americanifesto: of

Whilst waging war bodily against the false but deeply entrenched Baltimorean idea that pedestrians do not enjoy the right-of-way while crossing a road using a crosswalk, I have had this standard response hurled frequently my way:

“Get the fuck out of the road, dumbass.”

Regardless of his apparent social or economic class, these tend to be the first words from a driver’s lips when forced (by nothing but my raised hand) to abide by the laws of the state of Maryland and bring his gasoline-powered steel battering-ram to a halt using slight pressure applied to a hinged pedal by one of his feet so as to avoid running headlong into a foot-mobile fellow citizen who is seeking to gain lawfully the other side of a roadway. To protect myself in the event of someone violently violating my pedestrian rights in a premeditated fashion, I have taken to using my cellphone to capture video of oncoming vehicles while negotiating a crosswalk, which seems to have the desired effect of forcing drivers to stop. Otherwise, few people operating automobiles appear to find anything wrong with driving in such a manner as to barely miss hitting me as they race toward the next group of cars stopped at the next red light.

Among the worst offenders are Baltimore city police officers, who as a whole don’t seem to mind breaking state law §21-502, which is but one among many of the laws they swore a sacred oath to uphold.

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

21 October 2016

on bicycling logic

Since finishing the stunning graphic novel ‘Logicomix’ by Doxiadis and Papadimitriou, et al., I have begun to delve into - so as to better understand - the types of logic I apply in my daily life. This has ranged from examining the logic of human encounters to the logic of bicycling. As the first installment of a series of articles laying out the various types of logical parameters within which I (am many others, I suppose) tend to operate, I shall provide the latter, below.
A) The bicycle is a mechanical contraption used to move one or more persons through the physical realm by means of (primarily) human muscle power.
B) The bicycle consists of these basic elements: saddle, wheels, frame, propulsion system (gears), pedals, handlebars, and brakes.
C) To use a bicycle, sit down on the seat, grab the handlebars with the hands, and start pedaling with the feet, shifting the hips side-to-side (maintaining balanced) so as to not fall over.
[Immediately upon starting to write this I began to realize the difficulties involved in trying to define the logic of even basic human endeavors.]
D) Whilst bicycling, take care not to run into things, go faster than is safe, or do something (texting, talking, taking pictures) other than paying attention to and trying to avoid obstacles that may lie ahead.
E) Persons operating motor vehicles tend to give exactly zero fucks about persons operating bicycles; in order to live a relatively long life free of major injury, avoid busy roads and high-traffic areas (also, please wear a helmet and some form of protective for the eyes).
F) Keeping one’s bicycle in proper working order is essential to having fun whilst bicycling as well as getting from point A to point B quickly and without unforeseen and frustrating repair-related delays.
G) Sitting up straight whilst bicycling, with a straight back and the head resting comfortably atop the spine, opens the chest for easy breathing and allows the head to pivot easily from left to right (hence the phrase ‘keep your head on a swivel’) so that the cyclist (this is what someone who rides a bicycle is called) can quickly gather scraps information about what is behind himself using peripheral vision (i.e. without turning his head completely around and taking his eyes off of the road ahead).
H) Wherever the eyes looks or the head turns, that is where the bicycle will go. Keep the eyes and head pointed forward in order to ride in as straight a line as possible.
I) If forced to ride upon a street also frequented by motor vehicles, stay close to the curb unless circumstances (parked cars, open manholes, or similar obstacles) force you away from the curb, in which case it is 100% acceptable to take up the entire lane and cause a brief traffic-jam.
J) Persons operating motor vehicles will scream obscenities, yell curses, shake their fists, and even try to physically injure or kill a cyclist whom they feel caused them even the slightest delay upon their route. As with most such situations, the best response to anger is joyful compassion, since at the root of all anger lies a deep, inner sadness.

