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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “War of Water” cc&d, v282 (the April 2018 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:  |
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Why No Moving It From The Bottom
CEE
(from my treatise, “The Color of the Club Tie: the cacophony of rebellion, and why the State always wins”)
phrase key:
The Monolith = the established order sought to overthrow
XYZ Word = whatever New Idea ignites hearts and minds
Poison, is relative, if a poison of words. Like my Hated Enemy, alcohol, its effect varies, not always with its own power, not always with the loyalty of those exposed. One may reach a soul better, if their very world, is not the tavern. In case of poison as acceptance/defense of Reality daily fed, we’ve seen it is foolish to seek “help”, let alone champions, among brewmasters. Power elite, exist in a world insular, and insular for purposes. To help anyone, save anyone, assist them, rescue them, bring them on board, the forum, then, is not within walls, but out on the street. Where all may hear, and many may be brought on board. Where there can come a new distillation, free from poison accepted by rote. Where there is room for many, their needs, and a uniting thereof. The Top, is indoors, seduced. Only in air, open, free, can one listen, or hear at all. It is here we find all of humanity together as we might conceive. Wrapped caduceus as both insult and honor, these are The Bottom.
If we speak of “the bottom”, rhetoric generally indicates we speak of The People, much as from before my birth until years after The Morton Downey, Jr. Show, it was “The Little Guy”. The bottom, due to imagery and a conceptualizing innate, seems from gut level, to hold more (99%, perhaps). It has breadth to it if no power as realized, numbers if no direction, swell and sound if no form as dictated. Strength, not properly formed as the “gun” of whatever idea/movement/Enemy is seeking death of The Monolith. For sheer bean counting, The Bottom would seem very much the ticket, and it as human missile directed at The Monolith, at Power, is poetry, indeed. It makes Man using his shackles removed now a murderer’s tool, into the stuff legends are made of.
There’s a reason why the staggering integers’ worth of those living the Fish Market/Portobello Road/homeless millennial/The Honeymooners as actual tenement existence—you’ve taken every demographic not pretending to do battle with the vested interests, or otherwise cast as the unrighteously wronged “middle class”, and in the proverbial fell swoop, made of them an ocean of flotsam. Not all, even few, travel the same series of locks and dams. Only a portion, though XYZ Word speak to hearts as magic, will flow as natural, course set. Each, is who they are at center. It’s one by one by one pick up of the Twin Peaks coffee cup in the Black Lodge Red Room. Only the quick spill, is as quickly consumed. Fortunately, these are Legion to become as ordered, and the rest of The Bottom drops away, insignificant or so needs be regarded. These, will come later. The numbers, the hordes who hath ears to tweak into antennae, are more than enough.
Antennae, however, and despite the Internet, are not yet “us”, though late night talk try mightily with such guests, whose patter is worthy of a strait jacket. Human, takes work—some, any process, especially a farmyard or parking lot or auditorium of raw recruits, who have only heard the message and supped its “this ain’t the Monolith, as the Monolith is BAD”-milk, then very much enjoyed the burp it brought. Automatic fealty, not genuflection, not steel eyes, not marches across coals, is to yet be had via dog collar shocks of “Believe!”. Anti-Scam phone hackers with programming arsenals of flooding calls, are a miracle, but the thwarted scammers devolve to curses and angry screams. True Believers punchpressed through tech as “Do Not Doubt or There Will Be Pain”, are dead where they fall, after caterwauling like Captain Kirk, face upward at a glass-bottom light. Indoctrination, as what the term truly means, its only chance for effectiveness and lasting effectiveness, has to contain a human element at each point along its ideological food chain. To cop to a PI cliché, you can’t have all Indian chiefs and no Indians. For any bet of success, very much the opposite.
In utilization of The Bottom, once all non-free-flowing vessels fall away, the army/structure/formatting/linking of what XYZ Word you hold as axe for The Monolith, has, beneath philosopher king(s), fewer and fewer, as power lines dead ground to groups small and moderate size. One or two, rarely more, are acknowledged as alpha and “leader” in their rooms of baseline followers. Such persons, in main hold more zeal in their cup, question less, work harder, show with shining devotion, the single mind. These, are not enough to connect each room and lot, encampment and commune, and by “connect”, I don’t mean “use cheap phone to plan the next jamboree”. Assorted groups of like core, might work well for churches (destroying some wholly, but, never mind). This sort of arrangement, made, say, the Key Club, a jot of America’s heritage. For a war of words into growth, to words and intimidation into growth, to words and the Monolith as Bastille become Alamo? There comes the link most essential, from Higher sent, directing Lower, on. This is the most vital link, and it is the weakest. It is a center not designed but destined to blow into sparks, which abdicates its heavy mantle for Belief displayed as dominance, and for petty power plastic as cultic fishers or scammy home salespeople. If you’re lucky, you get more plastic than rind. The link, that of the drill sergeant, the liaison from Home Office, the troubleshooter to enforce quota, the cheerleader of cold smile and hard ass. The True Believer from Outside, there to light a fire through regimentation, and regiment via lighting a fire. They outrank you. They make that clear, without ever getting that childish about it.
