sober, and we talked. But, as I talked to her, I realized that I was immediately trying to look at her as I have before: that ultimate beautiful, sex goddess, affectionate creature. As I did this, my mind remembered some of the betrayals, and they make my heart dark with pain. I couldn't bear to talk to her, because to tell you the truth, I wanted things to be reversed. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted to go back to that time where she was that absolutely perfect girl. But, things happened, and people change. And I wanted her to be that person again, but it seemed impossible. "Fuck it, I think you're just going to betray me again," I said to her. She told me on the phone that she was sorry for everything and that she still loved me. I hung up. The phone rang again. I picked it up and dropped it. Taking my jacket over my shoulder, I opened the door and walked out. For one second, I considered what I was doing. Too many thoughts to analyze, so I brazenly went out into that dangerous saturday world. Still, I constantly thought about her. Drinking myself to insanity in one of the local bars, one of those, "Fuck you! I control my own body! I know when to stop drinking!" yells, and it working. God, I hope it works. For just one more drink... Just one more shot. Another week goes by. I held her phone number in my hand, as I glared over the phone book. "What the fuck..." I said. I picked up the phone and dialed. Ringing. Part of it was that I was afraid of being hurt by her again, hurt so bad. Another part of it was that I didn't want to be there standing at the end, knowing that I didn't learn one goddamn thing from this experience and made the same mistakes. "Hello?" she answer. "Hi," I said. We talked. I didn't treat her like a lover, and not like a wretched banshee from hell who came to torture me (which I accused her of once). We talked for a few hours on the phone. As a friend. Then she had to go so she could go out. When I hung up the phone, it felt like the stress and tension lifted. So maybe, with her, I can't live as just a lover, or just a hater, if I value my sanity anyway.... I have to live as a friend. Maybe I'm wrong, but I sleep better because of it.

         Salvia Trip


    As I'm writing this, I am coming down off the massive Salvia Divinorum trip. It was, I must say honestly, quite unlike anything I've experienced before. But for this to have any meaning, I should inform readers of my background. I have used Dextromethorphan, LSA (Lysergic Acid Amedes), methamphetamine, marijuana, crack, and a few pharmaceuticals (Codeine, Xanax, Klonnopin). The only drugs to have little success with was Marijuana and crack -- I simply felt extremely little to nothing. The rest were powerful, enjoyable, and deserved to be respected for their powers on the mind.

    Recently, I've been drinking so much alcohol, that I'm trying to look for a casual replacement. My friend hooked me up with dried leaf Salvia once, long long ago, and when I smoked it, it was a very subtle, subtle high. I laughed my ass off a lot, but I didn't get anything hallucinational about it. So, now that I'm looking for an alcohol alternative, I think about Salvia. My alcoholism was somewhat undesirable, because when I stopped drinking for a day, I got the sweats, the shakes, and I got just really pissy and aggrivatted towards everyone. I had to drink every night. So, maybe Salvia could do it for me, I thought.

    I purchased a gram of 10x, a gram of 5x, and an ounce of dried leaf. Since I didn't have a pipe (I didn't smoke weed or crack or meth), I took an empty can of Steel Reserve (wh00!) and punctured holes in it with a safety pin. I smoked some 10x and some dried leaf on it, and got just a slight high. Like, "Okay, maybe I'm feeling it. I feel sort of happy." It did nothing for me. I talked with some friends, and they're all giving me mixed advice. I read over Erowid's vault on it several times, and it seemed like it would be a hassle to get high off it. One friend said that it kicked in in only 20 seconds and last only two minutes, and some of Erowid confirmed that. Then someone suggested that I had to use a torch lighter, and get it really hot to smoke it. And that I couldn't use a beer can.

    So, anyway, I ran into some friends, who had known I was a psychonaut (and somewhat of a chemist -- related interest, heh), and I told them I have some Salvia. I told them about it before, so I offered to smoke them up. I get the shit from my room and bring it to theirs (we were all at the same university). With a nugget of weed on the bottom, I packed in some 10x. I let my friend (Jay) have the first hit. He took a huge fucking hit, and coughed so much. His eyes were bulging. And then he fell back in the bed. "Oh, fucking, man," he said, "My whole body's temperature is increasing and decreasing, my blood has been put on red alert." He was bugging, and looked so tripped out. In less than ten fucking seconds. So, I take the pipe, and take a nice long hit off of it, and pass it off. I released. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Nothing. "Fuck, maybe I didn't hit it right." At this time, I was thinking that I didn't know how to inhale maybe, because smoking weed and crack didn't do much for me. My other friend, who took a hit off it, felt nothing, too. "I 'unno, man," he (Dan) said, "What's it supposed to feel like?" I said intense hallucinations.

    So, I packed another round, figuring maybe it was because he had the first hit he got so fucked up. I inhaled, passed, and then exhaled. Still, nothing. I packed one final bowl of 10x, and smoked up. Still, I felt absolutely nothing. So, I gave up on it. The kids were packing some weed in it, and passing it around, so I took a few hits off that (in a way, it's a social institution -- the hitting off of weed of your friends). I'm chilling in this room, with about five people, and football is on. Now, I hate watching football, so I just try to relax, and eventually come up with an excuse to get the hell outta there. About thirty minutes after my first hit off of Salvia, I started to feel weird, just like, the world was slowly drifting apart. I put it off as probably an LSA flashback, caused by the slight effects of Marijuana (which happens sometimes with alcohol). The screen of the TeeVee felt like it was its own entity and that everything else in the world was simply a two dimensional backdrop. Then all of a sudden, my heart started to pound rapidly, and it felt like my entire body was pulsating. And then I felt it, a disconnection with the world. That trip feeling. It only happens with psychodelic drugs, a very specific feeling. Not "uber fucked up" feeling. But that, "mind-expansion" feeling. It happens with LSA and DXM, so far I could confirm (and LSD and shrooms as others have stated). After about 40 minutes from my first hit, it came on decently. So, I packed a whole bunch more. I put dried leaf on the bottom of the bowl (so the 10x extract, which was sort of looking like grains) wouldn't fall through. Then I smoked up some more.

    My friend who got really fucked up in ten seconds said, "No, man, I'm done with THAT chemical for tonight." My other friend was like, "I 'unno, I'm pretty fucked up now... But it might be just the weed. It feels like something else. Like, I feel like I'm not really here." And we both started to laugh at the comment, because that was definitely not the weed. I smoked up a whole bunch more, and the trippy feeling just became so much more intense. And there was a physical body buzz, that whenever I flexed a muscle, I felt an orgasmic euphoria, similar to LSA -- except LSA can have these almost random depletions of happiness. And like, my mind just tripped hard.

    I'll try to explain the trip. When I looked around the room, and someone said something, that feeling, that attitude, that demeanor, the general VIBE, became so intensified. Like, my friend would say, "Oh, man! Did you see that guy get tackled!?" And my heart exploded with passion, a feeling of, "The intense power and strength of a football tackle, of a goal, of a game we root for." And then someone said something funny, and my heart exploded with passion more, this time a feeling of, "Holy hell! The comedy that we live through our lives so that we can remember who we are a little more!!!" And while I focused on that one vibe, it felt like EVERYTHING had that feeling, and all that didn't, seemed to disappear entirely. I would see this vibe, feel it, and then my mind would make a prediction. Like, I would close my eyes, and the next thing would happen. I saw someone stand up, I closed my eyes, and then I saw them do spins and chug a bottle of vodka. I opened my eyes and they're standing over the TeeVee, trying to get better reception. I looked at something, and then blinked, and I saw what looked like an electric shadow. My eyes were wide open (as it was with other trip drugs), and my friends said I looked like I was bugging.

    On the television, they were talking to some guy who looked like a mountain of flesh. Literally, the human version of Jabba the Hutt. Nobody was paying attention, though. So my friend Jay said, "Whoa, look." And everyone there (about me, Jay, Dan, and some chick) looked. Dan said, "Man, that guy is not real." The TeeVee switches to something else, and Jay turns to Dan and says with a smile, "Dude, he definitely did not look real." And I burst into a laughter that lasted about 20 minutes. So, finally, I did stop. And then, the girl was going to say something. In my mind, I was so convinced, 100% that it was going to be about the fat guy on the screen. But then it wasn't. And my train of thought had shifted to the new vibe, the new topic, the new ideas. What I was just thinking about, the vibe that had just filled me with passion, dissipated entirely, and I could not remember what it was. On Dex, I've said, "Yeah, and you can't remember what happened 5 minutes ago." That Dex sort of feeling is more like, "Yeah, and just where did my day go, and why can't I remember how I got to where I am right now?" On Salvia, what you were just thinking about five seconds ago is just obliterated. I would close my eyes and get these visuals, these things I would imagine. Since I have ADD, my mind likes to go a million miles a second. And these thoughts, these images, these movies, each built up upon the other one, started to unravel, as I saw clay figures battling each other, stairs that went down a thousand miles, scenes of myself running through the ghetto (long story behind that one), just trippy images, with balls bouncing, and weird caves.

