five seven five

This author is changing his usual daily writing efforts, preferring haiku to prose in an effort to avoid speaking divisively. He finds that there is enough vituperation being posted online and appearing on paper, these days. Laboring to point out the faults and shortcomings of politicians and society at large is exhausting work; unless there are radical shifts in income and wealth distribution, a rekindling of compassion for the less fortunate, and an adjustment of the public mindset away from ego-driven materialism, trying to come up with feasible solutions to common problems faced by all Americans is akin to flogging a dead horse.

Hence haiku, the five seven five, which allows him to say something meaningful without saying anything concrete. Shadowed hints and subtle nudges are more likely than brute-force tactics to succeed in sewing useful doubt and shattering inflated egos. Among the primary purposes of the LieSmith and Americanifesto writing projects is to play the tenth man, to look at the world from non-habitual and irregular points of view. The ends he strives for are democracy, happiness, liberty, and prosperity; only his means are different.

To make weak butter
Skim off the layer of cream
Blandness remains, then

[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ] 

and rebirth beckons

Hopes fails, dreams shatter. Sadness emerges, and, with it, fear. Concern for one’s own future sharpens, fear blossoming into anger. And then anger mutates into self-righteous indignation at anything perceived to be the root cause of one’s problems. Even if the people or choices targeted actually have nothing to do with one’s problems, they become the focus of one’s hatred.

Within the morally vacuous, cacophonous self-pity factories that social media sites and other internet message boards often are, one’s indignation grows while at the same time, however, the size and origin of one’s problems stay the same. Soon, anger spills over into aggression, hot and sour words hurled unnecessarily at others in one’s web of contacts. The hurt doesn’t go away, prompting one to pile on the grief in an effort to smother it. Still, it lingers, now a sucking and festering wound wrapped tightly around the once-soothing tendrils of ever-loving heartspace.

Gradually, one’s web of social contacts shrinks, its individual strands broken, severed, neglected. More and more isolated does one then become, so isolated and lonely in fact that fear and anger appear more and more real. Suddenly, it’s all one can seem to think about, how stupid and foolish and misguided everyone else is, how simple the solutions to this nation’s and this city’s and this block’s problems are. ‘If only people would just listen to me,’ one thinks, an angry, lonely voice screaming into the yawning void. Pitiable, the soul struggling to withstand twin onslaughts of negativity and self-loathing, the world suddenly an evil and unwelcoming place, the last strands give out.

Yet there within the charred and blackened ruins of one’s real and online lives glimmer, diamond-like, the compressed jewels of love, hope, and compassion. And rebirth beckons.

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

on one who

One who hasn’t studied the ill effects of war will gladly resort to it.
One who is ignorant of the lessons of history is bound to repeat past errors.
One who is obsessed with his own ego will serve they who stroke it best.
One who bathes in a torrent of lies will ignore droplets of truth.
One who prefers hatred to compassion represents but a misguided few.
One who stands indebted to shady foreign lenders is in their constant thrall.

As one who knows no scruples, he approves the killing of innocent foreign children to gain fleeting domestic support. False flag attacks are useful to men such as him. Should American soils once again burn, patriots-turned-nationalists will stand by as our few remaining freedoms are stamped finally out.

The ones who came before him at least tried to pretend they weren’t tyrants.

This one revels in it.

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

on fighting fear

I am stumbled into the viper's pit, into a home suffused with Fear. That force against which all upstanding and self-respecting persons fight diligently and with indomitable passion reigns here nearly supreme; its stifling cloak has settled over most aspects of life within this home; its sinister influence has calcified upon the brains of this home's mother, poisoning nearly every thought that sparks within her mind and every tone that sounds within her mouth. The father – the SAR of whom was written just this week, on the moon's day – he contends with this his most deadly foe, but he fights it head-on rather than by the round-about, directly rather than sneakily, with thinly-veiled contempt rather than with clandestine, consummate compassion.

Our wartime President Roosevelt said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” These words ring true now more than they ever have; America is being pulled under by the slowly sinking wreck of consumption-driven capitalism, downspiraling into ignorance and small-mindedness by the hollow promise of convenience, brainwashed by the 24-hour news cycle as it drowns slowly in the brackish and sugary waters that seep from our society's crumbling foundations. As with everything else, however, as with obesity and sloth and the loss of independent thought, as with all the other ills that plague this once-fine land, fear's stranglehold is rooted in the propensity of humankind to take the path of least resistance, or what appears to be the Easy Way Out. Especially for a person whose daily activities revolve around the twin pillars of watching television and eating, it is easier to fear that to trust, easier to hate than to love, easier to despise than to praise. Especially for someone whose parents never modeled for her that love and compassion spring only from hard work and patience, dedication and sacrifice, who rather than teaching her that life is neither fair nor easy complained constantly of what they did not have while cursing other persons who appeared to have more, especially for a woman such as this – even though she is not fully to blame for her pitiable state of mind, since she has during her life neither known, nor thought to search for, a different path – fear comes easily, and it comes quickly.

It would be fine if the aforementioned woman kept her fear to herself, but, being a person averse to physical exertion and one addicted to such soothing, creeping soul-death as is addiction to television (and playing the lottery, buying name-brand foodstuffs, being driven around to nail and hair salons, and always looking for something to complain about), she talks about her problems over and over and over again instead of doing something about them. Fear has suffused her life to the point that it – rather than inherent rationality or latent compassion – is the first thing that springs from her lips; fear, which quickly becomes mistrust, which quickly becomes malcontent, which quickly becomes hatred, fear is her baseline mode of operation, the jumping-off-point from which she plans the steps of her life. How does one combat fear? By slowly and gradually showing it that it has no power, that it has no business lurking in the hearts of this nation's more gullible persons. Better this way that the other – to combat fear directly, with spiteful and equal malice – because combating fear with anger serves only to fuel fear, to make it grow and blossom so that it sinks its roots deep into the psyche. Just listen to the tone of this article: it is suffused with fear, as I have allowed evil into my heart. Oh, brother. Mahalo.

場黑麥 menterefecterem fecit

on ambitions in cash

  During a recent conversation about the merits of socialism, my counterpart argued that ambition, ingenuity, and creativity would disappear in the absence of monetary remuneration for labor. In other words, he claimed that people would stop working if they stopped getting paid money to work, that ambition would vanish if the potential for gain were to also vanish. If this theory were true, fathers would stop showing up to coach their kids' little league teams, our interstate hiking trails would become overgrown for a lack of volunteers to keep them cleared of brush, and nothing would transpire within the walls of churches other than those tasks performed by paid clergy.

  Unknowable man-hours of labor are performed every year in the United States for which the laborers are not paid. This labor is performed to satisfy an ideal, to give back to the community, even to calm that deep inner need to do something positive with which the unlucky among are burdened. I believe this zeal to provide for the common good is inherent to all persons (although most of us have it stamped or beaten out of us at one point or other in our lives). I also believe that our current economic system has ensnared this zeal, and subjugated it to the fleeting, hollow satisfaction of conspicuous consumption.

  It is not as if the people are bad, or shiftless, it is that we have unlearned to cherish those things that are precious beyond their monetary value.

Ultima Ratio Regum - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp