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Question Everything
cc&d, v280
(the February 2018 issue)

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Question Everything

The So What Light From the Dead Stars of Your Opinions

CEE

     Trujillo, was a tyrant. The last of the ancients, the old breed. He was a tyrant neither of ology or ism, but of Trujillo. The world was not flat. The world was not round. The world, was Trujillo. Today, every “I”, is a Trujillo. Many, just give their narcissism and microsuperiority, other names. Like “correct”. Or “facts”.

     It dawned on me the past two days, I’m pushing identity politics. Not that I think for one split tick you’re “Ohm!”ing out to CEE or prostrating yourselves before the one picture of me which exists on the Web, or having mini-epiphanies like my stuff is a Chick tract (“Wow...I never thought of it that way...”), but I figured all that going in. I couldn’t be lucky enough to be a cult leader. And it would bring discord to the music of my song. As early as my 6th chapbook (a not-by-Scars-one, so I won’t hawk it), I urged all zombie youth, Goth youth, lost souls and y’all stuck with crappy remakes and cover tunes of things I really enjoyed as a kid, you needed to “run right at others”, with your truths...in a chapbook mms never published, I called the whole of You, your “IT”. I stated, and stand by my assertion that You are all you can know, therefore what proceeds from your IT, is, if not hard fact ala gravity or atmosphere, nonetheless Never Wrong. I believe All Reality is in the personal, yet conversely, I am a billion-% externalist (Deci and Ryan). The “IT” is the sum, yet we have control over nothing, not even ourselves or personal choice. Past the eyes, beyond our heartbeat, is chaos, a battlefield, even The Abyss, itself.
     Self, then, that only, what is known and knowable and all that can be accepted, perceived or trusted, becomes cosmos. That which makes up Self, one’s IT, is unflawed, sound, in need of no correction, whole. “I Am Right, End of Subject.” This phrase, dating back for me at least to 1985, is Martin Luther prior to its comma, Martin Luther King, following. It is Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, “I will fight no more, forever.” It is Actual Trek’s Horta, “NO KILL I.” It is John Wayne in The Cowboys, “Get the Hell off my spread.” It is my mother to any stranger at our door, “We don’t want any.” I don’t need to hear you, when the comparing of Life gives way to contrast, as you push a BE DIFFERENT, and my IT requires nothing...rather, if it does, I’ll survey the buffet on my own time at my own speed, and pick and choose as I like. In the eyes of Socrates, despite my IQ, I’m thence an idiot, but Socrates was just another Self-god who played dice with the universes of Others. Assuming the man existed, and wherever Dante stashed him, he can shove it, then grey me out. I don’t vote, anyway. My first ever CC&D score, “Fascists Find Oz”, will tell you why.
     If you’re truly patticake in your human intercourse, and come at this line with “Wellll, what if everybody else walked around, thinking that?”, NEWFLASH: Everyone Does. One can’t kidnap each Other to a scumbucket motel and ape deprogrammers in securing such an admission, or beat them until they accept a polygraph...I’m also pretty certain Gitmo is booked and not taking reservations for personal experiments...but, Everyone Thinks This and Lives As Such. And no one’s supposed to talk about it and no one ever does, and just like the gang in Seinfeld, my Stalingrad, is being freaked by and dwelling on the Incredibly Uncomfortable of Human of Which We Do Not Speak. Except for me, it’s not close talkers or man hands. It’s the Nine Billion Centers of the Universe with their smarmy little kid denial of “No, I don’t...” And, how do I know this? I’ve witnessed it, every day of my life. And how do I know it’s “real” as perceived? That, I can prove by the baseline technique of asking you if The North Pole is a place, then asking you if you’ve been there. As est has it, “What is, is.” We each, are a cosmos. But some, are warring planets. These, must battle and fight and conquer and subdue. Such individuals, have the intellectual equivalent of “the runs”. This inability to hold in their mindshit, has many origins, as we indeed have a world much diverse, but each is welcome to their story. They are Not welcome to edit my story, and if you choose to let them have at yours, be prepared to experience the forgotten tale of Boo Radley and the scissors. Others, are cultists on your doorstep, life coaches in search of more employment, annoying “best friend” high school teachers, the counselor you were forced to talk with, Helpful Hannahs from church or Mare Winningham in St. Elmo’s Fire, during her microscene as a state welfare worker. Others, too many of them, want to better your life. This means taking the scissors to it and to you. As a long ago friend (1991) told me, when I’d been reduced to hiding from someone, “There are people who believe they should be able to intrude into your life, whenever they want, and if you ever say ‘No’ to them, you’re considered a snob.” This butts into CEE’s life, only in matters like not getting in the front door before a neighbor flags me down, or if, sucker in Vegas, I ‘tube the wrong vid. My life, the whole of it, is anomaly through and through. I rarely “have to” so much as exit the door of my home.
