10/9/14

The thought of you
    Leaving hits me from
    Time to time
An unspectacular disaster
    Walking out of the
    Ether of what used
    To be my life forever.
A thunderous absence; hole
    In my heart.
Echoes in my mind to
    This day your
Questioning footsteps wander
    In and out of the void
    Where I held my love
    For you
Replaced by shame & guilt
    & love & hatred hatred hatred
Of myself.

          Your silence stole
          My voice from me.

She Wore The Road

She wore the road
    On her little finger
Aimless and pointing
    Whichever way the
Wind was blowing.
    She saw the sun
In her hair,
    The light played in
Strands across the hills.
    She felt the stars
In her arms, drawing
    Boarders for the sole
Purpose of crossing.
    She heard me
At her door
    Writing her a letter
She'd never want to read.    
    She smelt coal
In the alcove behind
    Her apartment
Cooking her heart
    Inside her ribs
To a charred eternity.

Don't Act, Just Think

Philosophy is more vital now than ever before.  In history, philosophers have interpreted the world in glorious ways.  Modern philosophy pales in comparison to the classics, like Kant, Marx, Hegel, or Plato.  Whenever someone thinks of philosophy, they think of them.  Philosophy just is not thought about anymore, it has been replaced by growing “activism” in the face of human tragedies.  Rational thought has been replaced by mindless consumerism or flat out cynicism.  People have become apathetic toward thought.  In our modern world, activism has been reduced to simply consuming a product.  Rational thought is purely hypothetical, idealistic, or irrational.  We cannot believe that consumerist activism or personal changes will save the world.  We have to revolutionize thought to save the world; we have to think.

Starting with capitalism.  Historically speaking, (and I am saying this as some kind of communist) communism has failed miserably.  The fall of the Soviet Union and the Westernization of Communist China signaled the death of communism in the modern world.  What is left is some kind of social democratic capitalist economy.  Ironically, critics of capitalism have been saying that capitalism is in its last stages since the French Revolution.  Capitalism has survived for hundreds of years on its last breath.  It thrives on instability, on competition, winning and losing and the social unrest of billions.  Is this system good for humankind?  Are there any alternatives that work?

There are no easy answers to those questions.  The Occupy Wall Street protests are a prime example.  They protested capitalism, but provided no solutions.  This usually happens when you ask any communist what their solution is.  Either you get some sort of moralistic answer or an entirely unrealistic answer.  Occupy Wall Street had no answer, and frankly, neither do I.  In short, there is no answer, not yet.  My only suggestion can be to think.  We need thought to solve this problem.  That is why philosophy is more important now than ever before.  To solve the world’s issues, not just capitalism, we need to think, not act.  Philosopher and communist superstar Slavoj Zizek puts it this way, “The message of Occupy Wall Street is, ‘I would prefer not to play the existing game. There is something fundamentally wrong with the system and the existing forms of institutionalized democracy are not strong enough to deal with problems.’  For me, Occupy Wall Street is just a signal. It is like clearing the table. Time to start thinking.”  But what to think about?  Modern philosophers should be thinking of new solutions to not only the world’s humanistic crises, but it’s economic ones as well.  

Most people remember, not too long ago Starbucks put out a campaign that told consumers that their five dollar latte will help the children of whatever Latin American country they buy their coffee from by donating a portion of the profits to that country.  This campaign is not only ineffective (money given to countries or charities has a habit of disappearing) but perverse.  Not that I am saying it is completely horrific, helping people is a noble cause.  However, buying coffee to save people, though, shows that people are not willing to help with issues themselves.  Instead they would rather drink their coffee and believe they are doing good for the world.  That is perverse.

The most effective solution has not been found, nor will it ever be if we keep up this mentality of “I am doing good because I am donating to this cause or that cause.”  Using money to fix a problem has proved ineffective, just look at the US government.  What people as a whole need to do is take Marx’s famous Thesis 11, and reverse it.  Instead of “Philosophers have hitherto only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it.”  We need to say, “We tried to change the world too quickly, it is time to sit down and think.”  To do what Hegel did, not to repeat his thoughts, but to repeat what he did with his thoughts.  What we need is not left or right, but up or down or sideways or slantways.  To solve today’s humanistic problems, as well as economic and political problems, we have to think outside what we know.  To explore new territory of thought.  Where to start, though?

