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The Gallery / When Men Were Slaves
« on: Yesterday at 06:00:18 PM »
I recall that its reality lived on, stubbornly, in its unflinching superficiality; and I, a disease, lived beside it. Imposing upon me in such a fashion, I needed constantly to justify my existence—an existence which I confess, had become obsolete. The game then, became one of: who is hoaxing the other? If I am to believe the mute abstractions of the monstrously cruel superstructure—for I can not help but be encoded by its money-logic. And finding myself on the poorer end, being always in want of money; I could not help but conclude this money business was a sham, and a conspiracy of the greatest magnitude.
   Firstly, I never agreed to the use of money, nor to be delimited by its fictions; and yet, like a brood-parasite it stole into me, and made itself at home. Perhaps, as a child I desired some toys, trinkets, sweets... I can't recall when, or what exactly, but the case being at some point the association of my desires with money was inseparably coupled. That is quite a harmless thing, you may think; but I put it to you most gravely, it is not. As at some point, we must all invariably make our means, and go out into the world, so to speak. And so, still a boy, I was put to work, as a clerk for a brokerage by the name of Stanfords. First hand, I experienced the grotesque wheedling of money, of such immense sums as to reduce Sardanapalus to a mere pauper by comparison. And yet everywhere there was poverty, men reduced to such squalor, directly or indirectly as result of the trading, hoarding, swindling, and price-gouging which was daily practiced at the Stanford House.
   Being a highly sensitive young man, I found it impossible not to draw certain connections. I saw every action whether, a trade, sale, or the hiring of men, was made under the expectation and compulsion of profit. Therefore, there was not a single action, or transaction which excluded this principle; I reasoned, that if these great powerhouses of business were indeed interested in money alone, they would have long ago accrued every cent in the realm; however, money was only a means, an extractive process. The question remains, if not money, then what exactly was being extracted? It is with a saddened heart, I report here, I believe it was the living essence of man, and a claim upon all that remains to him, who has been robbed of his land, his property and his sovereignty: his labour—to be squandered, and hoarded idly, as unproductively as the system will permit.
   Was the modern man then, not lower than a slave? Who, at the very least, possessed his labour with a certainty. Unlike the modern slave, who must compete to sell his labour, to a class of slave-holders, who, in overabundant supply; more often than not turned him away? Was not the modern slave then, being worked through by technology; his limbs amputated by machines, whilst what remains was cast aside, discarded, unceremoniously. A thing apart from man and nature, history, culture... a thing, sent back in time to the most wretched and primitive state of human existence.
   It is with regret, and deep shame, I saw the hypnotic power of money over man. That, regardless of the hundreds of years of technological advancements in all fields of production: robotics, agriculture, automation, distribution, logistics, e&c. In the undeserving and guilt-ridden mind of most slaves, they simply bore no relation to these things, as if were not a part of a shared human history. To the extent that slave-holders managed to conceal these advances, a strange fictional world, was born. Men lived in this unreality in a state of fear and madness. And there seemed to be no limit to how low the collective slaves could be reduced; nurtured into egoistic thought: they were raised, not to think—how does this benefit our society? But, how does this benefit me? And so, a very strange creature was born—an isolated slave-hermit, whose only permitted action, was to strive for his own advancement to the detriment of others. Taken as a whole, the system was decidedly, genocidal.
   To be sure, it was a very strange system. And it was not so much an economy, as a religion. It was only masquerading as an economy. In practice, it was a cult. A rigid social hierarchy, whose article of faith was science, whose fetishism was the commodity, and whose hagiographic imagery was stamped upon the circulation of its fraudulent money supply. The slaves continued to believe they were free; despite the fact, there had been no reduction in their work week in over two hundred and fifty years; and that poverty still stalked every section of society. Despite the fact, the slave-holder's government increased  the retirement to age 70, and reintroduced child-labour.
          One day, however, the slaves, lost faith—and then they started to believe.

The Gallery / Something Tragic
« on: June 13, 2018, 02:58:55 AM »
Something tragic had happened to a man.
The first tragedy being, the man had found himself to be a man. He had never asked to be such a creature yet, he was, and that was a great shame. He always cursed his luck at finding himself to be a man and not, for example, a king eider, or a daffodil. Daffodils don't fall in love, they don't pay bills, and they certainly don't find themselves entangled in passionate affairs—yet, here he was, standing on the edge of a pier, contemplating suicide.
And we may argue, a man, by his nature, does not suddenly find himself on the edge of a pier contemplating a leap into the unknown, if it were not for additional tragedies, which so hook, and weigh upon his soul, the greatest being: love. And so, this man being afflicted with that common madness to the extreme, is at present, working his body around the rails, so as to face the sea for his final leap. And, though a storm rages, washing the pier in a sea-algae drenched film; every ring and rail, singing out to his touch, threatening to cast him out into the raging sea prematurely. He wondered why he clung so desperately against the forces, and whether this signaled he hadn't the nerve at all.
   “Oh, be quiet!” he cried, the rain stinging his eyes. “You've done a terrible job narrating me, you bastard. Haven't the nerve? I'll show you haven't the nerve! And what's is this about daffodils and not a word of Anna...”
   For a moment, the man—Sam, considering the poor narration so offered him, and cursing his luck, contemplated stepping into the great, gray oceanic swell which belched up above the foundation piles, almost sweeping along the length of the pier's broad walk. Christlike, both arms grasping; he stood precariously beyond the outer rails.
He peered outward at the terrible power of the sea; a dancing, crashing admixture of grays and whites. A painter's palette swirled into dead colour; sinking, smashing in all directions. For some reason, unknown to him, he searched the sky for sight of the moon.
   “Tell them about Anna, you bastard!” he cried out, though the rain staggered his cry filling his mouth with a salt wash, and he cried again, choking: “Anna!”
   So, I should perhaps tell you this man, Sam, was a mechanic. Yet, he always believed he was something more than a mere mechanic; he so strived to understand all things; educating himself, as he believed, above his peers, in all fields and disciplines. There was a madness to this. As when he found himself madly in love, with a beautiful intern named, Anna; who displayed every sign of reciprocating his interest; he, possessing such little self-worth, sought answers for his feelings in his books. They had determined, Anna, was the product of a mental aberration, and she was nothing more than a 'limerent object'. Satisfied then, that psychologists had long ago categorized his infatuation, and excess of emotion, as a mental illness. He proceeded to spurn Anna, for his, and her, own well being. For, as he reasoned: “If her affection for me is a delusion, and my infatuation continues to grow. Then I will be hurt a great deal in the end. And her, by my actions also—best put an end to it now.”
   “Yes, that will do, but that's not all. We don't have time. Just hearing it again—I hate how you narrate it. Fuck, if only it wasn't too late. I didn't invite you to narrate this. You're just like those bastard books. Why don't you let me speak? Why don't you all ever let me speak!”