     This rare gift, exists for very few in the pure form I experience. Thus, the billy-yuns and billy-yuns of universes, encounter warring planets, daily. This negotiating of “being told” back and forth, has quantum leapt into a “You’re Not Allowed”. This, has spawned a new outgrowth of the cancer, “Here’s How To Think”—cancerous, in that every process as ordered, is constructed to produce pre-proscribed results, i.e. any system existing for the human mind in daily process of anything microcommunity-fed, is MOUSETRAP, which ends with the winner losing. Other-controlled instruction of one mental foot in front of the other, leads down a primrose path to a jail cell. And the caged bird may sing, but you’ll have the choice of Nicholson at the end of ...Cuckoo’s Nest, or McQueen as Papillon in solitary. In The Five Stages of Macbeth, I was wary in telling you again to run at others, yes, share your truths, proclaim them, But I Don’t Want To Hear The Shit. I didn’t care if it sounded snarky, but when I wrote that chap, I really had to examine where I was coming from. In the end, I went with it. To repeat, I’m no cult leader. Take what speaks. Use what you can. Implement it, if you will. I just don’t plan on returning the favor, unless it happens by accident. IOW, there’s a semiregular enrichment from sources, in my life, but all within Self-preset guidelines and discovered privately. Other-control, must always be eliminated, Zero Tolerance. I don’t think I’m God, but I’m not about to pray to You.
     My IT-concept, the identity politics I apparently push (?), you can deduce are heavy on having nothing to lose but your chains—because if you’re not made of ermine jelly, you should be stabbing the hands presenting the manacles. Failing that, STFU is a rule Any may apply to All. I’m not certain this extends to burning down college campuses due to Others’ mindshitting hurting you to the level of Shatner in Kirk-agony, pick the episode. I have no personal frame of reference for Molotov Cocktail party as local news. The municipality in which I live, is not large enough to beg such drama. Mass, selfrighteous denial, what I mentioned at the top as childlike and childish, smiling faces of podlike WE CARE, is the local Plague.
     Identity politics as railed against or feared as totalitarian, are the kind which wear ski masks or Nixon masks or Guy Fawkes-as-a-way-to-waste-money-because-you’re-swayed-by-branding masks, and such is not the CEE Way. It is, in fact, a flipside ID, soulish martial arts as Cobra Kai, not fire from YHWH to hold Pharaoh back. The tail of the coin, in group decision, is a bad thing. Goocher, to CEE’s moon. I say STFU, and I then withdraw, not permitting brain defecation in my home or—as am able—my presence; curiosity kills me only as “what’s this?”-cat. If you value your IT most, you’ll still make mistakes like permitting another voice—for a moment, until it turns into a Sam Kinison joke about New Love as a raging minotaur. “No man is an island”, is patently false, and I’m living proof but, again, one may adopt this and affect this and live this and be this, if The Individual as Holy Identity, stays away, withdraws, lives in a weird mixture of freedom and alienation. This can—again, I’m proof—go on even to include the pair bond...but, the odds against a smooth ride incline steeper just with the tweaks I’ve added, let alone we customize further. One sometimes must literally disappear. Jack Crabbe in Little Big Man, tortured by all he had had torn from him, at some stage became a hermit. In order to keep Self from slings and arrows, it is Self who must hit the road like David Carradine in Kung Fu or as Puff, the Magic Dragon, slowly slip into its cave. Anyone following, caffeine-insistent, forcing the teen girl, lover’s quarrel of “Wait! C’mere, let me talk to you...”, plays a dangerous game. Flight, retreat, disconnection or absenting oneSelf, is often best, and Self alone, decides this. Interference Here, is asshole in the extreme. Word: Anyone who in a tense moment, chooses to leave the happy crappy of the party/picnic/reunion, etc., is exercising a divine right. Let them go, leave them be.
     That’s the moon, the ID politics of CEE—of Danielsan, the path of “aw, c’mon, man”, and keep walking. The goocher of talking about something which gonna explode into no one gonna be happy, is something I and those like me, refuse, Marshal Petain at Verdun: “They shall not pass!” I’ve said, nonfriends, you’ll have to kill me. Humans are, and more so each day, The Valley People in “One Tin Soldier”. Y’all are selfish, screaming warriors, there for the hack and the slash. Get Away From Me, or let me find the door.
     ...but, I’m not going to keep you from speaking, espousing, reasoning or even persuading, if I am nowhere near the sound of your voice(s). You know me as Old School. The V-chip, was a horseass idea, ditto the television ratings system. I believe in the power of the POWER button. An On/Off switch, is the greatest right Mankind possesses; flipping such a switch, is our best special ability. A mildmannered audience member on The Morton Downey, Jr. Show (topic: “Radicals of Radio”), meekly said into one of the Loudmouths, “You can learn something, from every talk show host...I really believe it helps you to think”, and Mort, leaning near, involved in lighting up, interjected, “Sometimes, you can learn not to listen to them.” The fact being, it isn’t passive-aggression, to NOT want to be enlightened by anyone. Yet there are people in the close personal, who Must Speak of “these things”. They know better. They cannot control themselves. It’s the imponderable I have, re: addiction, “But I HAVE to touch the hot stove!...MUST...NOT...TOUCH...!” The infamous anarchist-friends were like this. Etiquette, the common virtues, manners, deportment, being in someone else’s home, these were raw sewage next to what I “had to understand”. It eventually reached the level of violence-in-the-offing. Decades after our last engagement, I was and still am adjudged the villain of the piece. STFU, is to those who enter with “How to Think”, childish and stupid (ignoring the tough-little-urchin-with-chin-stuck-out quality to “I’m FREE, I cansayanythingIwant!”, on their end).

