"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

We're Just Ripping Through This Decade, Aren't We?

Apostasy- A Preamble

A few years over a decade ago, I graduated from a fuck-load of ass called “High School” by some and “best time of my life,” by others. Having for four years endured the adolescent banality of what would become this latter category, I need not say, but will for the sake of exaggeration, that by design, I most likely have nothing philosophically in common with it.

Near the end of this “great adventure,” I and my classmates of both designations had shoveled before us the bodies of those revered for reasons still unknown to me, exhumed for us by those who would be able to provide no personal recoup in having done so, as their pinnacle of “disparaged private High School teacher” can profess; we, forced to gaze in awe at those formless, lifeless achievements, told to look upon our own future as a mirror of what their lives had become, without seeing their faces or knowing what indignation or propriety their choices had inured them to, thus leaving us bereft of cause and personal effect: what some of their efforts were to represent or cauterize, accidentally or by strict design, scarring the world; what others’ efforts sufficed to peak at best as detritus under the deluge of what naturally occurs from irrational delusion.

Catholic private school or not, we marched out of there, some of us only for the next few years or even less, but still, through the desert of their twenties maintaining the concept of intellectual hierarchy to which they’ve failed; all of us, however, poised by “education” to set our eyes wide and pledge allegiance to anything but ourselves, as we were never taught to define a “self” at all; to hold this thing, this revered corpse of scholastic repute apart as beyond ourselves, this modern god, holding in it’s hands a grail of secular indoctrination…

We stood, barely united, in the Cyclopean shadow of The College Student.

A Lord, held aloft by most who once were it, those who missed the chance to be it and those now that are at any time or place being groomed for it, all in different denominations and for vastly different reasons based on “race,” region and the economics separately influencing both; a Lord praised more highly than the values which it supposedly represents, that making it not altogether a different breed from most Gods.

What are these values? Knowledge? The love of knowledge? The many applications of knowledge, all under the umbrella of “higher-learning”? Are there any discernible values represented by it at all?

I’ve no idea.

And what it, The College, wishes to represent through the words of current scholars or through the syllabi of professors teaching at the High School level to children who are raised in a culture that abhors learning, means nothing to me. Results are the metric in most practical applications of knowledge; a horizon of economic viability and unconditional love of “status quo” are my perceptions of these results, this, in stark contrast to paragons of all sciences and mathematics that higher learning in College can truly foster, is given to everyone else, those that are often denigrated during childhood by apathetic teachers and perhaps their own parents, to never think to perceive of this standard for themselves, yet happen to be raised in a society that regards it as a productive and intellectual apogee.

I do not currently agree. And I don’t think that I ever have.

Time has been a fuse for a while; time has been a fuse for all of us since whatever organism was ever first conscious of it was, and passed down to your individual consciousness a torch across all of the ages you missed, which turned to be less a torch and more an elongated stick of dynamite. Time seems to have an exponential curve for me: as my life continues, my awareness of time increases and I don’t have the conceit to think I am alone in this;

Every year for me now passes as quickly as those months in Elementary and High School, which in it’s span for me then, felt as if consistently mired, beleaguered and forced by some malevolently judicious hand to retire my most happy moments to the recumbent acknowledgment of every painful anticipation in having to awaken and return to it, never free, lest within those seemingly brief moments extended by Matthew and I finding a way to stave it all off by laughing about it’s lack of importance;

Every month, now, as if within those tired and regressive weeks of anxiously waiting in hardly acceptable temperatures for some bus to abscond with me, to some anxiously obnoxious place where I was hardly accepted, to arrive mornings, some five days in a row, dying for more than just two away from it;

Every hour, now, like those few minutes between classes or those “free” moments compiled daily into one singular lunch-time near-hour for me to listen to my CD player and exert my own will, for once, in this adolescent experience, learning and forming an opinion about what I find valuable, without the derisive input of biased automatons, faculty and students included;

Every minute, now attributed to the generations of bacteria that self-replicate with or without error, every second of every minute, hour and day, dying and evolving at rates genocidal to human perceptions of time, prove that my simple lifespan is too valuable to waste on being indoctrinated, too valuable to be spent believing in the memes and adages of those who’s philosophy has never ventured beyond the concept of “me and mine”; I have never been taught to respect time whatsoever, but  every minute I spend asleep, I lose by attrition to death. Perhaps if Elementary school, High School and College all had done their current job more efficiently and effectively, I would have killed myself long before now. Or at least, if they knew their shit, I would have started then to actually believe that I was a Catholic first.

…and all around me, for ten years, my most constructive and wonderful decade thus far, I’ve found in grand proportion those whom this proposed “lifestyle” has never left, those who, all as one, form the lazy, insouciant, impotent laser that bifurcates the future of us homo-sapiens, with the higher proportion of it’s outcome on the side of remaining homo-sapiens forever and eventually, if only slightly worse, to it’s obliteration, as opposed to the continuing of it’s perpetual evolution. Those who arise only because they mustdo only because they should, and when they’re released for the day, rest, because they’ll be back under thumb tomorrow; they come, blank-faced with corked-ear, speaking in the dulcet tonality of vicarious regret, regardless of how much capital they do or do not control or how much they pretend to care about philosophy or things more concrete, say, the environment or their own family: their only design is sown by the needle of comfort, into reams of extended lifespan, and sometimes into a heavier, yet less personally warming quilt of facetious ideals.

Perhaps to be more fair, I could say it is haunting them; a lifestyle that will never leave them because of it’s existence as an ancestral ghost which they have been given spotty photographs of, being taught to believe in and fear during their whole of adolescence. Is this some sort of Nationalistic Dream? Is it a dream at all, to teach future generations of children to pledge their lives to intransigent virtues without ever teaching them what a “life” or even what a “pledge” is?

When I look at a digital calendar or even the occasional analogue one and see the current year, I’ve only recently taken particular notice that this decade is almost half over. What the fuck have I done with all of this time?

Well, quite a hell of a lot, it would seem, because finding people outside of mainstream and internet fame, ie: in real life, that have any ambition towards anything aside from eating, impregnating/getting impregnated and sleep after a hard evening of passively watching cable television is quite a task and the inflection of it as irregular is not something I wish to propagate because of the sheer depression that it invokes, regardless of how true or untrue it may be.

This prose poem saga is dedicated to everyone who is living under the gun, that is, the “gun” of constant personal revelation, consistent personal standards and heavily instituted personal scrutiny; those beset by mediocrity, antagonistic disparity in any field they may choose, if their design does seek to benefit some manner of personal integrity towards their own understanding of reality; all of this, as opposed to what is typically the using of it as a guise, yet beneath is simply the bottom-feeding fuel to some particular person’s label-based self esteem, supplied by publicly castigating supposed out-groups that seem to disparage their own existence simply by proxy of being not them.

Those types of minds are the genetic cancer of the homo-sapiens, a species which I found myself, thirty years ago, bereft of choice or cause, a part of, but through twelve years of mandatory schooling a reluctant participant; yet now as an antibody in defense of it, one of the many in it’s cultural veins, consciously deriding and accosting however impotently, the cascading recurrence of medieval ideals that keep it, as a whole, chained to and at times regressed by it’s doddering, meandering “history” of wrought horrifyingly-cyclical design.

I’m trying to not kid myself here, you most likely don’t fit the dedication. But if you made it this far, perhaps I am wrong.


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