Factsheet Five/Issue 32/Possibly Subversive Flower Arrangements
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I'm contemplating a new discipline: solitude. Instead of sitting in The Pub or The Point in the late afternoons, being lonely there, I'm thinking I'll save activities like that for another sunset. In the afternoons and late evenings I think I'll go sit by the river — where I've found a beautiful swimming hole — and scribble and write poetry there — just to see if I can learn to like being hopelessly alone, where there isn't even much possibility of meeting anybody.
In a way it sounds forlorn. Then again, considering all the complaining I do about being bombarded with games in human society, I might wind up liking it. (Even in my Ayn Rand days when I used to think I was into solitude, I never was. Nor did Zen get me into it). I always have preferred to be somewhere where the probabilities of getting laid were present. The thing is, though, under the oppression everyone else seems willing to tolerate, we only get laid when the Conspiracy decides. So, pending the day the human race wakes up and slays all the manipulators of human intimacy, I'm not actually increasing my chances of meeting someone, sitting like the here of The Company of Men, in a bar, waiting to fall in love. Things just don't actually happen that way these days. And the place I've found is very beautiful.
"God invented whiskey to stop the Irish from ruling the world" — Graffiti in The Point.
My Jr. H.S. Spanish teacher: "The reason there are so many presidents of Latin American countries with Irish names is because a lot of Irish migrated there in the potato famine and, since the Irish like to fight, they all become either dead or president."
A beautiful, quiet Sunday morning. Yesterday it rained a lot. I also got over to C_____'s — found no one home — and so got a chance to paste up my Big "Bob" Is Watching You/Minitrue (in memoriam Gerry Reith) poster. In my last note to him, which went unanswered — or was answered, rather, by news of his suicide, I had suggested that poster idea to him, since his thing was called Minitrue. Anyway, it's my best poster to date, in my not-so-humble opinion.
Before that, I bathed in the river — although it was still sprinkling. Waiting for the rain to let up, before that, I met H_____ and rapped with her briefly.
Yesterday morning and early afternoon I worked. Tom isn't going to need me tomorrow — so I'm taking the day off.
Anyway, this morning is like the dawn after an acid trip. The whole world looks like it's just been to the car wash — because of the rain and, I guess, the mood I woke up in.
Fritz Perls or someone said not to push rivers. I don't find myself pushing things. I find always that time pushes me. I never want to wait. When I'm taking a piss I want to hurry up and get it over with. When I'm eating I can't wait to finish. When I find myself standing in line somewhere I feel conspired against by the whole world. And yet I spend hours just sitting, staring off into space, thinking about stuff to write, or things I've seen or heard. So it is a wholly unnecessary annoyance that I inflict on myself — this impatience about a second or two here and a minute or two there.
Confusion about the energy cover-up persists. Something about "Ape". King Kong in TIME magazine? People aping the activities and attitudes of my potential friends and lovers?
The ape in the collage on my homemade letter box?
Whatever it was, it caused C_____ and J_____ and K_____ and L_____ to become thoroughly obnoxious in relation to a matter that isn't any of their business, this morning.
I wish these people who say they are against the energy cover-up could be more articulate. So far they haven't convinced me that they are sincere or that they care about the origins of the Indochina war or racial genocide at all. They seem as narrow as the Arabic money mutualists who oppose them.
Both sides seem to me to be intently, steadfastly violating my natural rights. And I don't care about either issue until the problem of racial genocide is confronted and dealt with,
And violations of my rights will not serve to change my mind — nor will anything else.
I don't care about mind control until the problem of racial genocide is confronted and dealt with.
I don't care about ecology until the problem of racial genocide is confronted and dealt with.
I don't care about money and banking until the problem of racial genocide is confronted and dealt with.
I don't care about capitalism vs. communism, authority vs. liberty — or any other issue — until the problem of racial genocide is confronted and dealt with.
I don't resent people with priorities different than my own. In fact I'm very much interested, academically, and in terms of improving the movement against racial genocide, in most of these other issues — which is why I write about them.
It just ain't what Buddhists would call my karma or dharma to deal with anything besides racial genocide in a serious way — because it was my silence before the Warren Commission about my conversations with "Kirstein" that failed to prevent the Indochina war.
So making restitution, with my efforts, is my task — and I do not understand in the least why anyone talks to me about anything else.
Organizing among themselves — perhaps utilizing my theories, perhaps not — about other issues I could see.
Incessantly trying to discuss them with me seems, if I may borrow a term in connotations only, "unbusinesslike" or "unprofessional" .
My personal likes, my political opinions, etc. — are all irrelevant. What is relevant is the identities of war criminals and genocidal landlords.
So I say that talking to me as if it is my duty to function as an errand boy in an intelligence community brothel, or as President of the United States, or as a holyman — or as anything else besides an investigative reporter about war crimes against the Indochinese and wars of attrition against Americans, Asians, and Latin Americans — is filibustering, deliberate, divisive and disruptive behavior.
There is no reason for a conspiracy to inform me, if not to inform me about this issue — simply because I am me, with my peculiar history — and the rest of my interests are none of the Conspiracy's business. (Everyone is interested in mnay things, not everyone is spied on bu a KKK Lynch mob 24 hours a day.)
So I don't know how else to say it. I say the same thing about five times a day every day of my life — as I've been saying since the summer of 1981 in California.
