MAKE WAY FOR THE MAN

It should first be noted that this post does not constitute croaking.

With that in mind, let's examine the notion of democracy. Ideologically, power stems from the many and is delegated to the few. Which is fair enough, until one realizes that the 'many' in this case merely represents the majority.

Effectively, another may cast their vote and thus gain power over me. Disgust! This is even considered a 'human right', and thus indivisible...

I saw an advertisement for a Christian political party. That excited my contempt: 'The nihilistic will wants power.'

The Police - I call them the herd enforcers. What more needs be said?.. Politics is the enemy of all great culture. Nietzsche said the same, but gave bad arguments. Politics is concerned exclusively with ontology. Culture, on the other hand, has something of the telos about it, which it treats as instrumental. Culture embraces the abyss; political systems falsify it...

'Green' shit/Politics/Advertising

'Green' ideologies. What are they worth?

Firstly: The attempt to secure a stable natural environment for future generations is a fairly noble aim.
Second: To sacrifice the future for today's selfishness is ignoble, through and through. It smacks of the plebeian.
Third: I reserve my judgement as to whether the natural world is in meltdown.
Fourth: If the natural world is in meltdown [assumption here], then renewable energy sources will not resolve this. Even if the totality of energy used in the world was gotten from renewable sources, then the problem of energetic residue - Which is all the 'global warming' problem boils down to - would remain.
Fifth: Perhaps I am the first to speak out against radical industrialism.

Politics

Cba

Advertising

Cheap tricks, smoke and mirrors, etc. Don't pay attention - Go your own way. You are not destined to go the way of another. But you are destined to go your way, for no-one else can. So do it.

Reaping what one hath sowed

is an interesting thing. But anyway, who's up for some anarchistic musings?.. Vive la revolucion! Today's topic is democracy.

So we live in a democratic country, right? Or at least that's what I hear. As if the democratism of today was worth a single jot! As 'democracy'! And people talk proudly of their national constitutions - It's sickening. You vote once every number of years. To what end? Not to the method of governance, as is every man's supposed right - No, you vote only for the particulars of each individual party, to which the system are subject [to use a worn-out phrase]. You do not vote for the system.

Anything more to add? Ah, constitutions. These rather morbid ideas are called good, when they are anything but. Necessity drives man. You may herd them into pens and call yourselves master over them, but remember - always - that you are at heart one of them.

MAN ON FIRE

I have just crossed the boundary which lies between immaturity and maturity. And all I had to do was dismiss the dichotomy as false--which it is... Remain true to yourselves!

Do I have anything to declare?.. An unerring good will towards misanthropy. Student debt; profound resentment for politics and politicians; bizarre sexual tastes. Good taste in music and books. A strong stomach; a strong constitution. Passion; mocking laughter; great aspirations.

No Lighthouse

In General

I return to write. I ask you: What can one now hold onto? Many people spend their entire lives in this circus-metropolis we call the Western World: And though we are led to believe that our educational institutions are the finest existent - Most people are still idiots. Self-trumpery betrays to me lack of culture: And our 'culture' positively bursts with it. And in fifty years men and women of my generation will bemoan loss of the old ways. This I cannot stomach. And the Western world - What of it? What for? - Where to? A few centuries will pass, and some poet will turn the sweat of years into a derisive quip. Gazing out over sprawling hovels and dirty skyscrapers, our poet muses: 'Not one brick ought to have been moved. Not for this.'

But why do I talk of the future? Larkin has already done this. His 'Whitsun Weddings' says it all. The croaking toad.

Fundamentally

Animal existence is little more than an interlude in the course of infinity. What to make of it, then? Perhaps I am the first to anathematize infinity as baneful and destructive. Others would lie as cowards, and prostrate themselves before it. But what is the infinite to me? Or indeed to anyone else? We are finite. The infinite is that which cannot be attained. Thus do I advise the religious-minded.

Specifically

The Lions Wisdom. Fight only those who are worthy of fighting you. Do not raise a hand against the petty, with their petty objections - Let that be your benevolence.

A Night in Venice

A Night in Venice

1.

