waldopaper

capital letters

Posted in Answers, Reality by waldopaper on September 22, 2014

HNRI

HNRI

It seems to me that you let yourself be swayed a little too much by the military aspects of things.  –Karl Marx

War Stories:  veterans call them swapping lies.  Sam Watkins said, “Reader, a battlefield, after a battle, is a sad and sorrowful sight to look at.”  Later he said, “The glory of war is but the glory of battle, the shouts, and cheers, and victory.”  We forget the sorrow.  We forget the victory.  We have a mid-life crisis and try to swap lies for a life nearly over that makes no more sense than it did when we made all the promises we had every intention of keeping.  Marriage becomes a marriage with the magic of capital letters.  Elizabeth had said the Magic words and the magic spell was broken and…

They all talk about their kids.  That’s what young mothers do.  It’s normal, healthy and productive.  When the children are small, it’s usually children and events.  Hoola broke a glass.  Guys do talk about even stupider shit.  Like Loola showed her ass.  Whatever. Abstractions usually take a back seat to what’s happening in the carbon world.  People and events.  Formalist and postmodern.  Here in the postmodern everything is relative and the Canon does not matter.  As we move into compost modern,  Reality becomes the canon.

Canon not reality, difference is plain.  Formalist: “God’s Word.”  Postmodern: “What do you mean by “Word?”  Compost modern:  it really does not fucking matter.  We are dancing on coffins.  The oceans are dying and we are talking about gay marriage.  That’s fucking stupid.  That’s Reality with a capital.  That is compost modern.  As a former postmodern, I would ask what you mean what you mean by dancing.  One size DOES fit all.  We are are talking about the planet, not somebody’s dick in somebody elses’ ass, see the difference?

They do not see the difference yet.  Time parks her memes whether we “choose” to see them or not.  Formalists decide what is important.  Postmoderns decide why.  Reality is what compost moderns do.  We can not decide anything.  We look at the data.  Reality decides for us and we only see a footprint of the manitou.  If we are lucky and avoid  becoming a cookie in the footprint.  Then we can still do recon.  That’s what Henry Repeter did, moving through Avery’s boys who were out there in the dark thick as fleas.

Here come the fucking judge.  All night long Henry had to help make coffee and talk like a cracker.  But Henry made it into the Cannon.  A ten-pound Parrot named Bess, and when Henry said he was one of Greene’s boys, it was the Gospel.  Truth is, only one fellow asked which army and Henry’s answer sounded like sarcasm to the postmodern pickett.  Formalists are no longer in a position to judge once everybody sees the elephant.  Come morning it is gonna trumpet judgement day dancing mad.  Henry had seen enough for one night.

Reality has a capital for a Reason.  The Reason.  One Size fits all.  Formalists diddle with words like sex toys.  Postmodernists blow them through the air like shrapnel.  Compost modern is herald of mourn before battle as light lifts and muskets cackle like barnyard hens. Filing into works by fives and tens, you could almost hear the factory whistle future.  Henry snored loud all day.  Nobody liked what he had to say.  Woke up twilight and saw where he wanted to go.  Anywhere but here.  Henry had been dancing on coffins for years.

Henry mumbled in Kiowa…you can’t change what can’t be changed, there it is, there it absolutely and positively and fucking well is.”   Henry could see through the time portal.  So could Sam Watkins.  Lincoln probably could as well as anybody.  That’s where Magic comes in:  rituals, symbols, actions, gestures and language.  Henry used Magic to get through the Reb pickets as soon as it got dark in the glowing fog of war.  Lincoln used Magic to transform pointless to purpose, and the glue held fast for over a hundred years.

They said the war was going to be over before sundown.  Formalists believed it because General Lee believed it.  Postmodernists, although they had not yet been named, speculated on Lee’s intention.  Compost modernists were born in that dung-hill, scarab beetles for coming generations.   Nationalism, patriotism, pride and honor are still stinking from that place.  It was nothing to be wearing a Yankee uniform. But this Yankee is not dead yet.  And it is only a series of crude inventions that made him a Yankee in the first place.

 Had to think about killing a Yankee to get back into the Rebs he knew who thought he was one of theirs.  Once he got through them, he kept going.  Frozen winters and steaming summers had gone by before Henry got back to the Hill where he found a little girl watching him with with Bess’ eyes.  A flaming cannonball from Heaven was heading for his hiding place.  Only the Queen in the Cauldron has The Cure.  Tell the girl it is coming or be a cookie in a footprint.  Henry was already a cookie when he came rolling along the Baltimore Pike like a proper noun.

Great minds discuss ideas.  Right.  Like fillilee-fillaloo birds whistling through our tweets in the desert. a reedy fart in a roaring hurricane.  People and events boil on the toilet and spray potable water with fire rumbling Taco Bell blast.  They couldn’t see the germs.  We can’t see the memes.  Similar results.  Nationalism, patriotism, pride and honor float on top like coconut oil cream cheese.   We push the lever and it goes somewhere else.  Pathogens invisible when we can see germs,

First we become stupid by thinking the symbol is the idea it represents.  Then the symbol does not represent anything.  Then we become cruel.  We become so stupid we can not see our cruelty, just like we can not see the difference between planet and peenie.  Halloween approaches, followed by Reformation Day.  Or preceding it if you are going the other way.  Maintain the mask to catch another… leave the bodies and wreckage to stink in the sinking sun.  Had we remembered the cost we would have no cause.  Human guile,  Disposable people.

A young girl’s tears still blot his signature.  

We wear the mask!

 

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One Response

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  1. robinonfoot said, on September 24, 2014 at 12:51 am

    Whew! Ya mix meme and metaphor until my head spins, Bro! So, you’re piping up as the Reality Whistle. I tried to find more about Henry, but then… it didn’t matter. The alarm IS heard throughout the land. So, what good is the compost modernist except to call the formalist/postmo kettle black? Definitions are all well and good for the chicken yard squawk, but it doesn’t free the chickens, or feed ’em, or do much but inform ’em. But most of them already know. Most folks are keenly aware of the impending doom. And if they are not, well, maybe that’s just as well. You and I, we are still consuming oodles of coal powered electrical power, scooting around the city on ancient sunlight, and buying cashews transported from all over the planet. WTF? So, no matter your definition (albeit a good ‘un), perhaps the compo guy can come up with some good roadmaps, some good ideas. I don’t really need no freaking alarm clock. I’ll be up by n’ by. So, go where Eisenstein pointed, or someone else from long ago and now, and look afar. Tell me whatyou see so’s I can figure out my own decisions with better clarity, Mr. Lookout Man! Don’t tell me you see a whole lotta shit. I can freaking see THAT. What I can’t quite see is how to manage. What kinds of things do I need to do now. I can’t quite see how to think around things (like money, and community, and food and shelter). Those are really the big questions most of us have. “Most” meaning those folks I know. Granted I don’t know a lot, but the ones I do know, why they see this global mess, this environmental upheaval.

    Don’t want to diss your po-mo. It’s a good definition of the next way of seeing / metacog stuff. Just want to be clear with you that you preach doom to the empty choir room. The singers have all taken shelter, or have left the scene because the sermon got senseless. We’ve scattered like those chickens I mentioned let out of the fence before the farmer comes with the hatchet. Now we’re facing the fox and coon. Got any plans, Henny Penny? I sure am scratchin’ here.

    R

    r


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