The above are but a few of the most important logical parameters related to bicycle riding. Please stay tuned for more articles concerned with the logical parameters related to activities such as dating, polite conversation, child rearing, &c.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

02 September 2016

Boston destroys heritage

In the wake of apparently deliberate acts of art desecration, the city of Boston, Massachusetts, USA, lies stripped of much of its artistic and cultural heritage. Irreparably damaged are thousands of unique works posted at significant personal risk by scores of talented individuals; gone are untold treasures, wiped from the face of the Earth by the censor’s brush and scraper. Once a place which people visited to marvel at the ingenuity of the human imagination, Boston has joined the ranks of many other American cities that view street art as entirely devoid of intrinsic worth, something to be rooted out, painted over, and destroyed. As someone who travels to cities around the world in order to curate their graffiti, I weep at the destruction wrought by the city of Boston upon its open-air art galleries. Light poles once adorned with riots of colorful stickers now stand bare; walls once covered by compellingly crafted murals now display nothing more than a coating of drab paint. Does Boston at least photograph these works of art before forcibly removing them from view? Would it allow an art-loving citizen such as me to precede its roving Art Desecration Squads so that I can at least photograph each piece before it is scraped off or painted over? Likely, it would not, as such a concession might lend credibility to the artistic endeavors of rogue but creative individuals who spend their time and money on trying to make the world a more colorful and exciting place. In our American police state, it appears, the only works of art that have the right to exist in public are politically correct advertisements selling us drugs and clothes, snacks and cellphones. To be fair, there are some street artists whose primary aim appears to be the destruction of property. The majority of these elusive and cunning individuals, however, seem to be acting out of a desire to challenge the sterilization of our communal spaces, to bring color and design to areas devoid of both. Mankind’s oldest form of artistic expression, the application of graffiti spans millennia, continents, and cultures. From the Egyptian pyramids to the caves at Lascaux, from America’s oldest structures to ancient Southeast Asian cities, graffiti - more than perhaps any other form of artistic expression - unites mankind. To the graffiti lovers of the world: avoid Boston! Little remains here of our unique and exuberant cultural heritage.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

09 October 2013

no voice superior

Beethoven's 3rd Symphony was the piece I chose to listen to while composing this piece. As I stared out the window watching the remnants of a tropical storm hammer us with rain and trying to think what I should write about, a pattern coalesced before my mind's eye. In it, I could see the unity and balance that characterizes the forces raging within me, those of immune and nervous and endocrine systems, of musculature and skeleton, of tendon and vessel and fiber, that rather than having to judge them I could merely accept that they were all pieces and parts of the greater awareness I have come to know as Me, and that they are all of equal importance in the grand scheme of my existence. I knew suddenly of this unity as I sat pondering on the wondrous vibrations of the Ludwig Van, music that always quickens my heart and helps me to focus on the task at hand, be it driving, studying, writing, jogging, musing, or simply being. It was instantly clear to me that no single instrument in the orchestra that had performed the piece was greater or more important than the other, that every note was in just the right place to do exactly as was intended that it do, that the 3rd Symphony was something magical, something far greater than just the sum of its parts. I am nearly finished reading Molecules of Emotion by Dr. Candace Pert, and just last week I finished Anatomy of the Spirit by Caroline Myss, and so I am not surprised to be experiencing events such as a clarification of my inner vision and the patience needed to recognize and incorporate Fundamental Truths. Living in the modern Western world we learn to think in forms of strict delineation, to think of one thing as superior to another, as one cellphone or political party or style of clothing or automobile or hairstyle or lipstick or television show to be the best, the greatest, the non-plus-ultra, and it is only with due diligence and conscious humility that we can step back from this worldview and retrain ourselves to look for beauty in all things, to marvel at the whole rather than squabbling over the pieces. In the words of Lao Tzu: Piece by piece the treasure of the world is amassed. Mahalo.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