    I also had a horrible case of dry mouth. In fact, when I folded my tongue, it would stay stuck together for 30 seconds. I showed Jay and he screamed like a girl. I went to show Dan, but he was like, "No, no, no, what is it, first?" And Jay was like, "Oh, don't worry, it's cool." I showed him, and he was pretty down with it. I went to show one of the girls. But my tongue got wet by the time I went over to them (stupid body). I mean, it would have made my night, if I could freak out this chick. The most intelligent thing (which she repeated about five times) was, "Salvia? Wow, that sounds like Saliva." And offending a no-brain girl is my sort of fun.

    When the Salvia started to kick in, I thought it could have been marijuana, but I had a small nausea, just an uneasy stomach feeling. The only thing Marijuana has ever done for me is end nausea, and that's how I could tell the drug of Salvia was kicking in. Thirty minutes after I smoked it. By now, I had smoked 300mg of 10x with others, then 300mg of 10x by myself (using dry leaf at the bottom both times), and then I had abotu 300mg of 5x (which, basically, you had to smoke twice as much to get the same effect, which wasn't as much as a hassel as you might think it to be). I really hate to smoke, because my lungs get burned out easily, but I kept smoking and smoking and smoking this shit. I wanted to reach a peak where I couldn't handle myself any more. On Dex, it took several months before I had the balls to take a 600mg trip, and every time I go over, it's a bad trip now. I wanted to reach the optimimum level of smoking Salvia. Also, with smoking Salvia, that feeling I had of burning out my lungs in pain, when I had my first hit -- that burning sensation stopped. Whenever I took a hit off it after the effects of Salvia kicked in, no burn. Just smoking happiness. Dan finally turned around and said, "Man, this kid keeps staring at me and laughing. You should stop smoking." So, I finally put it out. I chilled there for about a half hour longer, since the human interaction there, the moving and vibrating scene of living social interaction, it all provided me with great physical and mental stimulation, as situations were twisted and fucked up in my mind when I closed my eyes.

    1 AM rolls around, and I'm still getting fucked up off of it (even though I stopped smoking). About that time, I skip out. I was walking down one of the campus paths. It was like, a regular assphalt road on an otherwise grassy area. But as I looked down when I walked, I suddenly got thoughts. "This isn't just a road -- this is the driveway to my commune -- no, this is the road I'm hitch hiking out of New Orleans with, -- no, this is the road to home -- no, no, no, this is the surface of the moon." Each time I thought one of these things, I absolutely believed it. The first time, with the thoughts of the commune, I believed (or knew) that I was carrying the mail from the mail box, and that my friends were waiting for me at the front porch. And when I thought I was on the surface of the moon, the road became gray and everything looked exactly like the moon's surface (the grass turned gray and grew craters). I thought that everyone was looking at me weirdly, thinking, "Why is that kid walking on the moon?" But then I looked up, saw everything else, the hallucination faded, and I felt like they stopped thinking I was walking weird. As I walked through the unwinding, white corridors of my dorm house (since it was night now, they locked every entrance except the main one, so I had to do some walking) -- and I was thinking that I was walking through the halls of a hospital. And I was convinced of that. Mentally, your brain can decipher between what you believe and what you know. If you know there is an imminent threat to your body, you release adrenaline, but if you pretend that there is a man with a knife after you, you won't get the same physical response -- and mentally, on Salvia, whatever I believed became exactly what I knew.

    I made it back to my dorm room in one piece, where I listened to trance-ambient-techno. It felt like it was pulsating through my body. I had four beers to add to the effects of the salvia. When I when to take a swig, I looked into the hole of the can, and saw the beer, and it looked like a cave, and then it felt like I was being dragged through the cave extremely fast. I would open my eyes, and just my monitor, looking like it was cracking, as though it was dissolving into small pieces of liquid magma that were about to explode and burn themselves deep into my flesh. I rubbed my stomach, and it felt like ultimate, divine, heavenly bliss and purity -- a sort of absolute pleasure, that it was unthinkable. With LSA, it sort of feels like you're on the brink of a bad trip/bad insanity. With this, it was pure, wholesome, I had no fear, I wasn't afraid of a bad trip. Finally, at 3 AM, it had been almost 3 hours since I smoked, and I was uber fucked. The beer made me sleepy, so I crashed for a few hours (afterall I have to get up at 8:30 for class, or, uhhh, about 40 minutes from right now).

    I finally woke up at around 5:30 AM, still feeling mentally fucked up. I hadn't eaten anything, which is why I thought I was still fucked. So, I crammed down a few triscuits and soda. When I focus on one part of the room, I see everything else slowly dissolve, as though being eaten by an acid. It's certainly not the mental chaos I was in before, with my mind going through a hundred thousand movie scenes in less than a minute. But right now it's 7:50 AM, and I'm decently still fucked up. On a come-down, and it's been about six hours since I smoked any Salvia.

    Anyway, though what happened to me was very different than what anyone told me, take it for what you will. It took 30 minutes (not 20 seconds) to kick in, and lasted for 6-8 hours (not 10 minutes). As a parting message, remember that a healthy relationship with a drug is one where you control it, not where it controls you. With that, I wish everyone a happy Salvia trip.

         Drug User


    So, I'm hanging out with my girlfriend who does C21H23NO5. While we're fucking, she wants to do C18H25NO -- bad idea, but she didn't listen, and ended up losing her mind. A few wakes later I did the same thing, and there's no freedom like when you're on C18H25NO and crawling around on your knees. One day I finally dosaged on some C16H17N3O3, kind of like C20H25N3O, and ended up writing a really fucked up story involving all my friends. To calm myself down I take some C2H6O and C17H13ClN4, a love mix. Next day, I smoked so much C23H28O8 that I tripped balls for 15 hours, hallucinations and everything. Just like C10H15N, I stayed up all fucking night. I felt nausea, so I just smoked some C21H30O2. With the right mix, I think I can make it through this life...

         Social Letdowns


         The night casts a shroud of darkness over our small little world, our small conflicts and interests. I look out past the stars, the small beacons of light in an ever darker night, and I look into those memories, distant and faded, of family. I see the same thing I always see when I decide to gently sigh about letdowns. Their faces, as kindly and warm as they always have been, as they always will be. Maybe something else, maybe something more. The ferocity of the blackness covering our world was unbelievable. So it was when my heart became more convinced than ever that honesty and sincerity were the only methods to happiness. There should never be a lie in a tear, never fraud in a smile, never motive behind a laugh.

         Third number. College girl. Likes Crass. Resident Assistant. Talked to me. Thought she liked me. We talked, I comforted her, I shared moments of kindness with her, but nothing physical. Then I suggest it, rather casually, perhaps too casually for her, and she laughs, maybe the only way she could respond. So I ask her if it's okay if I ask another time, and she tells me that she's not interested. Third number.

         The third one.

         In high school, there were two girls I liked. The first I had a date with, but she cancelled. The second followed suit with the date I had with her.

         A world of madness, poor street kid sitting in a well heated subway trying to sleep in his bed of tears...

         Now I'm on the streets of New Orleans. Cold air and streets that smell like beer. Streets that smell like the kids of the past two centuries. French influence and American politics. Punks. Kids. Two weeks there, and I found three girls I could care about.

         Skittles. Twelve years old, a thousand times more freedom than a two hundred year old nation. We talked. She liked to read. We laid side by side in the squat, as these very same stars poked through the shadow of afterhours. Wrapped her arm around my chest. Burried her face in my neck. Kissed. Bit. Closed her eyes in ultimate peace. And I returned it. Ounce for ounce of saliva, we found freedom together wrapped between a torn blanket, on a bed of styrophome, as the winds passed through the broken windows whipping through the clothe we put up, as four people did the same in the room. Such a beautiful smile, pink hair, shaved skull. I wanted to collapse and love her forever. I did for that night. Closed eyes and fingertips gently running my face.

         Stray. Mother to a child, and the idea that maybe sleeping naked to a lover is the best experience for a girl. Counter-culture, manifesting itself in a woman who was into anarchy and squatter rights. Wonderful thighs, gorgeous body. A shaved head. Adorable smile. Secret smiles every time I moved, as she watched, and told me with her body what I never was told with words. One night. Two nights. Three nights. Waking up and just wanting to sleep some more. Softly bruised skin. Bites on my skin. Pulling away and wanting more. Together with the idea that love of body meant something, alone with the solemn promise that we won't forget. Kindness and affection, hands running the lengths of my inner forearms. Me forgetting for then, that I wasn't free.

         Megghann. Herpes virus, but the most knatty and enticing dreadlocks imaginable, of orange flavor. Selling roses on Bourbon street to tourists, wearing a leopard skin skirt and a black coat. Pale skin. Eyes so precise, you felt embarassed when she looked at you, and she could see your soul. The most angelic face. "Kiss me" I said, without speaking. So warm. So close. So befriended. Vegetarian. One of those "if I could only kiss her, I would be forever satisfied" beauties. Second grade again, falling in love without the idea of sex immediately coming to picture. Touching her body. New meaning. Sarcastic, witty remarks. Kindly gestures. Warm affection. "Don't ever forget you knew me" I say with a glance. Long walk into the night. Kissing closed eyelids.