The Gallery / .
« on: June 01, 2018, 08:57:16 PM »

The Gallery / The Man Who Was Never Free (excerpt)
« on: May 20, 2018, 07:44:22 PM »
The man who was never free

Dr Rudolph Ilesley, a man who was widely regarded by all who knew him, as a prudent and practical man; a little bombastic in his speech; softened, however, by a slightly nervous delivery. He possessed an air, both proud and stately, despite his small stature, which was, as it were, elevated by the close-inset of piercing, be-speckled eyes; suggesting a creature of high intelligence and discernment.  Above all, Rudolph regarded orderliness and punctuality, as virtues that all men, despite their class or station, should strive to honour, as the bedrock upon which all civility is conducted. Anyone who failed in this respect was simply an oaf. As such, there was nothing more displeasing to Ruldoph then to admit a patient into his practice—for, Rudolph was an orthodontist—who was tardy, or behind-time. And though, he would never call a man an oaf; he would nevertheless, greet his belated patient by regarding his gold watch in amazement, even giving it a few raps with his finger, in disbelief. This is as far as his timid nature would permit and, in all the years of practicing his craft in the dreary, rain-soaked and almost forgotten galleria of shops, balustrades, plazas, moribund with lines of interurban expressways; this eccentric, simple-hearted man, had never been known to utter a single disagreeable word; to lose his temper, and conversely, never to have expressed joy or conviction in very much at all. All was simply: as it was, and ought to be.

One day, however, Rudolph began to cry. He later imagined, this sudden attack would not have so appalled him, if he were not at the time in the process of examining a patient—a young boy—for realignment. On his drive home, he pondered whether it was the sight of boy's crowded teeth— brought on a by a fractured jaw which he had seen so many times before; and which, moreover, were showing signs of progress— that had hailed such an uncommon fit. He recalled how the fit had first manifested as a knot in the pit of his stomach, then, erupted forth with such force, he was unsure, whether he were indeed crying, or laughing. He had concealed the first sobs with a battery of coughs and sputters; until they finally breached forth in such an uncontrollable torrent of tears, as to wrack his body in pure sorrow. Sorrow? No. It could not have been sorrow. Nerves. But I don't feel nervous. He inspected his face in the Rear View Mirror, a bleary-eyed red devil stared back at him. It's true, I don't look well. But that's only shame. I'm burning up in shame! How I had to settle that poor boy, who thought his condition was incurable. Rudolph gritted his teeth, he could not believe he had been so unprofessional.    
       The route to Great Horkesley was jammed; the radio blared an acetone song, as a welcome breeze from the open window soothed his temper: “I'm gonna use myself, It's happened all before. And in all these years. I've never known more. Than I see...” Rudolph began to laugh; he was laughing as the sunset hit his eyes, as the engines of a passing motorcade drowned out the music. He was laughing still, as the lights turned green. At the interchange he swerved dangerously over to the hard shoulder, since he was laughing so hard his sides hurt; doubled with laughter, eyes closed, he gasped for air. In panic, Rudolph rolled out of his car, clawing the turf, his airways blocked by riotous laughter. When, at last, the laughter ceased, Rudolph, for the longest time, embraced himself; like a fetus, and wept, until his tears ran dry.
In this world, that never changes.

          “What are you doing with that ghastly thing?” Agatha shrieked, fanning the air, as if to ward of an evil vapor.
           “This... I found in the garage,” Rudolph replied with a hint of pride, surveying the painting, “I painted it in college, before I decided on Mclindent. I was experimenting with split-complementaries, but, somehow, I see something in it now—I was thinking beneath the stairwell. What do you say?”
           “I'd say you're mad! ugh, the eyes! It looks positively demonic! Rudolph, I love you, dearly. But I will not tolerate that painting in this house; not for a moment.” Agatha bellowed below, as she crossed from the atop the stairs to the bathroom, readying for the evening's dinner with the Altschuls.   

   “Aggy, I think it will be good for me.” Rudolph cried, feeling a resentment that he need must shout to be heard above the noise of her hairdryer. He clenched his fist: “ I don't feel I create anything anymore. Yes, there was the butterfly house, and the bird house, and the gemology... stuff. Just, stuff. But I don't create anymore.”
   “I can't hear, you! What about the bird house!” She cried above the dryer. Suddenly, it cut off. “Have you spoken to Gerrard about your crying thing.”


   Rudolph did not dignify a response.

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