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The Portrait I Admire Most (Happy Anniversary!)

CEE

    One year ago, there was the Election to end all elections—some said, in process of melting down, literally. And the new, Ruling POV was dubbed “fascism”, and some advised fascists did not part with Power. And we as a People of every shade of grey and its thinking, were told Life as we knew it, had ended. Perhaps, it was prophesied, the End of All Life. If nothing, the decision-making process of each individual voting citizen, their careful, personal inventory on a one-by-one-by-one basis...Self, each Self, as in the moment, deciding for All (a-hen!!), produced a thing as coup, a governing quintessence which would decide Everything and for All, and with nary a whisper permitted, from that day, forward. Effectively, the guaranteed personal freedom of the electorate, utilized as “well, gee, y’know—how do I feel about all this?”, took freedom away, entirely. Self, the “I” of each, made stone soup into a strange brew of the numerical, summoning a Golem-in-Chief. Big Brother had arrived, don’t kid yourselves, kids, and akin to the etching of The Mad Hatter chowin’ down, we were on deck to be gobbled up. No system as safeguarded, would remain. Checks, balances and butterflies, were all toast.
    As one who preaches Self as left hook to the chin of Others “telling you what”, I found the above hysteria, then and now, to be the mixed joy of a dinner with hippie-friends: plenty of rich, natural spices and enough to go around, but with a cut of meat you needed a course in geometry to dodge the marbling. In the emotion of the moment, it was impossible to sort. What in the end made me realize our American “way” as no longer workable, was seeing CEE in it for real.
    As news both real and “fake” (I love that, don’t you? Like a neighborhood kid you once hooted down: “Aww, no, that’s Fake!”), wars and rumors of Israel Under Two Flags made Page Two, beneath president-elect as Conan the Barbarian, tweeting to a marathon of “Rockin’ Robin”, every blurt and insult, terse characterization and callous remark had me not crowing, but rolling—not the text overstatement, but actually on the ground and ass coming loose. “It’s ME!!”, I yelled to Mrs. CEE, convulsing, crying, barely able to breathe. Unbelieving that, End of Day, Self in such like had triumphed and tireless, fought on. “The country elected ME!!” I longed for a rare glimpse of past faces, those chilly enemies of Youth who trod me under, affecting maturity, bright-faced for their mundane Future. If even one saw the connection in memory, it was orgasm, the #POW#-shock of irony in a good Spy vs. Spy. “That asshole. He did it. He rules the world.”
    I kept laughing at my fantasy-in-metaphor, until a string of ‘tubing one day, brought me to the impassioned pleas, pre-election, of pundits and comics I’ll not name, and the frightened sincerity shown, dynamited through my permafrost for just a moment. In the final seconds of one clip, a woman shouted the old, purpose-driven twaddle, “It’s not just about YOU...!”, on the heels of rhetoric of “why we vote”. And I understood a lot of things, in that hour. I understood why I don’t vote, why I will never. I understood why YouTube clip after clip, showed only Michael Moore’s encapsulation of the election’s inevitable result, to crescendo of “...the biggest ‘Fuck You’...”, nothing more. I also realized the System, the Human American Portrait as understood and operable, had indeed changed beyond telling, and after staring into it awhile, I’ll advise that you can hold free elections every year and politicians pass polygraphs every day, and, no. Forget it, nonfriends. What’s Here, Now, is here to stay. Because you really did, and larger than the Oval Office, elect CEE. CEE, in fact, elected CEE. With the help of CEE. Here’s the math:
    I’ve mentioned at least 3 times before, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, had been, as full-blown DISORDER, removed from the new DSM—it’s actually been fragmented, our doctors of the mind very much The Allies carving up the Middle East as they liked, postwar, and all sorts of crumbles and fragments of NPD, have been sprinkled more heavily, into larger, far more inarguable disorders...past this, narcissistic features are used as a determinable “side dish” toward the “J’accuse!” of the recognizable biggies. As I’ve said in each refrain, this is because the general agreement within the medical community is, “narcissism and its resulting behavior/features, are too prevalent in modern society, to label it a ‘disorder’”...like syphilis in the Civil War, the worst things find their way to the commonplace, as eventually, however malignant, we each are a Self, and little else. Ego, as Reality and its every facet, Id for hot oil fun of really not caring and laughing about it, super ego hip pocket, as gift or favor for a short list, on special occasions. We narcissist-as-natural are thus, it has been deduced, due to the marinating of media steeped in sports assholes, acting assholes and political assholes, in tandem with parents being toe-danglin’ friends with their extra-special lil’ cuddle-bundles of sweetie-beebies who draw on the wall with their shit, burn Gramma’s wedding dress as “what’s this do?”, carve up the car seats for imagined buried treasure and via whom you lost your best college friend because she dared glare at your rude-as-Hell Golden Child!...you get the idea. No foot up the ass = Automatic Entitlement. High risk of it, anyway. Go with the odds, as if the wager is lost, well, case in point, SJWs and “safe Free Parking w/jackpot, My Very Ownspaces”...but, I’ll drop the hyperbole. Each, special, loved kid, each, entitled Self, each One as Self-Only, and once of voting age, whether asked by pollster or blogger or BFF or coffee group or the television or their Savior Phone or in the wee moments before sleep, they ask themselves, shoots choice of The Vote, ultimately, through prism of...What?
