Conformity of Chameleons

Most social interaction is based on conformity.

People do not think of it as conformity because the fraction of a second it takes for them to make their decisions doesn’t allow for that kind of attention.

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But if they stopped. To witness that second. What then?

Think about it. How long does it take you to decide how to part your hair? Eat a peach? What to wear?

Advertisers know and behave off the basis of what you do, not what you tell people that you are.

Advertisers have known for centuries what you really are.

What we all are.

Truth be told, if you have to see someone interact with your friends first, before deciding if someone should be your friend – you don’t have enough information to make decisions about people; and should probably keep relying on other’s opinions for all your major decisions. Not just people, but everything; and know–you live the life of a slave. Because you are.

A slave.

Bow your head to your Superiors. Because all you’ll see is His chin. For the rest of your life.

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Not me.

I escaped it. I never owned a car because I knew its effects on my body and mind.

I never watched TV past a certain age cause I knew its effects on my Eyes.

I’ve decided to originate the future.

The path of original experience is all but foreign to people in this corporate age.

Truth be told, if you’re not into Sci-fi, you’re not really that imaginative.

Truth be told, if you’re good looking in this country especially, you are probably shallow.

I am very good looking.

Bad teeth tho.

Truth be told, if you’re not asking a question in at least every 30 seconds of an argument, you’re the one losing.

Truth be told, if you’re not asking your date many questions about themselves and rattle on about yourself–you are interested in someone else. And you – are – shallow. No matter how many other shallow people tell you otherwise.

About 95% of all dates I’ve ever been on (I’ve logged all 504 of them) have a girl who doesn’t ask questions about me. The remaining 5%, ask questions intensively. Including my wife.

Truth be told, if you’re a parent, you’re probably full of shit.

How could you not be? – Your entire perspective is based on a moment of accident and force.  If you’ve repeated it and had more than one kid while the world is about to sincerely end – you are selfish.-

People think parents don’t change their minds about their children. But they do.

Most do. Do you think they ever admit it?

Think again.

Most are not fit to be parents.

But are.

Parents.

Next time you look at someone smart, has a ‘head on their shoulders’ ask yourself what you’re really looking at.

And look closer.

Chameleons change more than color.

Do You?

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What’s your North Star?

Positive thinking is actually simulating positive possibilities in your mind. Like thought experiments. But like, chronically. I suppose that leaves its efficacy up to how much and how well you can imagine…

I didn’t really get it for a long while. But I do now. There are no doubt multiple ways of being positive. But this is one of them and may be the most crucial sense, don’t know…

The implications of this are simple but must be clearly understood and acted upon. Self-fulfilling prophecies go both ways. The fanatic, the fundamentalist and the religious person have a great suit of armor against the onslaught of depression: the actual vision of a better world, along with the undying belief that one day or in some other realm; it will be there. That it is possible, somewhere.

If we could learn to wield ideology in a perhaps even cognitively scientific way, other than this often phony self-help drivel, we’d really be far more ahead and in touch. My belief no matter low I’ve been, has been to look on my own North Star. For me, this was and is being an artist and a thinker: the ability to create my own worlds. That and women. 😉

What’s your North Star?

Wisdom?

It took me a while to realize that I wasn’t expressing. My wonderful fiancé has taught me that it’s good to do that. To merely state how your feeling. Like, as a status update. I guess within any relationship it pays to know what’s in the others head. I’ve just been so isolated choosing the wrong women who didn’t care to define.

Sons of the Silent Age Part 5 of 5

It was when she awoke that her head finally sunk into the jelly NeauMatter they’d put there to sooth her neck.

“Didn’t think we’d need to hold you here for the night,” said a nice old man, chomping a bit as he spoke from ruined teeth and dental sub-jaws. They clacked with the hard consonants, especially.

“Where’s…where is everybody?” she asked, still half awake.

She was safe, she felt, creeping warmly into talking to this man.

Another Playbill. A poster this time. On the wall there, diagonally to her right. In what looked to be the room of a medical facility of some kind…

The GREAT SOMNAMBULIST!  It read, in spectacular RED, early 1900’s font on a black misty background with some kind of train operator in an old stained and striped train suit and cap. Behind him was the enormous Train-Flying Machine, it read in a caption next to it.

