Load them into the guillotine?

You know that no one is ever gonna completely be, 100 percent on the page you wrote, right? And to think such is just you setting yourself up for big-time calamities. At the end of the day, you stand alone — alone in your intricacies, your eccentricities and insecurities as an upright beast of misfortune. Your philosophy on life and how to live it is all on you, carbon! Whether you can fully articulate why you live the way you do, or not, matters nothing to no one, and to add salt to that wound, lest you forget, there’s always more than a few folks out there who are way too slap-happy to point out that your shit is wired way wrong, that your brains are bullshit, your soul, comprised, your heart, bankrupt, and the very words you use to speak are vile to such a degree they make ears bleed. The more you expose your true self the more the knives are drawn to cut you down.

It’s a cruel, cold world out there, and the fact we all go wandering down a billion different paths to get to where we’re going (the grave, duh) does not make for an easy earth to hoe. Oh, what a world, what a world! If it wasn’t all so soul crushing, demoralizing and seriously deadly dang dangerous, it would almost be knee-slapping hilarious! But really it’s nothing new — the ancient Greeks were on that tip before anyone.

I saw Dreyer’s 1928 silent film “The Passion of Joan of Arc” for the first time, a few weeks ago, and as I watched Joan be interrogated, humiliated, mocked, tormented, tortured and eventually, (spoiler alert) burned at the stake by her version of fuckin’ worthless authorities (and please prove to me one single instance when the authorities in any era, in any case, have not been completely fuckin’ worthless), I thought to myself as tears squirted out from the ducts and went sliding down my face “and ain’t that the fuckin’ truth, the whole truth and nothing but.”

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Make no mistake, you’re gonna bleed, you’re gonna bleed bunches and bunches, just for being a fleshy creature that needs to breathe, so cheer up buttercup, and take relief in knowing no one likes you, I mean not really. We’re all enemies out here standing on real shaky ground. The hero of today will be tarred and feathered tomorrow, ‘tis the way of all seasons under the sun. Self-reflection, to me personally, is not something you perform while sitting on a mat as sitar music emits from your Alexa. It’s a multiple-midnight set of affairs that involves you taking a shovel and plunging it deep into your chest cavity, gettin’ it way down in there where all your past crimes, sins, misgivings and inappropriate tendencies hang out together, just churning the worst of we up and exposing it, belly up, ripe for the knife, and then wondering: How do we get so fucked up? Why do we so often fail… fail at even the must simple gestures of humanity? And yet, time after time, we go splat!

These are not good times to be in by many a measure. I guess what I’m trying to suss out is, where do I fit in, in what place, space, should I be in, if any. For years now, because of violent acts I engaged in as an adolescent, which would eventually accumulate to me catching a charge of terroristic threatening, I have done everything I can to be against any and all violence, and yet here I am in the right fuckin’ now witnessing all this out and out cruelty being dished out by a governing body, and its diluted supporters so sickening I think of them all, daily, being loaded into the guillotine and dealt a beautiful blade from up high, the swift, sharp action singing down between two planks, basket after basket, occupied by one red ball cap-adorned, decapitated head after another, to be, not buried — oh my no! But to be thrown into a landfill, so that garbage can recognize garbage firsthand, and, then, maybe this putrid storm of malfeasance can finally be over and done for, once and fucking for all and yet and yet and yet, what the fuck am I wishing for?!

I have a friend, a person with more problems than most, who has all her life carried a cross so heavy that the rest of us would have been crushed beneath its thorny weight from day one, a so-called good person she is not, and thanks to insanity, indulgence and self-indifference she’s been incarcerated for the better part of a year now and racking up more and more charges while in the clink, and last night I had a nightmare in which I could hear her screaming, screaming and screaming, her screams rushing down an old stairwell, 40, rickety steps up, to what, I don’t know because the screaming intensified until I awoke in a rush of sweaty panic. Powerless in the dream-scape and powerless in the real world, just another American dummy trying to keep his lights on as the bodies pile up. •

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