in Kuala Lumpur

I landed in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, around 9 in the evening. Mine was a short layover, for my next flight left the next day around 11 in the morning. After logging into the airport wireless network I looked at a few maps of the surrounding area, read some city review websites, and decided to ride the train into town instead of sleeping on a bench somewhere in the airport.

I emerged into what looked like a settlement for people from subcontinental India, most of whom had already closed up shop. After familiarizing myself with the landmarks near the station and memorizing the time-schedule for early trains back to the airport, I started walking toward the tallest and brightest thing I could see - the twin Petronas towers. I had neither cell-phone coverage nor a physical map and mainly relied on gut feelings when deciding which way would most quickly help me reach my goal. After a few hours I was close enough to the towers that I could take a full-screen picture of them, two glittering white phalluses that dominated the skyline even from a couple of miles away.

My backpack was getting heavy, my feet were tired, and at that point it was nearly 4 a.m. The walk back seemed far shorter than the walk out, of course, and I took a couple of different streets - just to shake things up. The sun had risen by the time I felt like I was near the train station again, and the buildings I had committed to memory looked far different in the light of day, but I eventually got on a train that took me back to the airport.

The airplane took off and as we were flying over the city I was shocked to see how far I had actually walked during the previous night, covering most of the distance between KL Sentral station (Brickfields) the Bukit Nanas station, near the Petronas towers. Sleep soon beckoned, however, and I gladly slipped into Morpheus’s tender embrace, happy that I had seen a bit of KL, at night.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

mountains to meet

Give a man a task, and tell him when it’s due, and he’ll move mountains to meet that goal.
Give him freedom without teaching him responsibility, however, as well as a slender magic slab to distract him, and he’ll wile away his days in pursuit of hollow, fleeting pleasures.

With the People so well engaged yet so poorly parametered, it’s no wonder that American society slides into ruin.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

on corporate rule

A horse keeps being a horse even if a group of people call it a cow. And a house keeps being a house even if a group of people call it a tractor.

Similarly, a republic ruled by corporate interests keeps being a corporatocracy even if a group of people call it a democracy. When corporations receive trillion dollar bailouts for the failure of the financial risks they took; when corporations can exploit natural resources for their own profit then sell them back to the very citizens who owned said resources in the first place; when a country fights world wars to promote or protect the profit-making ability of its corporate rulers; in such instances a republic is a corporatocracy and must be recognized as such.

There is nothing wrong, ultimately, with a republic being ruled by corporations, so long as the citizens of that republic know the truth of things and aren’t purposefully blinded by consumerism, nationalism, or patriotism. Giving citizens a cheap and easy way to flee the consequences of corporate rule and institute a new Government as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness is, however, a honorable, legal, and moral necessity.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

dreamstate writing 23 April 2017 - wristwatch of cheap

I had pulled over on the side of a packed dirt road that rose out of a valley in which lay a lake. Earlier in the dream I had stolen a tank from an underground facility. On my way out, a wall-mounted camera had swiveled to take a picture of the vehicle as it emerged. The tank looked like an updated M4 Sherman with a set of advanced, modern treads. Its turret housing was studded with sensors, and it was painted in NATO snow camouflage, large mottled specks of blue, black, and white.

For some reason I had exited the tank and was over by a copse of trees near the edge of the dirt road - to pee perhaps. In a heap of brown leaves I saw a curled-up patch of fur, a bar-coded collar, and a pair of alert feline ears. I made the rapid whistling sounds necessary to get any cat’s attention, whereupon the animal lifted its head and turned its face toward me. It was wearing a disposable dust mask of maroon color under a metal muzzle affixed firmly with an adjustable leather strap to its head. The muzzle covered its entire nose and mouth and was made of an oval of scratched steel with some sort of alphanumerics stamped onto it.