“Rachael!”

It was the descending voice of her Mother, what must have been her on the Intercom. There were only windows behind her, and she couldn’t see them. Her mom’s voice was indeed, quite amplified.

“We need to go and get you to your grandfather’s room quickly…”

“Is he dying?”

“Well, no but–just get out of that room you’re in and come with me…”

“Okay, okay.”

This was normal. She’d have an incident, and her mom would be the one there. Coincidentally Pam was the least sympathetic mother sometimes.

Must be that German we have…

She left the room after a long while trying to undo Lipids machine tubes and coils. The man had left out of nowhere and she didn’t care to go looking for him. She even turned off the computers that facilitated them, booted em down completely, no problems…

She followed her mom to Grampy’s room.

Helen was there with Andrew and her Nana and of course, Grampy, sleeping alongside her chair backed to a window. He snored as he lay there, unmoving in the small Twin mattress’ bed. “He’s just not up to walking around that’s all, right mom?” added Rachael. No one said anything, but Nana, put a hand out and caressed it with a Mother’s touch.

Andrew, Helen, herself and her daughter now, were meandering aimlessly around the room, savoring a hand that held the wine or beer, hoping to look like they were reflecting, or at least looking for something to do…Rachael reasoned that this was bullshit. Every time. Fractured conversation and polite little drivels of stares darting from object to useless object; a perpetual deer in the headlights every time your eyes met, swiveling about the tiny room. This was often because the room after all, was not a penthouse suite by any means. It was all the Linderen family could afford for Grampy and Nana.

It wasn’t just that though, the Military treated him right,  but Government funds weren’t as secure as they used to be twenty or even ten years ago. The budget was forever curtailing Exo-Military services. Many Federal pensions were ‘frozen’ presumably until the date the USC determined that the Economy ‘has most certainly picked up.’ This date of ‘unfreezing’ your funds, as a Senior, could be and very often was long after your date of death. The same was true of Social Security. Sometimes these death certificates were bought and sold ‘Cabal Style,’ a phrase referring to the black market.

A Senior often did ‘Go-Cabal’ as they would say… Or: ‘He’s going fucking Cabal on us!’ many ads ran with to sell Senior driven products or to encourage rebellious youth to do more of the same.

When a Senior ‘went Cabal’ he typically sold everything, sometimes up to and including his wife and grandchildren on the Booty Market. It was as the Views and papers were saying, ‘The Fourth Baby Boom’ had occurred in the last thirty years. It was referring to the historical wave of grandparents, as second parents.

A Senior man having ‘gone Cabal,’ typically starts reading the propaganda literature on Cabal Life as there was so much support for Fetish communities. In fact, there were whole Micro-Gens (non-USC, even) formed, and were, indeed, all the time now, as the press would always point out:  ‘waiting for us right outside the changing and encroaching walls of CAMBIAN.’

Everette Linderen, that is, the Colonel’s Pension and funds, were merely ‘thinning’ as the new definition from the new term, from the even newer set of UFED terms–went by.

***

Nana screamed.

Rachael roused herself off the floor, still in the room. She had fallen asleep again, wound up nestled at the base of the Colonel’s feet of all things. That is, where his feet were until he had to go the bathroom, sometime long ago. Her last moments before falling asleep were of an incomprehensible series of noises mixed in with what little her mind automatically recorded happening… Her mom moving around with Helen to help perhaps…yes, get him to the toilet I think…

No telling where everybody was now. No one. Not even Gorsky, and the room was dark. Her SwitchLight was glowing, predictably with a message from her mom, no doubt. There was a message and it was from Pam. “Come downstairs when you wake up.” it read. She was utterly disoriented. How could mom or whoever be in the next room, when they’re not?

Her confusion thickened until–

Another scream, coming from the hallway, right outside the room.

And it was choppy. Almost bloodcurdling screams were trying to get out again! Rachael drew herself to the crack of light in the door and pried it open slowly, furtively. Her mom and Nana were there, halfway down the hallway toward a stairwell past four or so rooms on either side.