Frankly, I do not have an answer to that either.  I could go to the classics, although their importance on thought as a whole has become historically contextualized.  It is no longer what they thought, but what they did with their thought.  Maybe we should simply understand exactly what philosophers did in their historical context.  Study what they did, not what they said, and work off that.  Or maybe we should start with sciences, questioning the facts of life.  Or perhaps religion.  Buddhism, for example, teaches that everything is an illusion, that we should trust nothing.  Should we apply that to the way we think?  I say yes.  Change how we think and we can change anything.

Let me be clear here, humanistic crises are caused by the global capitalist economy.  The majority of people are poor.  This usually leads to violence, although most historical revolutions were started by the middle class.  The truly poor have no concern with a better life, they simply need to survive.  However, the fact that they are poor is a symptom of capitalism’s focus on competition.  Some win, get rich and happy; the majority loses, goes poor, and despises the rich for it.  The fact that people in one country can and do get rich off another person’s three-penny-paycheck is deplorable.  Capitalism inherently promotes greed in the hearts of most Westerners, who then turn their companies toward third-world countries and exploit them for every penny they have.  And yet, the moderately rich appease their conscious by donating to charity.  A guilty conscious, perhaps?

In short, humanistic crises cannot be solved by the same thing that caused them.  We must think in new ways before we can solve our society’s problems.  First, we need more thinkers, we need better education, focusing on literature, whatever makes people think.  We cannot afford anymore to get caught in the perverted cycle of exploitation and donation.  Philosophy is the only means to coming to any solution.  It is not time to change the world, it is time to think, to theorize, test, and implement revolutions that can and will work.  Do not be taken up by my call to action, the point is to not act.  Ignore any call to action that does not require at least a little thought.  Do not act, just think.

Sick, Sick, Sick

Words are my trade
            Language is
                       My life.
But the words don't
     Come when called
                    They have
         To be torn from
My chest; even
           Then they're
      Fawns stumbling
Through the forest
                   Falling
              Down to the
Topsoil and exploding
                     Into nonsense.
Poeticism is lost on me,
         Rhymes and lines
Grow dimmer on
          This page until
The page itself loathes
        The ink.            While
I myself
      Loathe the process;
Loathe expression when
     The act kills
                 The dream.
                              When,
On paper, my thoughts
       Become absurd:
   Poetical gibberish
                 Regurgitated
In new forms
         As if
                      I am
Incapable of
                    Greatness.
                            Until
My nonsense
                      Becomes my
Sense.
                    My
Taste
  Touch
    Smell
      Sight and
        Noise.
 Does that make it
     Right? Does that
Make it good?

How can I find
             My voice
In this junkyard
               Of words?

How can I arrange
      The junk-dirt-
                       Trash
Into my own
            Masterpiece
That is, if there is
               Such a thing.

Sneak Preview: Guy Mortago; Space Detective

I feel my face hit the ground, my eyes glued shut, my ears being bombarded with sound. I feel a slick, sticky film covering my body. I try to stand but my muscles are too weak. I feel an arm wrap around my waist and pull me up. My eyes and ears still covered in this film. I can only see blurs and only hear murmurs. I feel myself being dragged somewhere. I feel a cold metal table under me, and water being pumped over my body. The film slowly sludged off and I opened my eyes. Metal. Metal ceiling. Metal walls. Metal man beside me. Metal eyes looking into mine.

I remember nothing. Where am I? What is this thing standing next to me? I can't put anything together, my mind feels as if it has the same film that was covering my body. My thoughts slow as if trudging through the same thick slime. All I can do is focus on the metal eyes staring into mine. Finally, it spoke.
“Mr. Mortago, how are you feeling?” it said with a brass timbre.

“Wh-where am I?” The words stumble out of my mouth like drunks in a parade.

“Mr. Mortago, you are aboard the United Earth Empire ship Kerouac. You have been in cryogenic sleep for the past three years. It's time for your shift, Mr. Mortago.”
My shift? What in the hell does this damn contrapt-- Oh. My shift. My shift, that's it. I was in Cryo, and now they've woken me up so I can do my job. What was my job again? What was I supposed to do?