The beast stood up, its tail flicking upward in the manner of a curious and approachable feline. It started walking my way, and I cast mine eyes about for a food or water dish, concerned that with the muzzle on its face the cat could neither eat nor drink. Just before the dream changed radically I noticed a tarnished, worn wristwatch of cheap gold strapped to one of the cat’s forelimbs, again over a patch of maroon cloth.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

logic of leaving

In keeping with previous efforts to record the logic by which this whorphan lives, the following are logical steps he takes in preparation for leaving home.

Before even approaching the front portal he runs through the list of tasks he wishes to accomplish whilst out-of-doors. Once the steps necessary to accomplish the tasks at hand are clearly fixed in his mind, he gathers up the tools necessary to go about his business quickly and efficiently. These might include a laptop to use at the public library, an overnight ruck packed the night before, a pair of worn-out shoes that need cobbling, a list of groceries and the reusable shopping bag in which to carry them, a few dollars to pay for services rendered, &c.

By glancing quickly out the window he collects information about the weather and gathers up the tools needed to shield himself from it, be they umbrella and raincoat or sunshades and hat. After securing shoes to his feet he checks that cell-phone, house-key, and wallet are on his person. Steeled by one last mental run-through of the upcoming tasks, he finally opens the door and makes good his exit.

If he sticks to the above steps he can attend to his various external errands via the most efficient walking or bicycling route without doubling back to fetch some forgotten thing.

Spes mea in ratio est.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑

for far longer

On my trip through Vietnam last Spring, I went out of my way to eat primarily local food, specifically roadside bánh mì đặc biệt - bread filled with a special combination of ingredients. Whenever hungry I would seek out a person selling sandwiches from a push-cart and let him or her pile on the ingredients, whatever happened to be on hand that day. If they had spicy sauce, I would ask for it, although I have since forgotten the word. A local sandwich of this type usually cost less than two dollars.

It is difficult to describe the joy that would overcome me from quieting my hunger on the side of a busy Vietnamese street whilst eating a slender baguette filled with liver pâté, sliced meats, slivered carrots, parsley, &c. If the vendor spoke some English, we would chat. Otherwise I would eat in contented silence, my presence occasionally drawing in additional customers, it seemed.

My most memorable bánh mì experience occurred in Hoi An, an ancient seaside city of culture and beauty. The evening before my bus left I had come across a woman selling sandwiches from a cart parked in a quiet side-street a few blocks from the farmer’s market. I had parked my rented bicycle and ordered a sandwich, eating it on the sidewalk whilst sitting on a colorful, child-sized plastic chair. The next morning I had checked out of my hostel, gathered up my ruck, and was waiting for the sleeper bus near the market when a pang of hunger hit. Walking down the block I discovered the same cart parked in the same spot, recognizing it from its unique banners and construction. Since the bus had not yet arrived I went quickly to it. The woman’s bánh mì had been the most delicious I’d tasted to that point, and I was excited to sample another.

Rounding the cart I found a man standing there, roughly the same age as the woman of the night before. I greeted him in his tongue, bowing to him respectfully. “Bánh mì?” he said to me, his eyes twinkling merrily. I nodded emphatically, answering him accidentally in Indonesian. He didn’t seem to notice but raised his right hand, first showing one finger, then two, his face mischievously crinkled, a pantomimed query. I raised two fingers, whereupon he nodded and bent to work, using the same hand to grab a pair of short baguettes from a wicker basket resting in the glass case in front of him. After putting the baguettes on a cutting board he picked up a chef’s knife in his right hand, then bent forward so that the stump of his left arm, which had been crudely severed below the elbow, could keep the baguette from rolling away.