     To further the point, this, from a letter to a dear teacher (now deceased), sent with a signed ...Macbeth, 2/2014:
     “I’m not here to debate. Never was. If anOther disagrees, let them. If they must hold forth, let them. If they must march or go door to door with their spastic colon of ideology or philosophy or theology or “Can’t you see that...?”, by all means, let them. I just don’t want to be part of their process of working out those first, helpless tears they cried, which, my likes, is the reason for all personal engagement of the “truth” brand. ...
     Like the unbeliever faced with evangelism, I’m willing to NOT talk about conflicting points of view, but just like the evangelized unbeliever, find myself quickly besieged and No Quarter. It’s been my experience, this feeding frenzy by those who’ve never gotten past a steady diet of pizza and debate, is a lever easily tripped, a faucet impossible to shut off, and the monstrous turn to gutter anger often rides in its wake, if he attacked will not play ball. How in such light,
I am the one with issues, I cannot fathom. ...
     A smug, selfinvolved know-it-all, at bottom hurts no one but himself. If you turn on the radio, idiot tube, or the Antichrist on your desk, you may know in seconds, what is wrong with the opposing approach.
     Here I stand. Here is Truth. And, having imparted It, I’m willing to not discuss it. I can see how that might be immature...however, I insist everyone else see that pursuing, pressing the issue, that insistence itself, is just as nursery school.
     Sadly, the olive branch of
“See...we’re both wrong, aren’t we?”, seems not to work, but to further inflame. Again: the Problem, is Not Me.”