    “I Am a Self. What Does mySelf, want?”
    Very CEEesque, if deficient in followup. Yours truly doesn’t order from menus with nothing but a listing of crap, and will not support a System which died when I was still young. Even if IT’S ALL ABOUT MOI, pesky Others, will wish talk and debate and to have their “peen’yun”, right? As Mrs. CEE told me 20+ years ago, “the political, is personal”, and by me, as usual, that means STFU. By others, it doesn’t, it’s this weird social bonding, some bar fight as “let’s save the world”...but no one is in the booth with you, and no one is truly in your head, and You think the thoughts, You speak the words and You do the actions...and You decided, as you reached for the ballot or toward the touchscreen. A nation Of You, By You and For You. Whether you’re hot shit or you know best or simply that By God, no one else was gonna tell you (therefore they did, in reverse), Self, wasn’t thinking of our nation, its future, its place in that Future, or a great big Thanksgiving with a bowl of Glogg passed around. A right permitted, the right of choice and of decision, that doesn’t make it all about You, nononononono, don’t tell me that, you won’t force it on me, I won’t permit that lie, I decide for Me, because... So many, miss this. And you can’t explain it to them. Like my pal in 12^th Grade, ears back, heels dug in, chin out, to the death in Not accepting the square root of 1 = 1. Damn it! Chill out. I don’t believe you’re god or a god or any of us, even for a joke...but Thou Art The Only One Walking This Earth, In Thy Decisions. Occasionally, you include dear loved ones. Here and there, you graciously make a sacrifice. But You decide all inclusion. And then, the detailed ‘how’ of it, and who is on the list at its deb ball. Probably, not the one who preordered chicken.
    And so and so and so. And as everyOne is now only a Self, and this Self has the key and as well the lock, Self decides for Self by rote, because who the-Hell are YOU? And each one does this, separate and apart from any Other. In the end as involves a nation-state, any voting result is then, as they say in gamblers’ parlance, “pick ‘em”. This is assuming everyone, Arsenio, goes, “Hmm...” over things, then allows Self its divine override, or the double reverse of rebellion. Given diversity in reality, the existence of it a priori, and with Self as reactor core for each, the sands of Human, in a whirlwind reaped (if I may), is now each grain blown pixel askew, upon the portrait of Human American. Things like random election results, given such a honkin’ population, result also in polls as determined by the heart, or by a smile or grouse in that minute, the last blog entry which spoke to someone, or whether they got laid or rejected, the night before. In effect, Gallup and all brethren are out of business as legit, as they now may as well be latter day Fred Allen, no longer in the golden “Alley”, encountering postwar whackjobs on the street with his questions. It isn’t that no one tells the truth, or that Man is a liar, nor even Dennis Miller’s label of paranoia in our time, some notion of a Cigarette Smoking Man as game show judge, listening in. The reason decisions at least in a Western nation, if thrown to The People, will henceforth seem a coin flip, is Each is, as Timer told them, “the most important person in the whole, wide world”. So, It Is About (Every) Me. And despite ongoing attempts to curb individuality, each Self is now given license all the way to “identity” as 57 nightmares of Krafft-Ebing. The rare, “swing voter”, that mutation who can yet be convinced, I question how low their numbers. The swing voter, he or she truly “open”, might be as you read, a yeti. Perhaps even Bigfoot. But, what does it matter? Random, rainbow individualism, marbles, even confetti, even dust of human thought scattered Pollock, all over the political spectrum, may result in mud, or gridlock or mediocrity, but whomever it seats in whatever office, it’s low per cent-support and accidental in its happening, the end of an effective system, sad and pointless but of no account. As a televangelist once said to a caller, re: Morton Downey, Jr.’s audience, “They could just as easily be swayed the other way.” There exists no majority, no pattern which remains in a beach of Human all over the road.