Upon seeing the numbers tattooed into the skin near the stump I was instantly reminded of images I had seen in of War Crimes museums of Hanoi and elsewhere that chronicled the punitive, wartime practice of hacking off hands. Since my bus was set to arrive shortly, and figuring it would be rude to do so, I did not inquire as to the nature of the man’s wound. Given his age of roughly 65 years he would have been in his twenties at the start of the American War, however, meaning that he’d been tortured, branded, and disfigured by the invading forces, their allies, or the North Vietnamese Army. The sandwiches he made were as delicious and fortifying as any I have ever tasted. Memories of his twinkling smile, though, and willingness to engage kindly with an American tourist, will nourish and sustain me for far longer.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

old as time

For decades on end he had been building his house on shaky ground. Over and over again it had collapsed, but not suspecting that the ground was shaky, he kept building on it.

During a trip to the city, guided by That Which Cannot Be Named, he had entered a bookstore and purchased a book of ancient teachings. Through hard and repeated effort he practiced those teachings, unsure if his labors would bear fruit but trying to cultivate a stillness within.

He built his house on more solid ground, but it soon slid back onto the shaky stuff, and collapsed. After pondering the situation he realized that he needed to check the structural blueprint he was using to build. Sure enough, he discovered a weakness contained deep within it, a tenacious shadow nestled into its core. The building was his life; the house his sense of meaning, self, purpose, worth; the shadow a nagging heartbreak as old as time itself.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

ran a road

He opened his eyes to find three paths branching out before him.

To the left was a straight and easy path that culminated in a state of benevolent non-being.
In the center ran more a difficult way that promised however much earthly fortune.
On the right, strewn with rocks and pitfalls, ran a road of anger, grasping, loathing, and pain, plunging suddenly into a gorge of eternal suffering.

The correct choice was clear to him, yet he preferred to take the side-routes.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

feelings of self

Where within a person do feelings of self-worth reside? Do they live in the belly, in the heart, or in the mind? Do they exist on this mortal plain, or do they rush in from beyond our ken, coalescing out of the formless aether when needed? If they can be learnt or forgotten, is there a best time in one’s life to learn or forget them? Do they arise within us via the same process that provides a flying animal such as a duck with the instinctual knowledge of how to fly - even if it has never been taught how to fly by its parent or witnessed another animal in flight?

This author, whose sense of self-worth was badly stunted by external forces at a young age, has been working to peel back the layers of ersatz self-worth accumulated over the years in order to determine if they should be kept, or replaced. So deeply embedded in plastic and subtle membranes is self-worth that his struggle is become a daily Sisyphean task.

Crucial allies in this task have been family, friends, and the lessons imparted by Viktor Frankl in his book ‘Man’s Search For Meaning.’ He wishes to express profound gratitude to all allies mentioned above, as well as to That Which Cannot Be Named.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

on tasks completed

During the preceding month, this author has performed the following home-improvement tasks:

Insulated areas inside and outside the home using expanding spray-foam.
Filled in existing holes around the house using malleable putty.
Cleaned up the room in which he now sleeps, moving unneeded items to the basement.
Created four functional shelves using primarily discarded materials - an old pallet, copper wiring, and screws salvaged from the backyard trash pile.
Put together and hung two large shelves using found wood and purchased mounting materials.
Used dry-wall to plug a three-foot-wide hole in the living-room ceiling and painted said hole so that it blends in.
Plugged a number of large holes in the living-room closet, thus reducing cold air and pest intrusion.
Painted the kitchen walls pebble-grey.
Stained the kitchen cabinets espresso-brown.
Installed floor moulding in the living-room.
Fixed a broken window-sill and a hole in the roof above the front door through which rainwater was leaking inside.
Reattached the western rain-gutter to the gable using the existing screws.
Screwed the ventilation register in the foyer back into a proper alignment.
Sawed off most of a large wild grapevine that was threatening to damage roof and siding.
Repaired using found materials a recessed basement window covering that had collapsed.
Installed four mirrors in the living-room using thumbtacks.
Removed trash from the front and side of the house.
Installed a solar-powered and motion-activated security lighting system that illuminates the external staircase at night.
Prepared items in the backyard trash-pile for transport to the dump by cutting them to size using a powered saw.
Placed items into window-boxes with broken latches to make these harder to open from the outside.
Moved the bathroom door’s strike-plate forward, allowing the door to shut and lock properly.
Painted discolored and secured loose floor moulding in the bathroom.