'There it is, then.' He splashed more scotch into a glass, and carefully placed his revolver on the table. He picked up the glass, and strolled over to the window. Undoing the catch and pulling the lower window upwards, he then perched on the sill and looked at me. He was quite tall, with cold eyes. A very handsome face, though not quite canny. Scar running from his left brow to his cheek. Those eyes. He was a little warped - always focussed on the job. Always had tools about his person. Unknowable; an infectious laugh - That man could laugh. We were friends, I think - I was the closest thing he had to a friend. He did not love me, but perhaps he liked me for that. I liked him; at times I saw more to him than he suspected. He thought little of himself, but knew his capabilities. Quick, softly-spoken. Polite, not quite like me. That was Raul. The early morning light began to filter in through the tall buildings on the opposite side of the street. The slow rise and fall of the water lapped at the brickwork on the canals. Down there, even at this hour there must have been people - Real people. Silence. He drank up and grunted, eyes shut. He opened them, to continue looking at me.
'What?'
He continued to look. I grew uneasy, and rose from my chair. He threw the bottle, which I caught. After refilling our glasses, I sat back down in the ripped leather armchair.
'She doesn't love you, you know.'
His eyes hardened. I took another pull at my scotch, then ran a hand through my hair.
'It's not easy. But she doesn't want someone like us. She's a...' I paused. '... Home-grown girl. Traditional, wants a family. Not - someone like us. It's not easy. But that's it.'
He continued to look. I sighed and shifted uncomfortably. A twinge in my left hip; I gasp and remove the slim knife strapped to it. The blade glides out, slowly at first - Early morning sunlight is mirrored on its pale flank. I turn it slowly to catch the light; my companion still staring at me. After a few seconds I hang the hilt from my thumb and forefinger; then let it drop, point-down. It enters the wooden floorboards and there it stays, shivering -

2.

His cold eyes the previous night. About an hour before midnight, we proceed through dark alleys, making for the rendezvous. First rule: Precise timekeeping will save your life. Sentries and look-outs will fuck you. We duck into a shaded doorway and he lights up a slim cigarette.
'Where now?'
'Now we wait' is his response.
Footsteps, not too distant. I cock my ear. How far? Perhaps a hundred yards, give or take twenty. I look around for my companion, but he has gone - Where has he gone? I steal a glance out into the street, nothing.
Nothing that is - save for a deep patch of shadow moving silently up the street. How is he that fast? He moves his right hand towards his jacket, and a long knife appears - the blade blacked with dull boot polish. A man appears at the other end of the alley, quite stocky. Probably heeled, but - my companion moves on. This man is dangerous; potentially fatal to our current mission.
Anyone muffled in drab clothes and walking these streets will most certainly be up to something interesting; or so the police and our other enemies would believe.
I reach down and pick up a glass bottle from the alley floor. Weighing it in my hand, I take one last look at the man, and then throw it in the opposite direction. Moments later it smashes further up the alley. A muffled gasp. Shortly after he stalks silently back towards me, wiping the point of his knife on a red handkerchief.
'What happened?'
'Pricked his throat for him.'
'Clean.'
He nods, and folds the handkerchief, placing it in his back pocket. 'Let's go.' -

3.

A week earlier. Glancing out of a window on the aeroplane. English summer drizzle, combined with the perpetual dreariness of Englishmen. Funny. English men and women die but its people remain disappointed. My hip-flask comes out. The man next to me glances over disapprovingly. I'm irritable.
'What?'
Pause. 'Should you be doing that?'
'Who gives a shit? Fuck off.'
He starts violently, then stares at the headrest of the seat he's sitting behind. Hushed voices. I can't move around to look properly. Ignoring them, I look once more out of the window. Business class and there's still no fucking room. More scotch. My outraged neighbor looks on with knitted brows. What would be the point in talking to him further? It would be useless. Perhaps I'd get angry and taunt him. He'd probably ignore me. Useless.
Venice Airport - Should not take long to get there. Hopefully quicker with this cheery fellow sitting next to me. Raul has our accommodation ready. Our equipment has been smuggled onto the continental mainland; from there it'll taken to a safe-house a few miles out from our destination.
The refreshment trolley rumbles past. I wave a hand at the pretty flight attendant.
'What can I get you sir?'
Stroking my stubble I ask for a double scotch. She passes one over. My neighbor harrumphs. I suddenly feel quite playful.
'And one for this chap, if you would be so kind' I add. She passes a decent measure of scotch to the father of temperance, who goggles at it. I raise my glass and toast him.
'Your health, sir.'
He scowls at me, and raises his in return. It's quite good scotch. I resume staring out of the window -

4.