          I fell in love with the idea that affection can liberate my heart for a few hours. And I never let go, when the girl told me every way she could, that she believed in goodness.

         And alas, the third, non-squatter girl.... a rejection of my advance. Because maybe I thought it wouldn't matter where we came from, that maybe we could still meet somewhere in the middle. I'll still keep my eyes, heart, and mind open, for what may come.


         Maybe I was wrong when I thought, that no girl would ever say no, if she knew how I would kiss her, how my touch felt.

         This Vase Is Everything You Know


    "This is the world," Vonz said, as he pointed to a vase.

    "What on earth are you talking about?" Joline asked.

    "Everything we know, society and government," Vonz said, as he turned away from his audience and focused back on the vase, "This vase is that."

    "I'm afraid I quite don't understand," Alfred said.

    "How can you say that this vase is the world?" Arbuthnot asked, "It is but a small vase."

    "Quite true," Vonz said, "But each piece of it represents part of the civilization that we are a part of."

    "What's your point?" Joline asked.

    Vonz lifted up a piece of cloth that was laying on the table, revealing a sledge hammer. Everyone lost their breath. He picked it up, and smashed it against the vase. A thousand small pieces of porceline exploded into the air, demonstrating the possibility of flight for inanimate objects. A shimmering glaze of air.

    The crowd, holding their hands up to prevent any of the glass from hitting them, lowered their guard. On the ground they found their host, Vonz, sitting with his legs crossed and looking through the broken shatters of the vase.

    "What are you doing?" Arbuthnot asked.

    "I'm looking through the pieces of our civilization," he said, without looking up, "I want to understand."

    "Understand how?" Alfred asked, "You just destroyed that great vase that represented our society."

    "Not destroyed," Vonz said, looking up for a second, "Taken apart." And then back to examining the pieces.

    "Again, I want to know," Arbuthnot inquired again, "What are you doing?"

    "I'm examining the pieces of our civilization, our governments, our cultures and societies... I want to see how it was built. You see here..." He points to some inane piece of the broken vase. "This piece is the right to life, but it was built on top of a constitution that originally denied women the right to liberty. And you see here..." He points to another erroneous part. "This piece claims that all who do not believe in the almighty god will burn in hell, but it was resting on top of a piece that says religion is necessary towards a happy life. Look at this one..." He points to another shard. "Aawww, this is one of my favorites. This states that government should be just and fair. But right on top of that piece was this one, which gives the power to a person, a "leader," that lets him make a tyrant of himself. And you see over here..." He stretches his arm far over the glass particles that covered the ground to one small five sided shard. "This piece was on the bottom." Vonz looks up to everyone. "It says that people want to know the truth, but then look over here." He points to three triangles near the five sided shard. "This says that people will have bias for their culture, and this one says that people will always have their society's prejudices, and this last one says that people don't want to change."

         I Was Human Again


         I was a homeless gutter punk. I had spent several weeks, roaming these sometimes scary, sometimes terrible, sometimes entertaining streets. Alleyways were my home. The sidewalks were my couch. And the city is my living room.

         Sad, disoriented faintingness. Lively images of what confer to death. I thought I knew it all, but I didn't... I lost it.

         I came to the Drop-In Center, a place for the homeless (or near-homeless) to get food. When signing in, I asked them some questions where I could get a blanket. They started to tell me directions to various places, and since I was in a social situation, I relied on my old social skills. "Hhhhhmmmm, very provocative," I told her, rubbing my chin and only half opening my eyes, appearing like an ass. I said it several times.

         "Stop saying that," she said, while laughing. And I smiled, because she laughed at my joke. And I was human again. I was human again. I was human.

         Our Daily Dose


         On my journey to a land where happiness is provided and security is guaranteed -- where there are lovers and friends abound, never a bankruptcy is brotherhood or kinship among these people -- I will take drugs to soothe the pain of what I do not have. And while under the influence, I am not taking any steps closer to salvation, but it is our daily dose, where for a few fleeting hours, we may rest, and think, and pray.... that goodness shall be upon us, that tears will flow like streams, that I will never forget where I've been or where I'm going. This is for our daily dose...

         I Ran


    I was sitting on the steps of the closed, store waiting for my friend to get out of work. I wanted to feel her breath on my neck again, taste her body, love her physically. I waited like a lover, impatiently, content with dreams and fantasies. Only minutes before she would be out. I turned my head and cops were chasing me.

    Crime: Obstruction of a Public Passage.

    And I ran... I ran so fast.... Through the French Quarter and zig-zagging blocks... I ran...

    Going through the store of Albertson's, I wanted to steal something to feed myself and my friends. We were walking down the aisle, myself holding what I wanted to lift. And I held my pocket open with my fingers and was just about ready to drop the item in there, as a manager walked by and stopped, and I immediately stopped, and he kept walking.

    Crime: Attempted Petty Theft.

    And I ran... I ran so fast... Out the door and down the street... I ran...

    There were so many shiny things in Oshman's Sporting goods. I had taken over $100 worth of knives, not because I was greedy, but because I was what Capitalists call "enterprising." They served me well once I was on the street. As I walked out the front door, the alarm went off.

    Crime: Felony Stealing

    And I ran... I ran so fast... Out the door and down the street... I ran...

    It was late, and we were all in our squats. The dog park served us well, and we knew the days that it would be raided for squatters. All was quiet and all was nice. Those who would have fucked already fucked. But the dog heard something and started barking. We were all confused. Then we heard gun shots.... pop pop pop pop.... And cops came to the squat as the dog would lay down next to us, bleeding...

    Crime: Criminal Trespassing.

    And I ran.... I ran so fast... Into the French Quarter and never looking back... I ran... I wish nothing held me back.

         A Note From New Orleans


         When I left New Orleans, I took a mini-library with me of books I had ripped off from Bookstar, a local store owned by Barnes and Noble. Unfortunately, I had left many of my essays and a book on Objective Morality I had started writing, probably accounting to a good 200 pages of written material, each word just another piece of my soul. "A Tribute to Goodness" survived, though, as I had uploaded it to my site for safe keeping. While writing my other pieces, I didn't have the luxury of the internet. Hence, they were lost. I inquired to the owner of it, and they said they had to fix the computer and clear the harddrive. So, I was left with nothing more than just that one essay, though I was thankful. Then, while looking through one of the books I stole from Bookstar, I pulled out an 8 by 11 inch piece of notebook paper, which I had used as a bookmark. I had entirely forgotten about it, but it was a mini-essay which I had written. And here, I present it....

         Through the study of history and the heroes of the Humanitarian movements, and the millions in each protest of Direct Action, that related to the liberation of others, I can only come to the conclusion that we are destined for a civilization where cruelty is non-existent and where the crumbs of superstition are among the rubble of the past. The belief in this destiny is accompanied by the conviction that conscious beings naturally seek justice, liberty, and peace. Then I left my library, my computer, and my research, and I became a squatter. My father expressed to me personally, that he believed me to be hurtful, hateful, and dangerous, and not welcome in his house. I trekked out into the world with my real family, those I share more than just fickle blood with. On the streets, I met drunkards and addicts, many of them vultures without conscience. I had stolen food for them, befriend them, treated them all well. But when I was taken to jail for Criminal Trespassing (I was sleeping in an abandoned building), they looted my things. I cannot wholly blame them -- the only mode of existence is supported by beggary and theft. The corporations are to blame, as the prices of goods are too high, and the jobs pay too little. Many of my street friends attempted to have jobs, but they were paid poorly, under the table, and my closest street brother (Pockets) was fired from his job for eating food on the ground. My faith in humanity had never been so smashed than by the betrayel of these men and women. Many of them were good, in that they were friendly, cheerful, and kindly. I found the two faces of mankind, and learned more of being homeless in a day than in my life of being homed in a year. And I thank my friends and family of the street for their uncompromising support. For Pockets, who I was released from jail with, and for his brotherhood. For Stray, for her cute, affectionate nature. For Humble, and always treating me as family. For Jeff, and his promise of my safety in every dark alley. For Twitch and Violet, who have wronged me in some ways, but have shown great Altruism to me. To the men and women whose names escape my mind, for their actions which will never escape my heart, for the experience of being with them which will never escape my mind.

         My Writing Is Not Mature


         When I submitted my story "Waking Up Cold" for inclusion to Strawberry Press' magazine, they said that it was poorly written, in that it had no room for character development and was not mature enough. But that's like saying that poetry is nothing more than a collection of undeveloped sentences and that paintings are no more than a childish configuration of paint. And yeah, it's kind of hard to do character development for a character that's dead.

         A Thought on Stray


         Myself laying down, her on top of me, she started to undo my belt, and the she looked to me with a smile, and said, "I hate these Boyscout belts."