Also in general terms it makes the most sense to me to address first the issue that involves the most lives and deaths. War conspiracies directed by genocidal racists and land ownership schemes used as instruments of extermination by, probably, the same conspiracies involve the most lives and deaths.
After that is the irresponsible production of motor cars and tax-supported highways and after that is war in general — the mechanism for the collection of interest on national debt and sale of munitions, etc.
The number of lives taken by neo-Nazis and landlords far exceeds them both, though,
And even if this much were not true — as I say — because of my silence about the conversation with Slim's brother-in-law — it would still have to be my first priority to deal with the origins of the Indochina war, because they were mentioned in those conversations, before the war began. Not because I'm essentially unegoistic, because I also understand what I've called the individualist principle — because in order to remain a member of the human race I must make restitution for my criminal negligence — in order to be able to demand convincingly that my natural rights are to be attended, that I am a participant in society — not an enemy of society.
So it isn't anything mystical or romantic; it is just common sense, just natural law.
So people who think I'm not devoting enough attention to sexual freedom — although, besides Lars Ullerstam, I'm the only (to my knowledge) person who has even dared to defend the rights of all erotic minorities in plain language in print, voluminously I might add — will just have to help me find out about the war if they want further help from me, beyond what I feel like donating, etc., and so on and so forth with anarchism, mutualism, expropriation of capital, restoration of the Republic (at this late date, if that's useful in advancing natural rights), etc. — gonzo theology, shamanism, poetry, Zenarchy, Quent Wimpel Notes, etc.
At present, the movement that is allegedly against racism leaves much to be desired. It is authoritarian, secretive, capitalistic, intellectually intolerant, etc. I see my ranting and raving as constructive criticism — not as hostility to the alleged goals.
Like the movement against energy cartels and the movement against banking cartels, it is hard to have faith in the organization, though. Ineffectiveness is glaring. The movement isn't winning; it is losing. 15,000,000 non-Caucasians perish yearly of starvation alone — more than twice as many genetic enemies than Hitler exterminated in his entire career.
This confusion about the energy question is one of the crippling factors. Why must the Permanent Universal Rent Strike that could end this nightmare be coercively linked to the energy question 00 if the people against energy cartels are not racists? I never get an answer. I just get told not to worry. In the time it takes to say "Don't worry" , A black or Asian or Latin child of five or under dies of hunger. I try not to worry.
When everybody wants to discuss how or when or whether I masturbate, though, it is hard not to worry.
When they want to mumble inarticulately about the energy cover-up instead, it is hard not to worry.
When they want to tell me who is straight and who isn't, it is hard not to worry.
When they want to talk about Proudhon's theories of money without his theories of land, it is hard not to worry.
When most of the world is non-Caucasian and poor, and they want to fight racism with secrecy and without offending the rich, it is hard not to worry.
When they want to complain about Satanists or Catholics or Moslems, instead, it is hard not to worry.
When they want to enter into elaborate inquiries about the latest blurb in my notebook — a poem, a metaphysical speculation, a shopping list, a personal note, or a Discordian joke — it is hard not to worry.
When I have to read books that are already published — sometimes by people as metaphysically intolerant as Lyndon LaRouche — to find out about the machinations of the racists, it is hard not to worry.
Maybe it has all got to do with the way I am electronically surveilled. Maybe it is the KKK that eavesdrops on me or the Nazis in the NSA — so maybe everybody has to act like they don't understand the situation. If that is true, though, why ain't you — every one of you — rich? Because you'd have to be consummate actors to seem as distracted and idiotic as you seem to me without actually being distracted and idiotic.
That's why I go to the walls from time to time with rants like the stuff in Tujunga in 1979 that pissed everybody off — because I figure you don't understand. I figure you think I'm just a reincarnation or something.
I continue to neglect mention of Hearst as often as I should. I think he is behind both the confusion about the energy coverup and the confusion about monetary mutualism. I also think he is, quite dishonestly, playing both ends against the middle in relation to Bolshevism and capitalism.
They say that once he tried to have me committed for being a sex pervert — at a time when he himself was financing enormous sexual blackmail and enticement activities for political purposes. Mark Lane, they say, made a fool of him, though.
Anyone who publishes newspapers like the San Francisco EXAMINER and the Los Angeles HERALD-EXAMINER — or whatever it is called these days — could easily be to blame for the level of news in The Conspiracy. Once a shoddy journalist, always a shoddy journalist, maybe — though that doesn't leave much hope for SPARE CHANGE.
So the end of another notebook nears. I live on the streets, get subjected to constant misunderstandings, think about my species and try to figure out how and why they are bent on outwitting themselves — and sound my barbaric yarp over the rooftops of the world — asking myself, "Is there salvation in hysteria?" (If so, I'm a redeemed man at this point).
To what end at long last? Literally: "When you've eaten your rice, go wash your bowl."
I live independently. I answer in fear to no living being. I don't have to worry about job security because I'm not paying rent. I'm expecting to become more emotionally self-sufficient without losing my capacity for warmth and love. Things aren't so bad this evening.
[So endeth POSSIBLY SUBVERSIVE FLOWER ARRANGEMENTS. Previous installments appeared in FF21 and FF26 through FF31. The complete work will soon be available as a FACTSHEET FIVE booklet.]