God help you, if you thought this was a war of ideas, and that common ideas make for mutually supporting bedfellows. Middle management, is no one’s friend. One may nod to, cheer for, salute or spread the Good News of an idea. One may respect, revere, kindle loyalty, husband fervent belief in or, with faith/humanistic zealotry, “pray” to leadership in the form of an individual or one-digit’s worth of Saints With Fists. One will always, shoulder to shoulder, encourage, maybe even too aggressively, the comrades to each side or just behind...in many cases less eagerly, one accepts such aggressive positivity from the glaring smiles of those aforementioned alpha comrades (who control the means of productivity levels, UHUHUH).
Conception, one loves, for one’s mind treats even that fixed, as malleable...or, True Believer, they kneel as to a lover, embracing the fixed as holy. Headship, through image or voice or place at podium, upon a plinth, one permits via marrying input—the senses tell us, and just as the holy words for which our brain redecorates, these cannot lie. They Are Ours, therefore we serve an idea and its philosopher king, as we have taken both in our mouth, swished them all around, and the spew forth, carries necessary bacteria of the I, therefore these things are sealed to us as Good Housekeeping ‘bots. We made the decision. As for the comrades, it is presumed all “I”‘s meld as with water finding its own level...that there might be a strongman within our microcosm harking a bit too closely to Jack in Lord of the Flies in affect, is something outliers (hello) will fast revile/fight, then flee/be cast out. The Alpha Ass in small group laboring, if more than tolerated by 9 of 10 and once challenge is sent packing, is in a prime position, and should realize it by furthering two truths in action: 1) motivation via even negative as positive, driven always toward 2) the play’s the thing! As those wishing quietly and without trouble to leave Fidel’s Cuba were told initially, “Be free though your work.” Given hallowed glow of ideology, materials (preferably more than a fistful) of The Chosen’s epistles as communicated, and locker room excitement ramped (yet, not overdone—the 666 of “drama”, taints, even here), there exist potentially, rows to become ranks, to move XYZ Word forward.
What destroys this, by splitting Self and resolve, and initiative via muddying vision, is the aforementioned loyal sergeant. Middle management. Hoppin’ Bob, the shotgun kapo, in LIFE. The third in command’s second lieutenant’s assistant’s choice for YaddaYadda District (often because no one else wanted the post—this, even on the capitalist level, creates anal community infrastructure, but will stay on point). One might know them or know of them, or not at all. This person, battlehard no matter their little experience, must command respect, and stupidly, often attracts with vinegar. Or outright getting in peoples’ shit. They are cold. Wrongly, they adjudge they must be. The Hoppin’ Bobs, are given control, and The Controller, is not your friend. Teacher say, Student do, Danielsan. Except, this one can’t teach you anything but their own vision of the holy vision, which, bet me, won’t match yours. Their course has no room, not wiggle, not squirm, for XYZ Word to by one handsbreadth, hang a louie or a ralph. Hoppin’ Bob, is scissors with a mouth. Alpha Ass, is their own Hoppin’ Bob. And Merry Christmas, Ralphie, it’s the bully and his laughing ferret. Vlad and his Renfield. There exists a pecking order, and you and the rest, whatever is held in your hearts, are far back, deep in the pack, because you are the pack. Useful, but mind your manners.
It matters not at all, there is zero consideration given, that without you and the others, XYZ Word is just a book, a CD series, pamphlets or ancient lessons from another land, or Leon Trotsky’s version of ‘how’. It is as nothing, that the process stops, comes to a halt, ends, winks out Swan Lake, like the little dot on an LBJ-era MOTOROLA, if you and everyone but Pinky and the Sarge throw rakes to the ground and hoof it. The notion that failure in the garden granted your personal Hoppin’ Bob, would play as End Result, is to HB and probably more to AA, incomprehensible. We’ve all seen too many movies with cults or cells or Maoist 24/7 “group therapy”. For every daring escape, every return to Main Street, the examples of ever-more-idolizing group fellatio of XYZ Word (“Ahh! It was always this way!”), dominate like Reagan’s America staying the 1984 course.