    The boy really has nothing in his life, except the hope that one day he will.



         And I flew through the sky, to a place where a shade of purple inherited the clouds, and I discovered a castle, a flying city, made entirely of glass, reflecting nothing but that light purple. And I saw her, I saw Stray, in a suit made entirely of flexible glass, wearing a beautiful helm made of glass. I flew in a little closer, she wrapped her hands around the back of my neck. Our eyes met with a tranquility that cannot match the beauty of any man's imagination. Together, our two passions combined and stirred; we made love forever, until the skies turned to a meld of darkness spotted with the light of stars, until I woke up from my 500mg of DXM experience, and realized that life meant something more.

         Find the Answer


    Questioning leads to answers. Doubt should never be feared. Just as you may ask others to doubt and question their ways, it would not be fair for you to not question your ways. Have one's original convictions hold to be true and withstand doubt, then doubt has been the strengthening force of them, so those who fear doubt are those who understand that their convictions are irrational.

    Claims may never be accepted at face value. They must be examined and with a slightly small logic the falsified claims will be abandoned.

         Hacker Slogans


    "If you had to come up with a slogan for the hacker movement, wouldn't you like.... In Proxy We Trust?"

    "Eh, I want something less formal. How about... I love my proxy and she loves me?"

    "I disagree with you both. Why not.... Give me some of that old-fashioned IP-to-IP love?"

         Keep Questioning


         What is a Freethinker? A Freethinker is one who uses these Methods and ideas to arrive at their conclusions, or use these Methods and ideas to confirm their conclusions. We see with Freethought that we gain our ideas from society. We also see that our enemies and those who we dislike in method gain their ideas from the same source: their society. From an outward view, both are almost identical. When you question the logic and consistency of another society then you feel that perhaps you were subject to the same lack of logic and lack of consistency in your society, which may have provided for you a downfall. Freethought began with questioning. For the whole life of a Freethinker, he will question and question authorities and creeds. The only way to end the questioning is death.

         Not Laid Yet


    When I made the statement to my fellow philosophers, that "Fucking is something that someone can enjoy regardless of intellect," I heard Socrates whispering in the back to Freud, "He obviously hasn't gotten laid yet."

         Potato Philosopher


    Looking through the vials, examining the contents, I found myself not in the scientific chambers of a philosopher, but rather in the hell hole pit where the screams of agony and terror were commonplace. It was darker, it was scarier, it was more painful than anything I have ever done, or any place I had ever been.



    I hate thieves. That's why I'm a repo-man, and I reposses from store shelves the meaningful life that they took from me -- to the poor, I give what I secured -- to the starving, I give the food I appropriated. They call me Robin Hood, and the name isn't inappropriate.

         The Human Spirit


         I might answer the question: What conditions of the sentient being do the "caged bird" and "free bird" represent? But I absolutely will not answer the question: What conditions of the human spirit do the "caged bird" and "free bird" represent? I'm sure that the consciousness, the ability to feel pain, suffering, joy, desire, and happiness, is the valued component of any organism. If an organism, however, does not have this valud component, then killing it is justified, as nothing is harmed. So, why then, must our "great", often times sadistic and cruel, civilization be tempted to use animals as machinery producing flesh for us to digest when we have vegetables and fruits, instead?

         There is a slew of conscious beings out there, interchangeable with any human being, who are enslaved. They are enslaved because they are born without hands, but with paws. They are born without arms, but with wings. They are born without feet, but hooves. They are the downtrodden. They are the abused, neglected, and enslaved. If a man is given the right to life and liberty, do we do it because he has a penis? If a white human being is given the right to life and liberty, do we do it because he has white skin? If a heterosexual man is given the right to life and liberty, do we do it because he is heterosexual? And if pious man is given the right to life and liberty, do we do it because he is pious? If so, then if we glue a dildo to a crucifix and throw a bucket of paint over it, then it deserves the right to life and liberty as well. The fundamental principle that grants the right to life and liberty is not that of physical traits. The fundamental principle that grants the right to life and liberty is consciousness. Humans and animals are fluently conscious beings and to reject such a claim is to admit ignorance.

         It is hereby that I declare that if this is a serious question offered by the state, then I am disgusted to be a United States citizen. Furthermore, I am disgusted by the officials and individuals who claim to be role models for children. If the teachers and professors who create these tests are mimicked by their students, then I expect to see a generation that finds value in violence, principle in pain, and assertions in arrogance. The current teachers and professor have nothing to offer in means of education or value. They teach a sadistic and demeaning view of life. They are fools amongst students willing to learn. The only thing they will learn is to continue the pain, continue the ignorance, and continue the injustice.

         Vegetarian Freethinker


         The preferred conclusion of Freethought is Vegetarianism. One may question eating animal meat to eating human meat. When one delves deeper, they realize that there is no difference at all. One may question eating plants, but plants are not conscious beings capable of feeling pain, suffering, joy, desire, and happiness. One may question animals eating other animals, but that is required. A lion verses a zebra will either have a starved lion or a killed zebra. One will die. The lion has to eat the zebra, and if he does not, he will die. Just as a human may be stranded on an island with no fruits, grains, or vegetables. He would be justified in killing a wild boar or another animal for food.

         Recovery Essay


    Login confirmed
    System Activated

    Log #44098820
    Data Compressed Variables: 4592-592894/29492-492495026

    Recovery Essay



         I've been alive and on this planet for 18 years, 6 months, and 13 days, and I feel like the purpose that I have always held has fallen apart. In fact, I lied. I don't know how many months or days I've been on this planet, but it only sounded poetic to start a paragraph like that. Truth is this: poetry is beautiful, and I only know that I am 18 years old. I have, for quite some time, being a reformer. I tried to change the world. But I didn't just wish it to be different. I gave it my blood, my sweat, my tears. I would have died for my cause if only given the chance. There was no line separating what I did as a reformer and my life. I gave it my all. I completely dropped my pursuits as far as a social or sexual life goes. For 4 years of being a reformer, I was dating my hand. I loved the chase, though. I loved debating, arguing, just waging battles of intellect and brain prowess. There was always the Ad Hominem argument, or some pathetic Ad Hoc, or the lame Non-Sequitor (oh, gotta love those Non-Sequitors). And as I wrote, in the most amazing and poetic language imaginable, so sincere that it sears the breast of immortal angels, and so I wrote that these are my causes and I would die for them. But I have changed, as I no longer feel this way. It no longer strikes me as the war of passion, blood pumping a thousand miles per minute through my heart. I once fell to the ground, and rubbed my hand through the loose soil, "Thousands of miles away from this spot, animals are being bred and killed only so that humans can consume them.... The great injustice being committed wreaks havoc at my heart." And so it was then, that I was in love with reform, the wonderful dancer that she was. I remember the first months of being a Vegetarian altogether. Who can find merit in the idea that they can no longer eat meat? Well I did. I considered myself lucky. I was lucky, because I was shone such a beautiful and privileged intellectual sight: that we are all conscious beings, all deserving of love and affection. And no matter where I went, I was that: a Vegetarian. I loved my fellow creatures and held them with reverence, because I did not eat them. I was something different: a Freethinker. I thought for myself. And it was this that gave me the great happiness of being a Vegetarian. Because I wasn't set to follow what anyone told me. I was set to do what was right, irrespective of authority, regardless of society. Give to me that organ of passionate love and seething thought, rather than the raised dust of culture and society.

         But here I sit, 18 years, 58395 months, 294829204 days, and 58292058298209482 seconds old. I feel that I am no longer the same man. I feel, in all honesty, that I am a worse person, because I do not fall to my knees and cry for my brethren, because I am not moved so deeply to do so. I walk on this planet, feeling like the empty shell of a human being. Back then, depression was heart-wreaking, but today it is heart-numbing. And a moment will pass, and I feel myself back there, in that room, that bulletin board, that mall, surrounded by savages, and I will hear their calls, their mockery, their insults, and I would stand there, bold, brazen, unmoved. I offered words of bitterness, but they faded in comparison to those that they gave. And soon, as I became more experienced, the only bitterness that was within my words was that of stinging satire and sarcasm. As one man told me, "If animals are not made to be eaten, then why are they made of meat?" I responded with, "Oh, that's right, and humans are made with meat for the same purpose: to be eaten. Thanks for clearing that up." It was a sledge hammer, tearing down the wall of those too unable to change themselves, too stuck in conviction to think for themselves. The bitterness seethed, and it tasted wonderfully, it smelled like death, and it was lurking around every corner that a Freethinker existed. I would go back to these horrors of mad mobs, as I debated with logic and reason all that I could. And I would become depressed, I would feel little, I would feel small, I would feel. I would cry. But now, I feel nothing, and I don't cry. Back then, I would dust myself off, and go back into the fray. As quickly as the teardrop hit the ground, I was back in the battle. Quick quick quick! Animals are dying right now! Do it fast! And I did, for years of my life, and I just ran out of breath.