Why am I here?

“Your clothes and gun are on the table beside you, sir. You'll find your office to be in F corridor, first door on your left,” the robot said nonchalantly.

“Which corridor? Where? Gun?” I'm just as confused as ever now.

The robot took a second glance at me. I swear I could hear it sigh. “I will have an assistant escort you. You'll find a briefing folder on your desk, please get dressed first, Mr. Mortago.”

A smaller robot on wheels came beeping up next to the table. It reminded me of a dog, almost leaping up in excitement to do something, anything. I haul my legs over the table and look toward my clothes. They look familiar, but they look like standard everyday clothes also.

“And do hurry, Mr. Mortago,” the robot urged me off of the table and pushed me in the direction of my clothes. I stumbled toward them. I slowly started to get dressed. Buttoning the shirt was the hardest. My fingers were frozen for so long it was hard to get them to move right.

The tiny wheeled robot beeped excitedly at the door. My feet lumbered toward the sound and soon I was following it down more metal hallways. Left here, right there. Key code needed. My hand flew to the pad before I knew what it was doing, entered the code and the door flew open. Inside there was a wood desk (actual wood, which surprised me), a locker on one side of the wall and a cot next to it. The rest of the room was filled with file cabinets and the walls covered in generic office posters. I walk to one and study it. A picture of a cat hanging from a tree, hang in there, it read. My eyes wander around the room. It's familiar, but it felt distant in my head.

The robot beeps impatiently at the desk. I turn my head and see a folder in its claw-hand-thing. I took the folder from it, and in a second it was out the door beeping with excitement. The folder in my hand was thin, but it looked important. On the cover was written, U.E.E. Kerouac Mission Briefing. Underneath that was written my name: Guy Mortago.

I looked around the room. This was my office, right? It definitely looked familiar. It looked as if I had used it. My mind was still slow in taking in all of this. I sat in the chair, happy to give my legs a rest, and opened the file.

Welcome [Guy Mortago] to the U.E.E. Kerouac! We are proud to have you aboard serving the most important ship in the empire. As you well know, our home world is decaying. We are in constant search of a new and better world to call our own. That's where you come in! The U.E.E. Kerouac is charged with the most important mission of our generation: the mission of finding that new world we all dream of!

[Guy Mortago] you are being assigned to the post of Peace Officer aboard this ship. Your job is to keep people safe, secure, and following the law. You have been given the [second] shift in the 24 shift rotation. Meaning you've been asleep for [three] years, wow! You will be awake for three years, doing your duty until the next Peace Officer is awoken and takes your place. You should have already met the previous Peace Officer and sent him on a merry slumber. Wish him sweet dreams on behalf of the United Earth Empire!

What peace officer? There's no one here. No one but me. The halls are empty. There's no noise but my own breathing. God, it's so quiet. So quiet I think I'm going crazy. I still don't know why I'm here. This paper didn't help much. So I'm a cop, swell. But how is a cop going to work if there's no one to police? Where did the former Peace Officer go? Is there anyone on this ship? Am I all alone?

I begin to rummage through the things around my office. The drawers in the desk; nothing but papers and pens. The locker in the corner held nothing but a jacket and a few boxes of non-lethal bullets. On a whim I check under the bed. Bingo, a bottle of rum. It's contents black as the space outside. I open it to the enticing scent of caramel. This used to be my favorite, I think. At least I'll have some form of entertainment on this ship. I place the bottle on my desk and go rummaging for a glass when there came a knock on the metal door. The metal echoing louder than anything I've heard since I awoke and I recoiled in fear. I look up to find someone standing in my doorway. Not just anyone, but a woman. A very attractive woman.

“You're Mortago, right?” she asks.

“Probably, I'm not all that sure myself,” I stand up straighter, and make for my desk to sit down. She follows and sits in the chair opposite mine.

“You don't remember anything?”
“No, other than an impatient robot and its overly eager companion.”

She laughed. God, that laugh. “That's to be expected, I guess. Cryogenics are still in its infancy, so there's always something wrong.” She crossed her legs and smiled. “Let's start at the beginning. You are Guy Mortago. The Peace Officer on this ship, the U.E.E. Kerouac. Your job is to keep people from breaking the law.”