    Except.
    On the portrait of blue as light as cerulean and red as dark as blood, a thousand points of pins of lights and viewpoints as needles signifying nothing, there is what appears to be a stain. It isn’t as small as desired, nor large enough to terrify, and it would appear to anyone but a mathematician who has not forgotten simple integers, to be an aberration. Something pesky. A blot not of Rorschach but with a purpose as furious and primal, if you take me. This stain, if I conjured its design, is—heh—square, and it is the kind which never (yes, I’m saying “never”) changes, also the sort which never goes away. It is not a new stain, nor flaw nor a glitch, it was always part of the Human portrait, and of the Human American portrait. One merely did not discern it, when Human America was Emanuel Leutze, or Robert Onderdonk, or Thomas Hart Benton. Everyone knew of this...thing...but few were concerned and all dismissed it, as Human America coalesced, no matter division, and the more divided, the more the unchangeable block, hid. You kind of knew about it, but couldn’t see it. It’s only now the sand or dirt or thought groupings have spread wide apart to each “I”, that upon our U.S. Pollock of A., there is a thing, square and stygian, the unrepentance of stubborn HATE, a not-too big (but, it’s not tiny, is it?) a nailhard...wow, it’s a remaining “group”, kind of. Sort of. That little...well, not little, it’s not that small, but...hey, it won’t rub off. Or lighten. Or spread out, there’s no blending. And cutting it out, harms the canvas. This “block” of unregenerate groupthink, is the final groupthink. And it weights the balances enough, random beach sand in final totaling, will always give it way. The stain, the hardness, though, okay, it isn’t large, not really a bit, but...this minor thing of ink of immutable depth, this “NO”, creates a base-level imbalance which, in truest panorama of All Thought, the voting “Self”, cannot dislodge. It will not go away but through a now-impossible empathy, or past that, by a kind of fire. I do not refer to anything holy.
    The block, this stain, a cohesion of star and diamond and rock and bone, is the last group standing, indeed. I give to it the title of a Eurythmics song: “You Hurt Me, and I Hate You”. The square block, is the collection of the most primal Selves, who vote and decide from an un-unique, pre-Dawn point of revenge. Not a “fuck you”, as Mr. Moore told. “You Hurt Me, and I Hate You.” It’s not a something which goes away. No matter what you were taught at university. Or in church.
    I originally wanted to title this column, “A Bit of Fry, Fried in Garlic”, because I’d been dumb enough to ‘tube Stephen Fry wagging a synapse over Americans insisting on simplicity in Truth. The argument is irritating, as explanation of concept, of construct, of form and framing and substance, is lost on both those who cannot hear and those who will not hear. It should be clear to all but those most huggie-wuggums among you, intellectual purses of great depth, are not to be made out of sow’s ears of fear, or with histories of abuse, or who by your own defs are disordered, or who cannot put a noun against a verb...and none of these have to be deplored, by you or by anyone, but it’s a legendary Darryl Dawkins obliteration of a backboard, slam dunked as God’s finger upon a wall, there exist too many Others, who are unteachable due to minds too empty/too simple/too harmed for too long, they cannot hear you. Incapability, as innate. You’re on cruise control past the old “DEAF CHILD” signpost, and frantically waving, forget it, it’s no good. You in fact are mandated to violate your own principles, by violating their rights. By denying them. By leading them by the hand, careful in explanation as you like, how congenitally stupid they are—which, won’t win points with any purer elements not hands on...but what’s worse, is that Booger Hunt Child already has a buddy helping them cross No Man’s Land, and this would be the other portion of the hard, dark, immutable block: The ones who Will Not hear. And who flip you off. And who fight back. And who control the nosepickers. They are the ones in this United States of Apocalypse whom you have no chance whatever, of convincing, controlling, converting or changing. And direct denial of rights at this break in the timeline, will get you armed insurrection, with snotnoses as footmen...and “a place at the table”, doesn’t cut it, as these want the table recut into a coffin, and you put inside