         I would remember the bitterly cold mornings where my father would drive me to school. I was so cold, I kept my hands in my pockets, and the CD player on my lap would slide off onto the floor when my father took a turn. I would pick it up, and go back to listening to the melodies that I backdroped with my fantasies. Fantasies of women, kind and tender in their glow, warm and affectionate in their actions, reformers in every bit. Fantasies about power and glory and fame... My life was a nightmare. My mind was a dream. Some where in between those dimensions created my existence, as I lived it, as I cried through it, as I laughed through it. And today, I am dead. Or am I? Can I go back to the field where I have lost so much, been mocked so badly, and can I feel those stinging wounds of cruelty on my back, as they so brutally attack my character, just because I give sympathy to every conscious being? I remember the Christians, as a group, so ignorant and pious, so unwilling and so quick to label, so unavailing in their conviction to tell me that I was hellbound. I remember the Christian, the individuals, the ones who offered sympathy and support, who gave me kindness and warmth wherever I was, the ones who wished me well in my life, no matter where my trail leads. I remember the insensate mob, screaming wildly, tormenting a newly found taboo, unflinching in motive, unstopping in action. And the insensate mob uttered a cry of triumph! Give to me that organ of passion and intellect, rather than the raised dust of faith's after-thought. I don't want to be dead inside, but perhaps that is where I am, with no option otherwise. Or maybe, before I hit the road, I can go back one last time, and I can give it everything I have. And I can tell them again, why I believe in equality. And, again, I can hear the endless rants, see the claws tearing at my eyes, feel the breath of a daemon down my back, and with all this, I can stand up, and remember that I am a bold human being. I am a man, a Freethinker, a Vegetarian. Maybe I will remember all this when I go back to the horrors of the trenches. Give to me that option of life and vitality, my lover of life, for I dream of a better existence.

         Child Abuse


    "Yeah, you know the kid from the book, 'A Child Called It'?" John said, "I was that kid with my family."

    "Haha," I said, "Yeah, I was like that with my family, too. Always abusive, always hitting, and -- of course -- personal degradation of my character from those who are supposed to love me."

    "They always come in with the personal remarks and the humiliation," Lenny said, "If they didn't, it wouldn't really be Child Abuse!" He shrugged his shoulders and we laughed.

    "And then they try to make it confusing," John said, using holding his hands out flat parallel to each other to help demonstrate, "They'll say they love you and then beat you up, saying they do what they do because they love you."

    "Ahaha," Lenny said, "Yeah, or, 'This is for your own good!'"

    "Bwahahahahah," I said, "Yeah, and my favorite is, 'These are the best years of your life!'"

    "Ahahahahahaha," John said, choking, "That's the best one, yet, Punker. THE BEST!"



    He's lying on the ground, partly covered in a sleeping bag. As he softly tosses and turns, the moonlight pouring over his body through the window without hinderance. The moans and sighs gently matching the sounds of the softest music: the chirping of the crickets, the occassional runner outside, the common police siren. As he lies there, beside the cheap motel bed that he fell out of, I realize that I am right there on the floor with him. Staring at the ceiling, the chipped paint, mixed with dreams that broke down long ago, I can notice that the fade has already torn our souls from us, and there is no tomorrow, just like there was no yesterday. Pill bottles allign the floor, making a pattern resembling hell... or death... or suffering. I don't know. The designs of birds on the quilt I'm sleeping in aren't enough to mourn the passing of our meaning, of our purpose. And though I know there have been thousands of rednecks to sleep in the same motel in the same bed, I also know that they are not the reason why being here makes me sick. My friend that I am lying next to is dead. His body breaths, contracts with the function of his diaphragm, but he is gone. So am I. I once liked who I was, almost a sort of pride that I could understand myself as a person and love what I did. I don't even know who I am anymore, with the things I've done and the things that have happened.

    And I think, sometimes, that the things I've said may have been harsh. Every relationship ending in a roar, an explosion, an imperfection, and then loneliness. Pitch dark loneliness. Only more drugs. I want more. That's all I want. I just want more. Nothing could sooth me more, could give me that sort of happiness, but the pills, the small spots of happiness in this mess of a life I have.

    I spent the last $15 I had on this motel, where we each had a bottle of Robitussin that we stole from CVS. Tomorrow night they'll kick us out, and we'll have to sleep on the street again. I don't know what we'll do. I don't know where we'll go. And I don't know how we'll manage.

    "Are you awake?" he eyes open, as he swallows and takes a breath.

    "Yeah," I said, already having taken a seat on a chair, "I'm here."

    "How's it going?" he asked.

    I turned my head, "Same."

    "That was great," he said, obviously liking the experience.

         Today is a Good Day to Die


         "Today is a good day to die," I said.

         He turned to me, "Like all the others, 'eh?"

         The School of New Thought


    Books you don't read because a school requires you to.

    Art you don't look at because it's popularized by the media.

    Music you don't listen to because it's on the radio.

         Punker Being Personal


    Surrounded by the so-called state of "civilization" that we live in, where it is not uncommon that men try to solve their problems by praying for a solution, where it is not rare for individuals to consume their fellow creatures, where it is not at all difficult to find an abusive Capitalist class and a heartless government to defend them, surrounded by the things that make up cruelty and the pieces of corruption, surrounded by this, surrounded by this, I had decided to work for reform. Change the way things work, inform a few people, spread the education. Hell, I may not be the final reformer to bring an end the brutality of the Western world, but at least I'm one gear in society that's working backwards -- pushing back the heartless creeds and doctrines that have allowed such animosity to ferment and grow. The reason why I am an activist, an author, an organizer, all these things, is because I have seen the suffering of the victims. The single parent working 60 hours a week to survive; the animal that could feel just like me -- slaughtered only to appease the taste of some human's tongue; the clergy still claiming that a hell exists, instilling fear into the hearts of their followers, and tears into their faces. I have seen all of this, and everyday is just another battle against the oppressive regime of hypocrisy, the epitome of the thorns of iniquity, the pale, greedy claws of superstition and bigotry. Waking up almost mechanically, it's all about reform and change... Looking out my window, though, today is just another day away from friends, away from lovers, away from any individual who could offer the sincere palm of affection to a bruised and bleeding heart. Instead, everyday is just another day where I have to face those who defend the heartless, merciless, brutal, cruel systems of Capitalism, Christianity, animal oppression, Monogamy... Using every instrument from inhumane ideology, they will create the worst conflict against justice and fairness. So, it goes as it is, and I find myself surrounded by those who verbally, and sometimes physically, express how appalling I am, how terrible I am, how thoughtless, how ignorant, how stupid, how foolish, how angst-filled. By the end of the day, I want nothing but peace, and every movement is filled with the most gentle of affectionate sentiments. I sleep, sometimes with violent nightmares where I'm killed, and then awake to do it all over again. To face the advocates of Totalitarianism and brutality. In this cycle that I call my life, I find that there amazingly few who stand beside me or hold any genuine love for me.

         Power and Authority


    Power and authority are an illusion. They only control insomuch as you let them. The chains that are bondaged to you exist because you let authority put them on. If you revolted at every unjust authority, then those figures who assumed authority would lose both power and authority.

         I Find A Strange Happiness in Masturbation


    I find a strange happiness in masturbating to pictures of friends while listening to German, Industrial music.

         A Man Was Falling Off A Cliff


         "If a man was falling off a cliff," the interrogator asked of the three philosophers, "What would you do?"

         The Capitalist answered, "I would offer to help them up, but only if they worked for me without pay for 20 years... If it was a woman, I would require her sexual services over the same amount of years."

         "And if they refused?" asked the interrogator.

         "I would let them fall," the Capitalist answered frankly.

         "What about you?" the interrogator asked the Communist.

         "I would help them up, but only if they agreed to work with me collectively," the Communist answered.

         "Well," continued the interrogator, "What if they did all the work and you did none?"

         The Communist replied, "Then I would have half of the profits and they would have half of the profits."

         "And what if you did all of the work and they did none?" the interrogator asked.

         The Communist replied, "The same would happen."

         "What about you?" asked the interrogator to the Socialist, "What would you do in this situation?"

         "I would help them up," the Socialist said, "And require nothing."

         I Felt More Sad


         "My grandma died a few days ago," Jack said.

         "Well, that's not so bad," John said, not even meeting him face to face.

         Myself, somewhat disturbed by his comment, I said, "What do you mean, 'that's not so bad'"?

         "Well, it's only a grandma," John said, Jack's face somewhat tear-ridden now, "It's like a dog, you know? They die sooner or later. For me, anyway, I felt more sad when my dog died than when my grandma died."

         Wonderful Sex


         "I'm just a little worried about sex," her 16 year old cousin Janice said.

         "Oh, don't worry about that," Mary, the 25 year old and married, devout Christian said, "As you get older, you'll realize that sex is a strange but nice thing to have..." she continued with a smile that spoke of ease and contentment... "It is a warm pursuit, with lustful pleasure. It is a grand thing to have." To tilted her head to the side, as though expecting Janice to understand.