These tasks did not take much effort individually, but upon review of this list the author realizes he has actually gotten a lot of work done - bit by bit, a little at a time. Huzzah!

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

a new order

​When embarking on a speculative enterprise, be it personal or professional, keep in mind this quote from Niccolo Machiavelli: “There is nothing more difficult and dangerous, or more doubtful of success, than an attempt to introduce a new order of things.”

Writing in 1513 of the Common Era, Machiavelli was talking about the perilous task of nation-building. His words, however, can be applied to any imaginable effort, goal, task, or undertaking. The above lesson applies to the following: persons seeking to adopt good habits or rid themselves of bad ones; families welcoming new members into their midst; and communities adapting to conditions such as an economic depression, purposeful wealth inequality, or widespread environmental degradation.

Though not an exclusive list, the previous examples indicate that Machiavelli’s teaching covers a range of conditions, exigencies, and topics. As this whorphan struggles with the twin challenges of truly understanding and fundamentally altering the ways in which his conscious and subconscious brain works (without resorting to helpful chemical substances), he sometimes remembers the teaching, and uses it to stay patient with himself.

Sometimes, though, he forgets, and wallows then in quiet, howling desperation. Mahalo.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

dreamstate writing 3 April 2017

(After my pre-dawn qigong practice I had crawled back into bed, at which point these dreams occurred. It had had been a difficult, trying practice, the right side of my brain raging and intrusive.)

I was sitting with a blonde-haired girl on a concrete sidewalk next to an asphalted motorway. We were on the top of a low hill. It was bright, daytime; the sky was blue. Brick structures stood across the road to our front left and farther down the rise to our right rear. Walking paths had been worn into the scrub grasses that covered the now-empty lots around us where buildings had once stood. My bicycle lay in the grass behind us, and some part me remembers having just left a cluster of abandoned and crumbling single-storey buildings somewhere nearby.

A person drove past in a rocket-powered sled of some sort, gunning the engine to maintain speed. Though it was a warm spring day there was still enough snow on the motorway to allow the the sled to slide along quickly, without its steel skis kicking up sparks. I pointed it out to my companion, who seemed nonplussed, saying something like “Oh yeah, that’s a...” (I forget the name she used for the contraption.)

The next thing I remember was being in a house with colorful walls, watching a couple - a man and woman I knew well - getting ready to venture forth on an outing. They bustled back and forth within the large kitchen where I too stood, gathering things and talking to each other in quiet, friendly tones. Bright, golden light streamed into their abode from windows set into its thick outer walls to my left, warming the parquet flooring and wooden kitchen furniture. To my right was an inner wall painted an earthy red. The two were dressed in mismatched but colorful clothing, leggings and long-sleeved undershirts under shorts and t-shirts. Both wore what appeared to be straw hats with bandanas tied around their chins to keep the hats in place. They vacated the structure through a door to my rear, leaving me behind. I went to a cupboard at the far end of the room where I knew I would find a vacuum-sealed coffee thermos and a rolled up yoga-mat. The items were indeed there. I spoke with a companion, the blonde-haired girl perhaps, explaining something to her as I took out the items. I remembered, then, that I had similar items elsewhere, and put them carefully back into the cupboard.

Realizing that I had other places to be, I exited into an inner courtyard with red walls. Rectangular stones paved the courtyard, which was littered with wheeled contraptions, ancient wooden pushcarts perhaps. As I was walking toward the gate that led to the outside, I passed under a broad arch that led to the exit. In the adobe above my head, directly in the center of the arch, was an opening that appeared to have been hastily-patched with a rusted ventilation register, into which I peered, finding however little of interest.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