it. These, never mind their mucous-obsessed Renfields, may have begun in many different states of mind or places in the heart, but they are now fueled, souped, galvanized and mutated, via little more than scorn suffered, barbs stung with, the burning of sneers and the reality that All “Attitude”, Is Hatred. In short, and wherever the rejection, exclusion or devaluing originated, it, by way of persons so-fucking sure and gonna tell you what, created enemies who do not dialog, will not dialog, who themselves “know”, and the antithesis, as it means You Are Wrong (categorically, see, it’s YOU in the first place)...and these walking middle fingers, are willing—no kidding around, they welcome the drenching of Earth in fusion nukes, rather than you win, “get your way”, have it as You like, etc. And for I-worked-with-Rowan Atkinson or anyone else, to default to the Avuncular Mug, is just more putting out the Cat People-fire, with gasoline. The subject or crux, may be Truth, it may be Life, it may be “how to think”, read “think as I do”...but, none of these are the point or of importance, to he who sees and hears only The Enemy.
    The purer elements, have in their softer accord, fed you one lie, at least, as we are not all “the same”. And we are not, due to the primary colors of emotion, and the rather negligible imbuing of the secondary. There are children who kill other children, who take lives in a wrongturned moment, and psychology misinterprets their tears as human secondary response, when in fact, it is survival instinct, upon doing the simple, internal math of Lack of Power < (a) justice system; Hence: End of all personal freedom. I make it sound complicated, and medical minds reason it more complicated, before shorthanding it “baby-sad-other-baby-dead”. NO. Man is about himSelf, from the ass slap. Many simply respond to conditioning, and are battened into place by groupthink. However, a not-that-small square of numbers not low, doesn’t, and are not. And with pixels of Pollock-spatter all over the canvas, one relatively small hardness of even slight weighting of math—simple integers, the kind used in counting?—is then a twist on the one-eyed man in the land of the blind. It is the alpha of certainty upon pain of total annihilation as not king, but crowning him. Like a disruptive kid in a classroom project. Except it’s manymany thousands and many thousands more, and only totalitarianism flipped, eventually mass murder, removes the wall built against You, for the rest of your life. You might have been nicer, you know. But years on, some stains created don’t forgive, and they are not cleansed.
    So, CEE as huckster, as puffed chest and “friend of God”, as the Great and Powerful Oz, the Church Lady dancing, Dennis Miller in endless subreference, boy alone in his room dreaming of ruling the world, does. He does, thanks to CEE as “me-me-me-me”, philosophy of Only Self, Everyone a Narcissist, the intrinsic importance of the capital ‘I’ in the middle of the desert in the center of the sky...and CEE was aided in tipping all balances, to continue until the 12th of Never, by, well, CEE. The one the cold Other “knew better”, than. The one at the kindergarten door thunderstruck, at the ants. Eventually, immune to peer pressure, to the point he didn’t know it was occurring. Outlier and outsider. The one who has indeed hit his knees many times, imploring his friend to send the missiles, to soak us all in the richest bath of Uranium possible, happy as a mofo to die, if it means everyone he’s ever known dies, too. None of those three, are nice guys. The third, in fact, is freakier than Hell. But he and the second, gave you the first. Barring any actual Red Phone activity, they’ll keep doing so.
    I warned you in a poem here at Scars, itself, “Truth’s Macbeth, is an elephant (The Captain Whackencracker Show)”, that to fight and defeat a lumbering thing you feared, you needed to first recognize it stood there, then forget any notion of yourselves as more evolved on a conscious level, being willing to cast out Satan with Satan...effectively, I was saying “get over your goddammed ethics and destroy now, what will destroy you”. I further admonished mere humor as laughing asshole at The Enemy, sealed your own fate. So, to take one last rib kick, your brick wall comedians did it to you, again.
    Have some cake. It’s been a year. There’ll be a bunch more. I’m calling that, like Babe Ruth against the Cubs, as I know Me, pretty well.

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