“Oh my, oh oh MY! What am I gonna do, what am I going to DO!!!” Nana fell into Pam’s arms and sunk to her feet, exasperated. Hesitating, Pam lowered herself there with her, trying desperately to pick up her Mother’s falling limbs. Rachael had never seen her mom being compassionate like this, not with anyone.

She approached them, to some feeble distance. Nana was unnatural, alien and ghostlike, her question wavered as a haunting apparition in the air. Her voice shrieked with other nonsense in guttural spasms, dissipating only slightly, a mechanism, not a person, convulsing within and without Pam’s reach.

“Oh Good God, Good GOD!!!” The tears weren’t over. Rachael’d never heard her turn from a woman to a…Beast. That sounded like a man’s voice a little.

The screams were now more intense. Like overwhelming music, Nana’s voice was a smear of everything unreal in her life slipping off in glops like the sediment of mental flesh onto the floor. Her comforts; the layers of self—all the different sides of her; the mom, the Grandmother, the gregarious social animal from ‘Dantant’ as they would say, or ‘the age of year’s past’…

And then, her religion, the after life…now all on the floor.

“Bullshit. It’s all bullshit! How could He be this harsh! HOW???! Pam HOW!” Screeching now. Gripping Pam and screaming at her, point blank.

The Reality hit Rachael’s eyes and slammed her beliefs shut. Luxuries, the hyper-extreme wishful thinking that is abandoned in an instant of realness, and thereafter—we are living in actual reality. 

Actual time. 

But the long shriek made itself clear: you are indeed in Reality, you indeed do exist, you are here, but will not always be.

And the time that you will not always be here, will be forever. And this is the only sure thing you have. And at that point everything you see will be gone to you, from now on. 

Not even a billion millennia, even if they were each comprised of a thousand light years into the future–could bring you back. Could bring her back, or anyone… But existence will remain alive in the Reality you will have to leave. And you are not, nor will you be, ever– an exception. 

These facts rattled around in Rachael’s head until her Grandmother looked no different than the floor of the gray carpet. Her knees slumped into the rug, making a dent where it happened to be a bit loose and got slightly wrinkled.

The knowledge of the Colonel’s death had them solemn on the way to the car. Jenny was bouncing a little less heartily, but one could simply not seem to remove that almost Helen-like smile they both had.

An apartment complex lay as the sprawling context of the Bitzeri Assisted Living and Interment Camp, on the other side of the bay where the shore was and where they’d come around to enter on foot. Her Grandmother, her Nana had already taken up residence there. They’d pushed the data through, to get her to stay there, paid for, seamlessly prefigured from the date of her husband’s death.

There were huge balloons on a hill, like maybe fourteen of them floating in the intermittent wind after they passed by yet another parking lot.

‘The Brooke.’ The somewhat distant placard that held the balloons, read.

It was for some new apartment complex rental sale. Presumably the one it stood against, there in the middle of four Mega-Lots for cars and Transports. A single ML could hold 50,000 cars when levitating on top of each other at a height of one third a kilometer. On average, for years on end, it didn’t hold in reality more than a few hundred at a time, however.

An expanse of gridded concrete lay in every direction other than the sprawl of indecipherable industrial noise of tall lights, flashing View signs, and Pharmacie-Liqueur Stores that looked more like Kiosks.

All signs of moving civilization save the often broken concrete slab, ten kilometers squared–were now beginning to end, up ahead.

Blue, White, Red, and Yellow blotted their part of the sky as the land rose with those balloons standing at its peak. They had reached the top. The old stained brick apartment placard now seemed merely life size. It must have swallowed the brooke it once replaced, because there was no actual brooke to be seen at all. Just more astroturf circling each street light, and the tallest, most creature-like lamp posts one ever saw. If one could even reach their eyes to the top of one, that is.

A swarm of Transport people waiting for the next shuttle to arrive came out of nowhere like standing in the middle of a mirage. Rachael then saw a Hispanic young Mother with her hair up, standing with her daughter.

She stood next to the big placard in a blue faded T-shirt with some scratched up logo and green sweat pants. She had no expression, a shock of her long tousled black hair bristling in the wind. She didn’t seem to be standing close enough with the others to the Transport Post, so it was hard for Rachael to make out why she stood there.