“I gathered that much from this useful piece of paper,” I say shoving the file toward her. “I still don't know who I am or where we're going. Or who you are for that matter.”

“That first one is tough,” she sat up straighter. “The other two I can answer, definitely. The U.E.E. Kerouac is on a mission to transport three million settlers to a new Earth, light years away from the old one. You see our home is dying. Some say already dead. What we are doing is going to a new planet to start over.”

“I got that much from this,” I tap the file. “But why do you have to freeze people? How far away is this damn Earth anyway?”

“That, is a very good question. The scientists say it will take over a seventy years to get there. From what the computer says, we are on year one.”

“Quite the ways to go.”

“Yes, it is. That's why we froze you. You should have been greeted by the officer before you, but there was... There was a problem.”

“Problem? What happened?”
“We don't know, that's the problem. He just up and disappeared. No note, no space suit missing, not even a heartbeat on the ship's sensors. Nothing. That's why we unfroze you two years early.”

“Wait, two years early? I've only been asleep a year and I've already lost my mind?” This is bad.

“Uhm, yes. Two years early. That may be the cause of your memory loss. It'll come back in time, I think.”
“You think? I have no idea who I am and you're going off assumptions? Who in the hell are you, anyway?”

“Me? Well, I'm the captain. Captain Samantha Grey. I came down here to tell you the situation. I hate to do this to you, but it's up to you to find Mr. Anderson. He--”

“Anderson?””

“Yes, the last Peace Officer, the one who disappeared. Take a couple of days to get your memory back, but please help us find him. He could hurt the ship and is currently jeopardizing the mission. Mr. Mortago, you've got to investigate.” Her eyes, in that ghastly green color implored me to do it. How could I say no?

“Okay, but first things first. How do I get my memory back?”

She looked relieved. It may have been my imagination but she acted as if I had saved her life. Something was off here, something I can't put my hand on but something there nonetheless. When her eye caught mine, she instantly sobered her face to look stern, captain like. “You can get help in the Medical Bay. Just turn right once you're out of the office and follow the signs. You'll find it.” She stood up suddenly, as if she had said too much, and left the room with nary another word.

She was probably hiding something from me. But at least she was pretty.

The Torn Word

Trying to move on,
    Trying to
            Forget
                          My
    Mistakes and
            The hurt
I've caused.
           I'm trying
    To live a sober
       Life; a
                           Better
Life.  But
     I feel
           Haunted
                Hunted
By my mistakes.

Learned from but
      Not forgiven
         
          Lived
But not loved.

I want to
    Apologize to the
            World for
My actions; but
       I know it
  Will fall on tired
          Ears.
Falling like letters in
      A broken typewriter
                 Smashed
                              In rage.

But all I can feel is remorse.
      Guilt about my life.
My failures hunting me
           Like hungry dogs.

                          Each day
In this is new,
                 Uncomfortable.

I squirm in my
       Own skin
                     As if
To shed it or
         Shed me.

The words are just
Now flowing.  After
           Being trapped
For
So
Long.

               I feel as if I'm
         Ripping them out of
    My chest like the heart
  I ripped out
Long ago.

Across the Pond

Who is that girl at
    The edge of the
      Pond?
         Sending smoke
                      Signals
Into the water,
    Messages from ethereal bliss
Is she here for the
      Same reason
             I am?
          I wonder her
             Name
Sitting crosslegged
      Across the pond.
She holds her cigarette
    Sacredly; her holy
         God Nicotine
                 Praying for
Forgiveness.
            From what, pray tell?
      My ethereal fascination.
Her hair billows
In the buzzing breeze.
    Her eyes
    Too
    Far
To see.
    Emerald comes to mind.
                      As she walks
Straight; legs bare;
    Phone in hand;
        Her hair the sun's
    Plaything.
             Passerbys don't
    Glance.  But I
                         See her.
  That girl across
         The pond.
                         Who
                          Could
                         She
                          Be?
And there she goes.
        Out of my life forever.
                          Her
Converse conversing
      With the stones,
An ethereal cacophony
Of ambiguity.
            Leaving her mark
      On the path to
           Wherever she may go.
                            Whomever
         She may be.
    Leaving the edge
           Of my life
                          Forever.