We turn into a side-street and take stock of the cafes and bars. I look like more of a tourist than Raul, who pretty much blends in everywhere. His easy swagger just doesn't draw attention. We walk on, and decide on a fairly average looking bar-cum-cafe; 'The Colosseum'. Ten minutes later we walk outside for a smoke. I pass him a cigarette and we both light up. Leaning over the railings on the waterfront, we peer into the liquid murk. We hadn't talked about the job all the while we'd been in Venice; Raul had demonstrated that all would 'become clear in time'. I was sick of his deliberately mystifying the subject, though, and decided to tackle him about it. I wasn't walking into a deathtrap for the sake of his vanity. No way.
I blew out a ring of smoke, with a sharp grunt. 'Give me the details.'
He stopped pulling on the cigarette to show a puzzled frown. 'For what?'
I gave him a hard stare. 'The details. I want them.'
He resumed smoking and looking at the water, saying nothing.
'Well?'
He looked at me. 'Well what?'
This made me angry. 'Well fucking what? Give me the fucking details.'
He wasn't fazed. I toss my cigarette into the depths, extend the middle and index fingers of my right hand, then begin to bang them on the wooden barrier. He sees this and knows what it signifies - He finally capitulates.
'Our target's a local gang-boss; a rival of our employer. Guarded - not too heavily,' he sounds almost disappointed, 'but enough to keep us busy with.'
'Eyes?' I ask.
'A few.' He dashes the fag-butt at a passing gondolier.
'Let's talk inside.'
We both stretch and walk back into the bar. -

5.

Early morning in Venice. We spent the previous afternoon prepping up; there wasn't much else to do. With that out of the way, we could pretty much do what we wanted for the next few days. We'd need to reconnoiter, quite heavily really - Neither of us had been had ever been to Venice; and all we had was a map written in Spanish - which neither of us could read - and a rough set of directions that Raul had been given by our current employer. It wasn't enough, and we couldn't be poring over tour-guides and local maps with the Polizia out in force. It couldn't be done; we'd be hauled in and banged up if not killed. I remembered Raul the previous day, polishing his revolver with meticulate care and shuddered. Why do we do this? We are killers. Neither of us have moral scruples; they just get in the way of business. But still - Why? This is us, and us entire: None really know us; we barely know each other. If we are what we do, then our identity consists in eliminating particular streams of consciousness. There was something; now there is nothing - But this is us; this is what we do. One can pontificate over it for the rest of one's life; perhaps one will never come closer to an answer. Or perhaps one isn't what one does. One doesn't 'identify oneself' with anything. If identity obtains, then one cannot arbitrate between one's defining characteristics. Who am I? Perhaps I can answer this question better than anyone else. I am what I am; I am not what I am not - I am not that which I desire to be; and that which I do not desire to be, I am. One is essentially partly that which is, and partly that which is not. -

It's time for one of those entirely fictional and thoroughly emotional poem-rap thing lala's.

Roll up roll up for the great weed hold-up,
Holed-up with Jimmy Split as the crow tolls
Plastic, fast chicks bullets and brag;
The only snag
Two men with shooters, one's a cowboy one's a Rufus
Bullets sprayed, one's winged one's back is blown
Forever to be, an incapacity, it don't have to be
Like this son, Billy the Kid with his verterbrae split
Son you're a soldier, and here's my salute
Snatch your wallet, snatch your phone, snatch your loot,
Take aim and shoot, at your head, you're dead
Lying on the pavement with your brains running through
Your skull where the hole, whole bullet blowed
Dope flow, home-grown, No-Go Zone to my foes
Causality will also be the death of me
Kinetic forces, light travels faster than sound
But my super-solar-sonic rhymes will smash you to the ground,
Uh.