         "Look, Mary," Janice retorted, unsatisfied by her aid, "I don't want to have a sexual relation where I have to wait for my lover to get the nerve up before I get laid, I don't want to be stuck in a relationship where talking about sex using actual terminology will be an unpardonable offense, and I certainly don't want to be fucking a man who pulls out before I orgasm. So don't presume to tell me that the way you have sex is ideal for me or anyone who enjoys pleasure." Mary's smile became bankrupt with these words, and Janice left the room.

         We're All Red


         She looked around the ill-lit room, studying the sometimes gaunt, sometimes dark, sometimes eery, sometimes contemplative, sometimes manical, faces of the 14 men. Either leaning against the walls, or with our hands in our pockets, or hands behind our backs standing firmly as soldiers, we stood there, allowing her to study our faces. Then, myself in front of the scattered battalion of men, she looked to my face. Eyes wide, and gesturing with my head movements with each word, I said, in a rather confident tone, "We're all Red."

         I Don't Talk to Anyone


         "You know," I said to her, "I've talked to thousands of people on all sorts of issues. In every debate, I tried to remain compassionate and rational. Yet here I am, with only you as my only friend left."

         "Perhaps, though," she suggested, "You would rather be alone than with an insensate mob whose orthodoxy turns your stomach ill."

         "True," I said, "But still, I am alone in this life and have few friends to help me. It's quite odd. I have talked to amost everyone and now I don't talk to anyone. They are no longer around."

         "Aye," she said, "It seems true."



    I feel forgotten and I'm not even known yet.

         I Will Be Back Home Soon


         Ah, a wonderful day's work. I was laying on the bed, letting the pains in my back slowly desist -- allowing my mind to rejuvenate and my muscles to rest. I thought about going back home, about how I will be back home. But then I thought, perhaps I will spend so much time at home -- in that wonderful city with those wonderful people -- that I won't have enough time to debate or to reform. That, perhaps, my writing will slow and my skills will decrease. But then my subconscience screamed, "Punker, this is possibly your last ticket home. Now you take that train, and you ride it as fast as you fucking can!" I hope I will still be able to write and enjoy my home at the same time. I hope I can keep the two together, equal -- I hope.



    When they say good bye to you, and they don't wait for you to wish them good travels and they disappear before you, you know they are no longer friends.

         This Is Him


         The ocean of the unknown, rising in a dense mist. The air of doubt and question, strong enough for every bird. The mind of him, a man of analytical consideration, was just another bird. But he was more than that; he believed that he could find truth and reason.

         From the days of his early questioning, he thwarted himself to ridicule. He made his life full of blights and sadness. The reasons are not the same as they are with others. It was not an inability to manage his own life, nor was it an unscathing and uncontainted lust. It was that he embraced sympathy and virtue openly. In front of his peers, he spoke what he felt and without a single barrier. His words, they scorned; his life, they threatened. It was this man who fought against the chains of iniquity and of cruelty. Filling the minds of men with knowledge was his goal -- he strived with every waking moment of his life to give something to the world. Many speak of giving something back; but this man has known nothing but the tyranny of heartless mobs.

         Never expecting to be well liked, or well appreciated, he became closed from others. Whenever he made a plea for others to be more concerned about the rights of others, whenever he made a plea on the grounds of kindness, whenever he made a plea of humaneness, he was shunned and detested. When men and woman began to favor this man, he grew in confidence and started working harder and advocating even more.

         It was this man who was direct and unflinching. His ethics and creeds nearly offensive to all who were believing the major creeds of his day. It was this man who only claimed to love virtue and detest vice; to hold that all conscious beings are deserving of affection and that recognition of kinship of all sentient beings was absolutely needed. From the brutal crowds and their taunts, this man became hard and difficult. There were even times where he may have been a mystery to himself. His beliefs were founded on the firm ground of skepticism and evidence. Detested for his conclusions, he was admittedly shaken, but not so much to stir him off the path of truth. Ardent in his ways, he went on, once a child of intellectual curiosity, but now not a man or an adult -- but a Humanitarian. Scorned and mocked, he was held to be the epitome of infidelity, both to civilization and religion.

         He had only confessed to love virtue and detest vice. This is him. This is me.

         Child Abuse


         "Why are you so interested in that article involved in Child Abuse?" she asked

         "Because, well," I said trying to explain, putting down the magazine yet my gaze still fixed on the ground, "I'm interested for the same reasons that someone might read Origin of the Species or some psychology book. I want to know about myself." I looked up, facing her, looking into her eyes, a mild five feet between us. "I want to know who I am and why I am the way I am. I tried reading biology and anatomy books -- they only confused me. The emotions, the disorders, the fears.... They were never explained when I read about how humans should be. Because there is always an exception, and I am that exception. I was abused as a child."

         To Be An American


    It is said that a man can be defined by what he hates. To be an American, an individual must hate two types of people: those who are different and those who are better. Nothing else is required to be an American.

         Alcohol Charges


    "If we get caught with too much alcohol as minors, we'll not only get an alcohol violation charge. We'll get intent to party."

         Dead Heroes


    If you choose to have a hero, choose a dead one. That way, the hero can't fuck up any more than you know he has fucked up, and you won't be left in ignorance to defend his fucking up. Or, like myself, you can choose to have no hero and worship your own ideals.

         Drug Use Roll Call


    Psychedelic/Hallucinogen: Using these is like a revitalization process, as it helps you reaffirm the basic principles of your life that have helped you accomplish so much anyway. At the moment, the drug of choice for this category is 5-MeO-AMT (5-Methoxy-Alphamethyltryptamine). I do enjoy 5-MeO-DMT (5-Methoxy-N,N-Dimethyltryptamine), but it doesn't seem to have much mind-expansion capability -- it's like psychedelic crack; it's ten minutes of intense rushing. Salvia Divinorum is enjoyable, as a "happy trip" with little potential of fully losing your sanity. And Lysergic Acid Amides (LSA) is probably least enjoyable (it can make you go insane without any of the good aspects of going insane).

    Cocaine: Not my thing. Ten minutes of happiness with three hours of psychosis isn't something I'd pay for or even take for free. It does help me write, though.

    Amphetamine: One of my things. I prefer Dextro-Amphetamine (AKA: Dexedrine, Adderall). It may last six hours, but methamphetamine is always so dirty everywhere that it simply destroys the body and gives you a powerful, unhealthy psychosis. Personal rule: Never stay up for more than one day on this.

    Alcohol: Check.

    Opiates: Codeine is okay, so is Oxycontin and all those other Pharmaceutical Opiates. I'm more of a Heroin guy, though. It's that simple.

    Marijuana: It took two years before I ever got stoned (I'm a dedicated drug user). It was about the 101st bowl that finally got me wasted. And yeah, it's pretty good to help you sleep, but beyond that, the only use of Marijuana is to increase the effects of other drugs.

    Benzodiazepines: Valium, Xanax, Klonopin. They help you sleep. And deal with psychosis (see: cocaine, amphetamine). And it's fun to mix with other drugs (see: alcohol, marijuana). Beyond that, no use.

         Fake World


    We grow up in a fake world and express suspicion towards everything we touch that feels real. Sleeping in fear and waking to angst, we are helplessly looking for a reason to be pissed off. Draped in darkness, we breathe the unheard sighs of despair to those things we never expected to hear us.

         Freedom as Intoxicant


    I need some freedom.... Approximately 40 ounces of it.

         Human Culture


    When this human culture is shattered and destroyed by an alien race, they will search through the scraps of our civilization. They will say, "These creatures are autonomous. They put themselves on their own phone number lists!"

         Look Up at the Rain


    I look up at the rain and smile as my face and eyes are pelted with thick droplets of water. I know that surely today was one battle and tomorrow shall be another, but from where I've come and where I'm going, and certainly who I am going with, I know that to get from one day to another is not a pain but pleasure and duty. With justice, peace, and compassion as our characteristics, we will be able to fight harder against inquity, barbarism, and superstition. By godlessness... the future we work to bring closer is a warm place.

         New Responsibilities for New People


    I hate stupid people. It's my only prejudice. If stupid people are offended, I can't be held responsible!

         New Slogans for New People


    Come and walk backwards with me.

         Religion and Morality


    When the major religions destroyed the proofs for each others Gods, it made us Atheist. However, when we Ethical Rights Theorists fight the arguments for Utilitarianism and Divine Morality, as they fight ours, will people in the end become amoral?

         Right and Wrong


    Too much activity for the wrong and too much inactivity for the right.



    I'm on a tightrope and I can't see six inches in front of my face.



    Come on, you slags! Say no to god and yes to vegetarianism! Animals are sentient beings and therefore deserve the right to life; god is not sentient, and therefore god has no rights. Even if god really existed, it would be necessary to abolish him!

         To Live on the Streets


    Street Life is a mind-altering substance

         Try Masturbating


    "Try masturbating in front of your lover," the Sexologist said, "That way, they can see what makes you cum."