Unfortunately for Bob and his asshole, the thinking process per reaction to action, is no such lock. The breakaway from flatline acceptance, began with Gen X. The trend, part blessing, part infection, entrenched, and there’s no getting rid of it. Conformism is now, too often, social show. SJWs, yes, there are armies, but no one can afford year ‘round tuition in perpetuity. Even Trudeau’s Zonker Harris, had to graduate. Besides, the pattern in Self, is the same. Plenty, will Sieg Heil...plenty still, will swallow whole. Infighting/grappling to dominate in microcosm, is familiar enough, if uncomfortable—the Alpha, might be someone you have admired prior, or a friend. Stranger from Not Here, Person You Don’t Know, Unsmiling/Robot Smiling Who-The-Hell, Corrector Overcorrecting the Parts You Liked Best, Stranger again, and Who Is This?!—ORDERING, embodies an XYZ Word not yours, a 2-D RSV which does not belong to you, cannot suffer interpretation, and in fact, didja know, You as entity mean very little, but to push and pull and link arms and perhaps be beaten or die, all for sound bytes interpreted for you, by a visibly unfeeling Other. If you are not in actual prison and this is not rape, you’re a sad panda, if you do not leave. Middle Management, though they carry a shotgun with elephant-hunt attachment, can only appear/communicate as cold, controlling, threatening or give you a major hit of “...can’t make any sudden moves...have to stay calm...the Police, 911”, assuming you do not make your bed in the same building.
In the West, any chasers of holies, have a hole in their bucket, if (how ironic) they employ no wall. Barbarism in the Park, something then-new and stinky, will play much less well, if reprised. The Whatever Movement, needs to turn out pockets, sell its yo-yos, trade its Grandpa’s pocket knives. Shelter you, feed you, clothe you and otherwise perform as the best and most wealthy religious cult. Protect You through investing. Indoctrination, where you and others have a minimum of free movement, a bit of time for introspection, and God Knows, a diet you can call your own (or cheat on, then lie about, then act pissed about being called a liar), is paper-thin. It’s an indoctrination, surfed. If you won’t live the half-lived life of paranoia, the faithful just lost a ranker. It’s like walking off a job, except with more buzzwords.
In the ocean of The People, there are visible gradations. Those born to burlap, judge cells by “what’s in it for me”. Seldom is the ‘what’, adjudged enough, and any muscle, incendiary or otherwise, costs. The People, those actually representative (as their salient factor is Not having too much time on their hands or too little advocacy funding their ideals), will slit a throat or hit a detonator or claim a hostage who won’t survive, assuming your holies and magicks have legitimate power to claim power. They don’t, or your logo already would wave in the breeze. The People as actual, as grassroots and street, here opt out, proceeding to ignore you. You’re the sound of a cap gun, the fury of “I hurt”. Few born to this station, find themselves in the bare rooms of “need to shit” evangelizing, but by severe cold outside, or for the snacks.
If you were not born to burlap, Hoppin’ Bob and their molding of your melding, is the item to terrify, and from which to run (See Above). Boot Camp of any sort, exists to make your You, THEIR “you”. This works, if you’ve joined with full knowledge of the end model proscribed. The United States Marine Corps. The Catholic priesthood, pre-Vatican 2. Movements of Other-Thought, beneath the top level, dirty further and muddier and shittier and useless, with subjectivity.
Again, look at the Monolith. Yes, it’s angering. How dare it say? You don’t approve. It crowds, denies, and too proudly. As any entity, it thinks damned-well of Itself. But it doesn’t pretend you’re its brubbie or sissie and then correct, upbraid, expect piles of shit done you didn’t choose, don’t want, don’t like, don’t see as necessary... The Monolith, is not a source of Love. It isn’t supposed to smile. Ruling control, does not drink from a communal bowl; in some cultures, dissent begins with this. The Monolith, presumes, but, yeah, hey, listen, it is Enemy, that’s the whole point. Your overseer, who wants the same world as you (Really?)—why don’t they smile? Why don’t they interact on a better, deeper human scale? Why is “equality” abstract, upon this ground, in this room?
Strangeness. You don’t like them. Distance, as from the new jerk of a pastor, new “third man” in the store, new principal, new caseworker, new...the awkwardness of unfamiliarity. Local Alphahole, can be forgiven—whether you really ever knew him, you “know” him. A wider gap, demands open hearts and hands. The higher up ice maker, has come only to work, and the Idea, the mission of XYZ Word, is really the only relevant bit. Few of these particular beings, back off to being akin. You cannot know them. It’s some unwritten rule, rarely doctrinal. They’ll almost throw down, in not permitting it. Their strangeness in not wanting “like”, invites more considered dislike—and then, look out, it’s You who has the issue. Maddening! Who is this drone, who acts like a drone?