The little girl, with a plaid outfit, danced off her hand, which was holding to hers more tightly than one might consider imagining. At closer range, as Camille walked by, the lady was still like a statue, her expression now appearing merely drained and indifferent. The weather was so calm. Back to blue skies with faint cirrus clouds again.

She stared up at the bleak sun filled sky of criss crossing contrails. Sonic Imprints were also left in the air above, invisible save the distortion of color and shape they made in their path. There were also three or so other smaller complexes in the ocean of parking lot, that seemed to be trailing off from the big concrete dune where The Brooke stood.

They finally arrived at the car, piled in, rose to a passable flying height, and left the greater part of Maryland.

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Sons of the Silent Age Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel Excerpt

Sons of the Silent Age Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel Excerpt

The distance between an idea and its living reality is perception and possibility.

The distance between an idea and its living reality is perception and possibility. This distance is what prevents convergence of point of view, forever enslaving us to endless wars with ourselves.  People must get in touch with the deeply implicit, subtle embedded cultural and familial assumptions and behaviors behind their point of view–in order to see around their point of view.

What you thought was a wall, is actually four walls with no encasing “house.” But the thing is, you think of it as a real house. And you see it as a collection of things, but you may have forgotten a telescope and windows.

This “non-house” includes these four walls with four doors.

The doors lead to no where but other non-houses with other non doors. But you are distracted from this fact because there may be many things in these “rooms,” but only things you have already found. You start to feel you are discovering things when you’re really unearthing things. Both are important.

The thing is that all the walls and doors exist, but since they go no where, they might as well really just not. This is the same with playing only chess with yourself: you are acting without an external purpose, and will only repeat already discovered walls and doors.

The illusion of this house is the root of our doom until consciousness makes it our invariable salvation.

 

Just think of all the horrible social rabbit holes there are out there to fall into.

…And sometimes never get out of.

I think of my younger readers who might be thinking of the whole growing up thing… Be warned, watch out for these things.

  • College – I went to the top art school in the world. Or one of them, SVA in New York City. It wasn’t a waste of money per se, but that’s largely if not wholly because of New York. I had millionaire art teachers…artists, real artists. But they were more artists than teachers and the Fine Art Dept was so well underfunded that they get your mind into thinking that old out of date supplies were a luxury out of sheer brochures. 😉

– Sex – makes you slave to an unwanted pregnancy or a line of products from condoms, to you name it.

  • Your Job – makes you actually work for the people you are most likely buying from, and perpetuates a mentality of conservatism which leads to low growth.
  • Your Parents – Who taught you “so who’s happy,” or “pride go it before a fall,” “don’t get too big for your britches,” “go to college” (even though you’ll be a slave to your loans and be forced against risks and you end up having to take that easy route for the sake of security. And then… Well, then they’ve got you haven’t they?
  • Guilt and Shame – Our society is rife with it, and would most certainly have you believe otherwise.
  • DUTY. This is the most important one I think. And the most insidious. THE EXPECTED HIEARCHY OF SOCIETY. This is how soldiers are made; how mean are in the end, able to be convinced by means of propaganda and hype, to go to a place and fight a people they’ve never seen, and pay the highest price.
  • The 40 Hour Work Week. Studies are showing from a British think tank I forget the name of now, but that firmly has studies to show that 60% of the time a worker is producing, a good one, and a 20 hour work week is more efficient if work is upped to a much higher percentage. Besides, freelancing, hello?
  • FOOD. Eating out costs me in full blown form, around $800 to $1200 per month. Just to fucking feed myself. Groceries all month, around $400. Yeah. We shant fail to menton of course that our overly consumerized super markets geared toward sodium and sugar and convenience…are also something we should try and avoid. Shop more organic and local, find stores for specific needs.

Don’t entirely avoid these of course, as they tend to be the fruits of life after all. But they are certainly items that society will try and use against you. Don’t fall into it. That’s all I’m saying.

This list will be added to and go on, but for now, I ask you out there, you people: is it really worth it if your life isn’t extraordinary?