     Unanimity, does not exist, if factoring in only trolls who laugh into their hands, and weak links make global solutions into fantasy. Lysistrata, in the 21st Century, ain’t happenin’. If we extend far enough into statistical coin-flipping, every goocher of every spew of every poison from every mouth leering as serial villain, as BATMAN baddie, as the kid who really believes he’ll live a long, smug life and never get smeared all over a parking lot...every fist proceeding from every concept or construct or control fetish, will hit. Each, will strike. All, will harm. Blows meant for their sound and fury, from individuals who even at the highest level, effect nothing. A disease shared as a gangslam for which no paddywagon exists. The bowel movements of the gray matter of persons who could live ten such no-get-shit-beat-out-of lives, and still be as robot kneejerk as both sides in Munich, marinating in home team rhetoric, forever.
     I shouldn’t have to hear jack from you or anyone, but I can prevent it, mute it, stop it, even live away from it without getting my name on the CNN crawl. I would suggest to SJWs and all who wish pronouns sanitized, definite articles redefined and a newly translated RSV of the entire Thorndike-Barnhart, the same option exists for thee. Walk away from their gaseousness. I know, that’s extreme and you don’t like the sound of it. It limits in the way arriving late to dinner at Fawlty Towers where “we can always do you sandwiches!” is So Not a big deal, but Americans at least, melt down over it. And I won’t push, “Life isn’t fill in the parental hogwash and go tote a barge”, so if you choose to obey Roddy McDowell and “Fight like apes!”, go for it, but had I been Mr. DeMille’s Moses, I’d have sent John Derek and his thirsty social justice, packing. “How can you find peace or Want it...?” It’s real easy, Joshua. That’s identity as fully realized. I do not believe we or you or I can move mountains, it’s a metaphorical notion. We don’t live in a paperback original stuffed in a spinner rack, it doesn’t happen. Only quiet and peace and contentment in an adamantly anti-B.F. Skinner-way, may be anything from rest to creation. There exists no harmony within the hypocrisy of the sham, the contrivance called “community”...and you Big Bang it with a Grand Ah-WHOOOM!!!, yes, but if disintegrating out of the picture, never to partake of what remains is your priority, then, you’re not the Self I thought you were nor selfish as your enemies pigeonholed you. You’re in the books as perverse Crocketts, sick Custers, gross patriots on Bunker Hill. Darth Sam. All die, and that’s a dead cliché, but seeking the practical application of it, is far more infantile, than not wanting ugly syllables shoved into your ears. You can escape the syllables. You can’t silence them all, in a world with an eight-digit problem.
     Ah, but the planets they discover, shared excitedly in articles on the dottie commies! Always represented by paintings, like Gainsborough or Sir Thomas Lawrence is sending them back until we can get a Daguerreoprobe beyond Actual Trek’s Great Barrier. Planets which are this and that, and that one dims really fast, and that one’s far-way redder, oooo, neato!...but from habit, we’re still often thrown the bone of the light from these myriad, multiplicative, infinitesimal milliards of googol-gillions of Out There places, being light of many millennia past. Any light seen, is light no longer existing, its source extinguished, dead, gone, relevant to no one but those Here, wanting to dint our ears about it. And every “fact” as applied in every way, to “better” a creature best left looking at the paintings heading the news articles. Said creature, IQ high or IQ low or pundit puking on the validity of IQ, has about as much to offer, as worlds we’ll never know as living places and peoples, and less by ten to offer, than purty pitcherses.
     It’s very hard, to be left alone. It’s harder, to make the din stop. You’ll never achieve either, unless you walk the-fuck away. Pushing, criminalizing, commanding, even riotous murder, is about as effective as the White House threatening North Korea.

    Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, he’ll sell the materials you provide (probably on craigslist) and eat better, for two. Whether you’re right, William Maher is right or I’m right, is really a moot point. Nukes, climate, overpopulation in tandem with pestilence or Mr. Asteroid zoomin’ our way, this world is doomed. Trujillo doesn’t care about how your facts feel. He lives on an island.

CEE



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