    "Uuuummmm..." I started to ask, "What if I have problems peeing in front of people?"

         What Is It?


    "What is it?"

    "I think it's a body."

    "Are you sure?"

    ".... no."

         Young Writer


    Techno head, popstar, small time waster, barroom pacifist, fuckup with too much time, windowlicker, homeless admirer, tormented soul, agitated personality, restless youth, overgrown intellectual, weak fighter, experienced survivor, nominal conformist, cramped artist, underdeveloped ego, fishy motives, all out dissensionist, typical teen, reckless man, doomed destiny, aimed for death.

         Looking Back Now


         Looking back now, I feel that I have accomplished more than the average man. I did not suffer from an identity crisis. I knew who I was. I was, and am, a fighter, a warrior for Freethought and Humanitarianism. My battles were sometimes difficult, sometimes easy, but nonetheless, they were battles fought for by my ambitious side. I fought in the spirit of Rationalism and compassion. It was for these virtues that I fought. From battle to battle, person to person, I tried to convince everyone that the consumption of meat was unethical and that the gods were undeserving of belief. There have been hundreds that I talked to. But now, I feel like nobody. I feel empty, worthless, hollow. I know who I am; I am a fighter for Freethought. I put my time, effort, tears, blood, and sweat right on the line for the sake of what I believed to be right. That was, to me, the field. It was a place of debate and argument. I desire with my heart to go back to the field and take up arms of wits once again. I wish to convince my fellow men that they should love each other and not an unknown god, and that their net of compassion should extend to all animalia. These are the creeds that I hold sacred, bounded by the reverence for the value of a conscious being.

         Looking back now, I still see the same people and other people eating meat and worshipping idols. They are fools and hypocrites. Oh, but if I could fight once again and take the battle to the enemy! If only I could do this. I wish for nothing more than to sacrifice my life for the sake of Humanitarian and ethical reform. It is the Creed of Kinship, the belief that we are all bound unlimitedly by consideration for each other. My fellow creatures, dying in kennels. My fellow humans, rotting in churches. What a cruel fate Christianity has decided for us. I cannot go back to the field, though. I cannot go back right now. Personal problems have arose that have made living difficult. I find it almost impossible to write or debate. My mind is so preoccupied with the hardships forced onto me from parents. But for the sake of my fellow brethren, I shall continue and I shall presevere. For the liberation of animalia must be coming soon, and if I can make it any sooner, I shall with all my strength do so. Until then, I love my fellow creatures, and I am coming.

         Something I Learned


         I couldn't sleep last night. During Thanksgiving Vacation (a four day weekend), I had stayed up to 4:30 AM or 7:00 AM on certain nights. It was Sunday night (eerrr, Monday morning) and I couldn't sleep. The electric blanket was getting too hot so I took off my sleeping bag. (I'm a lazy bastard; I don't sleep under the covers so I don't have to make the bed in the morning. Instead, I just lay on an electric blanket and cover myself with a sleeping bag.) I laid there, at night, my half naked body being cooled by an open window. Silence governed the air. Memories of a fond, old place governed my mind. Through the panes of the window, I could see the star-lit sky, desolate and unmoving, but beautiful in every aspect. The window was occassional, brisk, and sharp. My body, having been heated by the blanket, would lose much heat with one slow but eventual breeze. The coldness of the air sometimes felt like knives piercing my body, but in my heat, I could not argue with what felt good.

         Sunday was to give way to Monday, a school day, so I had to get at least some sleep. I tried listening to my CD player, listening to some classical (Rachmaninov), some soft (Lou Reed), and some industrial (KMFDM). By now it had been past midnight, yet nothing could get me to sleep. In retrospect, actually, I think listening to the music was rather to help time pass by faster, since none of it actually helped me to sleep but kept me from insanity from boredom. Even so, I had taken off my headphones and put my CD player on the floor; I was no longer interested in music at that point. Instead, I spent several minutes gazing at the stars and celestial bodies which alligned the heavens. I sat "Indian style" at the end of my bed. As a child, I would do this, but always in the hope of seeing a shooting star, but my hope always being blighted by the boredom of nothing. Now, however, I was content with the peacefulness of the night sky. The completeness, the wholeness, of the night sky. Even though I had not the cover of my sleeping bag or electric blanket, or clothing for that matter, I still felt comfortable in my heat.

         Later that night I would go downstairs and eat a peanut butter sandwich which would rest in my stomach even till when school started. (For once in American History class, there was a biological reason for feeling like I was going to vomit.) Even while in the complete darkness of my kitchen, half clothed, I developed the theory that we would all become nudists if we took the baby steps of being completely naked at night. I also had some Limeade while down there (much better than lemonade if you ask me). But this was all besides the point. While up on my bed at one o'clock, staring into the endless skies and the immense beauty of the stars, I learned something. My mind had been preocuppied with a story of love, tenderness, and compassion. I had felt the emotions run thick, of the care given to the needful, of the history of suffering of individuals. The names of the characters, and the characters themselves, were almost irrelevant. The story, though, of a rising to compassion and tenderness was ultimate and effective. After reading through a beautiful and wonderous story of an individual who reaches peace through his friends' aid, I felt peaceful. And when on my bed at night, watching the stars, full knowing my problems (ones that we all have), I learned that I can be happy and at peace in the face of problems, so long as a tender, caring hand is there to aid me, to wipe my tears.



    It is for these reasons stated that I am running. The oppression and hate filled atmosphere was no longer bearable. It was never bearable. And now, with the fact that I am no longer with a computer, I must say this... Life is unbearable, and I would rather choose death than life in this existence. So what now? Of what course shall my journey take me? My own character, a thing of intellect, courage and raw dignity, and I am choosing to run. In the movie Shawshenk Redemption (a damn good movie, might I add), the main character is a prisoner who escapes the torment of his warden. He won; he succeeded. But those things don't really happen in real life. The romantic escape conducted by the oppressed peasant only results in strife and more strife, until a final execution. Or do these things really happen? Will the oppressed peasant escape, leaving for his master nothing but a disguised trail? It all depends on where I land when I jump. The police will convict runaways, but I am no more of a runaway than those who escaped Nazi concentration camps or a runaway slave. Convicting a runaway? By what sick god is this conviction made? But alas, if my traits serve me well - if wit, intelligence, bravery, and quickness are superb characteristics - then I will survive, and I will win. The battle between myself and the world, compassion versus injustice, is on. Let's see who wins.

         Our Daily Struggle


    The oppression led by ignorance and headed with staunch arrogance; we struggle, in our small places, so that we may one day be happy, so that today we may survive.

         Black Room


    To the hightened philosophers and cruel masters, I now reside in the fear of authoritarian and totalitarian brutalities. In the black room, for the world, I write it, I change it, I reform it. In the black room, when I shouldn't, but when I do, I am here, in the black room. Beyond the stone walls and the prison bars, the sun is shining on one part of the world. Here, I reside amongst the memories of myself, collecting what I see useful, so that I may make more use of myself in changing the world. To destroy injustice, to kill any cruel motives of any individual, and to make it aware my fellow humans and animals that we must have consideration for each other. In the black room, I do this, but under the constant threat of abuse and torture. For my fellow animals. I am coming, and you are not forgotten.



    Aaaaahhhhh, fuck.... Life's beginning to suck. I'm in prime. My youth, and yet I have nothing to rejoice. I love Amanda, but I can't see her, because of her fucked up parents. My muscles are sore and my blood is thin. The best part of my day is becoming the part when I'm not awake. I don't want to feel if all I feel is pain. I wish...... Sometimes I just want to end it all. After hearing I couldn't be with Amanda from her mother, I worked 13 consecutive hours on my game. I can't live like this. It'd be easy now to just jerk off and say "Fuck it.... I don't give a flying fuck anymore. Kill me." And yet I work.... I know not why. Am I incredibly weak, or am I incredibly strong. May the tears flow.

         Never Belonged


    I have never belonged. Through my development of elementary school to highschool and even to the e-zines which I have written for, I have never truly belonged. It is not something I strive for, but rather something that has happened to me. I was not one of a group; I was me. I was not a prep, a jock, a nerd, or any other group. I suppose I could be called an outcast. From this position, I sometimes would grow lonely, other times I would become apathetic. The primary reason why I have found groups so detestable was because they often invoke dogmatic principles that show no regard for an universal kinship, in any sense. A group would state that it is better than another, simply because they had threats of violence or force. There was no recognition of justice; to some groups, it was just us and them. I have found this trait prevalent among even the most unsuspecting of groups. I chose the solitary road of reason while others took the path of course of cruelty. Another thing I found among groups which I highly detested was the lack of culture and the domination of conformity. They were bound together by beliefs, but of course, not political or philosophical beliefs, but preference in music and other tastes. Being an individual allowed me to form and honestly agree with everything that I believed, everything that I knew. There are many other traits that I find unlikable within groups: often, people put more effort towards advertising that they are with the group rather than helping to advance the group. Also, groups tend to use illogical and unreasonable principles, claim things that they do not know, and refuse to admit their own faults. Through this, they will try to force things which will not easily move. A final note on being an outcast: it has come with complete abstinance of sex, since partners are hard to come by. (Do I hear the faint echo of laughter?) One last social rant before I end this paragraph: I hate when individuals use "gay" as a negative insult, the belief that men are supposed to suppress emotions, the belief that any individual is not equally deserving of compassionate treatment because of arbitrary, physical characteristics (race, gender, species, sexuality), and I hate religion.