A: They’re a drone. The kind who existed long before little buzzing kill planes, and who in the camps of the SS, wore a triangle. They’re the worst beings in the world. No real authority, either, but as permitted by herd instinct. No words of their own, but to edit yours. Always watching, and not to pass out stickers. Alsatian persons. No one’s friend. You are better off with no money, no support base, not a roof to be had and no friend at all.
If the end scene in V for Vendetta was anything but childish fantasy, this missive, would not exist. Movements, must have genuine structure. Anarchism stumbles, as Group perception in Stage One, is permanent, due to “human”. Movements further must have unification of parts, as no sum exists without the body of All as pressing forward...and not by uneasy, dead fish handshakes of “this will get us the numbers”, the myopic doom of the Union Party in 1936. Human is not a sea as already existing, awaiting purpose. It may...theoretically, but I’ll take a chance and vote “Yea”. It better, as from The Bottom, the groundswell must needs become a Great Swell of Humanity, if the Monolith is to be moved, let alone toppled. For that, impetus undeniable, the stirring, is essential, for the becoming. Becoming, however, is impossible along this line, and though other roadblocks exist, I need throw up only the one:
The speed of tech so to speed our lives and a highway of interconnectedness so blinding it models Bill Maher’s indictment of Trump’s “bees!” of issues...this, as daily focus, pacifies—phone payoff, oceans of images to drown, LOUD like heavy metal never thought about being (cacophony of too-much-introduced is the true “loud”). Imagine, overstimulation as pacification. Huh! What a play! Deliberate? I won’t go there, but burlap or silk, those who connect as MUST, are lost. Minds as won aside from happenstance of circumstance, beg containment. Containment as the faux Elysian Fields within Matrix, is the realization of FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. No Human Holies will get that, a “found as lost”, “chained within Utter and All”. Zeal as forward purpose, is in comparison, the slow motion dream. Wallace Fard founded The Nation of Islam in 1930, and by 1995, Farrakhan’s “‘million’ man march”, totaled 400,000 (See National Park Service records). There isn’t going to be a sea treading the grapes of wrath underfoot into what bootleg beverage you’re selling. The recipe calls for pinpoint focus, sustained, a grip never to be released because of what future is at stake. You can’t maintain that with one hand on your browser. The “whole ball of wax”, allows too much, too varied and incessant. Combative difference, pop-up, of the reality of too many billions. You’re first wanting a Launch On Warning. From ashes, talks might begin. This, of course, poses a more troubling problem.
The Bottom, rich, deep, piled with willing bodies, is, in too-bright a millennium, tainted by Man’s (supposed) advancement. Human as the masses, appear flotsam to the critic or the self-believed “higher”, because of high finite diversity. This includes diversity in choice, preference, discernment... The Bottom, is whole milk disunity, unless truly, truly willing, which requires openness and singular focus. Tech cut with the mundanity of a life not of dreams, provides daily a little knowledge with access to greed, counterarguments, et al. It buys eyes, attention...ironically, buys minds it simultaneously jades against control/differing perspective. The Bottom as field of hearts and minds, is hardly white unto harvest, and anyone with XYZ Word in their hand, is back to cultic fisherman hoping for the wide-eyed outlier with nothin’ doin’ and empty as air. That’s a roomful the hard way, two generations ago. Now? And you’re wanting might? It doesn’t come from bad movies, and we do not exist in dreams. The time-honored strategy game, “Fox and Geese”, teaches the lesson: There is strength in numbers, yes, but the ‘I’ is as strong, as strength lent one to another, is moral support. Grass roots (or concrete), it’s a trust issue, once again, because it’s a Self issue. Once again.
Accepting a remolding by hands as dirty as yours, hands uncaring, cold, disregarding and rude in their mission, is for the acolyte who holds perfection of idea, idealization of new thought, war for change entire, as greater—and not just philosophically—than Self, and self love. Those who are such creatures, broken vessels reaching out, are in shorter supply by the upgrade. One can claim that all of us are broken. The ‘how’, leaves social armies begging. Anger, a thing to channel, no longer is the property of a movement. Emptiness or soulish pain, is not strength to plumb. Horizons of workers, in simplistic sense, is indeed the answer, but you aren’t going to find one nth that, because 1) SOMEONE has to lead at every level, and 2) Jackass can’t cast out Son of a Bitch. “I Serve The _____”, is no longer but for very few, separable from “You Are Nothing, Shut Up And Serve The _____.” We are thus, back to “How dare you say?”
Few, care if they gain the whole world. Plenty, no longer believe in a soul to lose. Very Self, surrendered? For what, in return? ...and if movements, words and ideas are down to trading, that’s Game. The Monolith, isn’t just sitting there; it has foundations sunk deep into the Earth. To a large extent, The People (Bottom) put it there. That they can damned well remove it if they wish, is a bar-level boast, and cheap to say.
CEE