    Aside from being an outcast, I can typically be described as a Rationalist Humanitarian: through reasonable and logical methods, I explore all fields, but in the field of ethical and compassionate treatment, I desire to excel. For a considerable amount of time, I debated individuals and tried to convince them of Vegetarianism. Often, they would ask what religion I professed and I would try to stray away from such a topic, or answer honestly and continue. The reason for this was that I believed Vegetarianism and Animal Rights to be the issue which deserves the most attention at this time, and to profess that one was an Atheist would make people inquire indefinitely about your beliefs, sometimes tauntingly and sometimes aggressively. However, I have often come to the arguments for flesh-eating that presuppose the existence of god. I would hear, "but god said we could consume flesh," all too often. Shortly after enough debate (approximately 300), I realized that the main enemy of compassion and ethical behavior was religion. I saw it first hand: people used religion as an excuse to their immoral behavior. A quick breeze through the history book would easily verify this: the church promoted African slavery, demoted woman to second position, afforded no rights to Homosexuals, accepted war as a blessing, and held that the child must be disciplined without caprice to his torments. These are things that the church has done. Furthermore, the great ethical reformers who have fought for Abolition, Women's Suffrage, Sexual Liberation, Gay Rights, Animal Rights, and the right to an abortion have generally felt distaste to religion. Thomas Paine campaigned against slavery, Robert Ingersoll fought in the Civil War and gave speeches on equality, Margaret Sanger opened an abortion clinic and wrote in newsletters, and Henry Stephens Salt wrote numerous books on all sorts of social reform, including Vegetarianism, prison conditions, Socialism, and women's rights. None of these individuals was a Christian.

    From this position of being a Rationalist Humanitarian, I have inevitably come to the status of being an Atheist, a Vegan, a Socialist, and a Free Lover (or "Polyamorist/practitioner of Polyamory"). The only thing which might arouse suspicion is the title of being a Free Lover. Free Love is not being limited sexual to one partner, whereas my whole life I have had no sexual partner at all. If I did not have one, how could I have multiple partners? However, the title is a declaration of theory and opinion. If I do enter into any sexual relationships, it will be under the guidelines of Free Love.

         Philosophers of the Past


    I have noticed several mistakes with the philosophers of the past. The first mistake was that the majority of them were wrong in their convictions. The second mistake is that they failed in providing a method for the perpetuation of their ideas.

         Stir Thought


    To stir thought, provoke questioning, and question tradition -- these are the purposes held in these articles. No boundary is too far to cross, no belief too cherished to question, and no institution left without some form of criticism. A freedom of thought and an aim on truth are the only goals in my writing. Without bias, bigotry, or superstition, I present the following works to be read.

         What Are You Doing?


    ...what you do to the most hated, you're doing to me. What you to do disrespectful punks and open sluts, what you do to the young and the hungry, the poor and the homeless, those without anything but chains, we feel it, too.



    I did it again... I got into a fight with another friend, a close one, and we'll probably never speak again. This was a friend I had a short time with, too.... I hate this. I've never had a friend for more than a couple months. Perhaps I have a King Henry Syndrom (the fault is with me, not them). Perhaps, even, nobody has close friends for long. Everyone tries to keep their relationships going just to appease to the great Hollywood image of friends who never leave your side and people who always stand up for what's right. I thought, for a second, that I was a good person... No... I thought that for a long, long, long time... I follow a rational and vegetarian morality. I don't believe in the Bible or God. My friend said she was disgusted with me... I won't lie. It hurt.... I don't get it still... I'm just a fucker... I don't know, either.... I don't know why I have no real friends. I don't know why I can't have one person who I can say with 100% certainty that I love. Infact, I think I secretly knew I never loved her in the beginning. I think that my subconscious knew it, but decided to let my conscious jerk off. She said I was trying to change her train of thought. Her views, etc. etc. even though we were both Atheists and Vegans. She thought that things that were disgusting were immoral: orgies, sucking your own sexual organs, etc. etc. When one delves into those enough, there's absolutely nothing immoral with them. Just a coating of Liberal Christianity trying to brainwash you. Any fucking how in any fucking case, the things that she said, when she said I disgusted her, can't be taken back.... And she'll turn into another person in the line of people who are no longer friends of mine... Trisha, Kyle, Kim, Jen, and now Amanda......What's wrong with me? We'll slowly drift apart, I'm sure... And we'll, one day, never talk again. Just a bunch of fuck you "hello"s and bullshit. I hate this... No matter what, it's not understandable. Not by one fucker alive. I'm all alone again. When I face a crisis, it's ALWAYS alone. Not with one motherfucker to cry with. Not one... Because people cause pain. Just a blank monitor to type up my feeling on. Nothing real. All fake. I thought I found the most open minded girl... I was deathly wrong. I'm not say she's not open minded. Yeah, actually, I am saying that. Maybe I'm just stuck with my own views.... Forever. I never let them lose. I can go live in a cave and die in a cave. My offspring will not bare any names, nor will they exist. I'm just fucked up. I tried to write this to help myself, but apparently the tears show how it's not working. Yes, I know the relationship is over... At a very young age, a part of myself told me that I was going to be a gigantically sexual person: having sex with my girlfriend five times in one day. This was at the age of nine or ten, by the way. Another part of myself told me, however, that I was never going to have any friends. I'll never get a girlfriend. I'll never get a good friend. I'll never go anywhere. I'll never become anything. And I'll die and remain in an unmarked grave. I'll just wear a dark trench coat, sleep on park benches, and going around trying to help people, whether it be slitting the throats of shortly to-be rapists or to-be multiple rapists. Or I could just help someone out with a meager offering of food. That's how I pictured my life. And then five seconds after I help out the person they give me a comment like "Yeah, we need to keep fighting the battle against Homosexuality/ Atheism /Vegetarianism/ PEOPLE LIKE YOU." In the end, it seems every fucker, in every fucking house, behind every fucking counter, is a person against me. Someone different. Someone who tries to hurt people like me and people who are different. And then the people who they hurt that are like me, well, I look and turn to see them, but they're only petty and ignorant, often times with a side I disagree with. Two carnivores debate, an Atheist and a Theist. I can't take either side, for they're both my enemies. Both carnivores. And then the people who think women should never have an abortion under any circumstances with the people who think women should be able to have an abortion five minutes before birth. I just figure that if the baby is conscious, then it's immoral to kill, otherwise do as ye will. There's always another view someone disagrees with me about... Someone I begin to fucking hate. Oh, fucking jesus christ. I'm trapped in a home with abusive parents and I'm going end up killing myself in the future. Now seems like a better time. Today is definitely a good day to die.... I'm done...

         About Me


    I guess it's easy for me to hate religion. It is the largest cause of all the pain and suffering in my life and in the lives of everyone else. It grants parents to abuse their children in large and healthy doses. Some religionists, such as the Promise Keepers, want the death penalty for children who rebel against their parents and family. If that was the case, after the beatings and abuse, I would likely have been killed. Religion, especially Christianity (Levicticus 27:28-29, Genesis 9:3), allow eating animals. That is the reason why nine billion animals are slaughtered a year for food. All the pain. All the suffering. All caused by religion, personal and universal. For this case, I hate religion. I hate how it breeds. I hate how it works. I hate how it exists.

    How I came to my conclusion of Vegetarianism was very Freethought provoked. I was sitting in my computer chair and doing my favorite past-time: thinking. I was considering in my mind "What would make an abortion immoral?" I said "If the baby was conscious, then it'd be immoral. But then it would be immoral..." I stopped myself. I already knew the answer, but finished the sentence "to kill animals." All of a sudden, a new lobe of my brain ignited. A sun arose. A new part of me was discovered. Without seeing pictures of how animals are treated in farms or ever meeting a Vegetarian in my whole life, I was a Vegetarian for the rest of my life from there on. It was like BAM! It hit me like a ton of bricks! IT'S IMMORAL TO EAT MEAT!! Just such a surge of mental capacity at that moment. It was the most beautiful moment of my life. Atheism came in the same way, except at my tender age of eight years old.

    The thing I hate the most is when someone assumes that I am an Atheist for being a young teen. Hell, I became Atheist before I was introduced to the word or introduced to Atheists themselves. To the old men who say I am an Atheist because I am young: I am sorry I was able to both arrive at answers and arrive at the right answers before you could do either. To the old men who say I am an Atheist because of the suffering in my life, I repeat an old proverb to you: "Get married. If you marry a good wife, you'll have a good life. If you marry a bad wife, you'll become a philosopher."

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