23 August 2013

on stealing fire

Cultures around the world celebrate the bringer of fire, the bringer of knowledge. In the Christian tradition, the bringer is called Lucifer, who fell from heaven, whose name in Latin means Light-Carrier. In First-People traditions of the Pacific Northwest, the trickster-god Raven steals the sun from the world-house and gives it to humans, bestowing understanding upon them. In Greek mythology, Prometheus steals fire from a lofty perch and hands it over to mankind; as punishment for his actions he is chained to a rock and must endure having his liver pecked out by an eagle every day (until his rescue by Heracles). These examples from historically and geographically divergent areas speak of the same idea – that some external force physically descended form somewhere above the terrestrial plain and downloaded into the fabric of the human race the ability to ponder and think and reason. And these are but a few of this type of story; many others tell of the sudden arrival of knowledge from somewhere else, of the ability to reckon and mull and fly fancily unexpectedly arising in the minds of theretofore troglodytic bipedal mammals. Did we uplift ourselves, our intelligence arising of its own accord out of the vast and inky aether? (David Brin explores this concept in Startide Rising and his other Uplift books.) Were we genetically manipulated by a rogue extraterrestrial visitor who decided to fuck up his boss' plans and infect us homos sapiens with a full dose of thought's holy fire? These questions have kept our race up at night since the beginning of recorded history, and I don't intend to find answers for them here. I shall hazard to say, however, that I think I see a pattern emerging in the belief-systems of peoples living largely independently of one other, a pattern that suggests that we are not the only sentient beings hurtling through space-time. Keep one eyes on the stars and the other on your six. Mahalo.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

26 July 2013

on getting drilled

For the past ten years, I have endured pain stemming from a number of cavities. Year after year, the caries would grow bigger, creeping ever deeper into the center of my molars, sharp flashes of wince-inducing pain shooting ever more frequently throughout my nervous system. The damage accelerated in 2005 when I moved to Los Angeles and got caught up in the Hollywood bar scene, evaporating into anything-goes partying and the sure-I'll-do-those type of decision making. (“Hey let me just go home real quick and grab my toothbrush,” is not something one is prone to say before embaring on a week-long bender.) Since coming into some cash late in the last century, I kept telling myself: “You have to get your teeth fixed; you have to get your teeth fixed,” but rather than take care of my chompers, I chose to self-medicate and travel to Thailand for three weeks. Finally, though, last week, I bit the bullet (ha!) and placed a call to my local budget dentist, who within two days and for one quarter of the cost of my plane ticket to balmy Siam drilled out the rotten cores of my teeth, swabbed in some medication, filled the holes with durable epoxy, performed a thorough cleaning, and sent me on my way. Oh what joy to be able to chew once more! By refusing to take care of myself and my teeth, I was self-mutilating, and I shall not soon repeat these offenses. Aho.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

06 March 2013

on shambles

Small were the stumbles that brought him to his knees, old the pitfalls that sent his card-house tumbling. Still chained he is to bells rung too soon, to sloppy routines that once helped but now harm. He won't explain his torment too openly, lest he appear pitiful and lacking in direction. Wise words and simple advice on deaf ears fall.

Caused less by the ever-present specter of failure, his torment is rooted instead in the potential for success, Happiness, and contentment. Part of his psyche is malicious and evil; as long as he is alive, it will never fully go away, nor will it ever stop being a part of him. (For him, this is a new and exciting revelation.) His hope for controlling and channeling the evil that lives inside him lies in showering it with love during yoga and remaining vigilant of its power for the rest of his life.

For some years now, he has scoffed at the saying, “fall down seven times, stand up eight.” He thought it a groovy way for people who had their shit together to gloat about being resilient, tough, and smart. Now, however, he realizes that this whole falling down and standing up business happens not at one particular fulcrum point but every day. By staying in the moment, taking nothing for granted, and learning to cherish those things he has for so long tried to destroy, he can find salvation as well as a way back to where he had strayed from the path. What good fortune that it always sits at at his feet, waiting.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

27 February 2013

happy year of water snake

15 February 2013

symbols of Athena, from DC to NYC

(Herald Square)

(Arlington Cemetery)

01 February 2013

on harrowed rats

While paging through a dictionary one day last year, I came across something called a ruptured duck. (Now, I cannot locate this entry in my New Oxford American dictionary, and, without access to Lord Googlebot, I cannot do an Internet search. Help!?!) If memory serves correctly, the ruptured duck is an Old World heraldic symbol consisting of a detached human arm – bent at the elbow – embossed upon a shield with square top corners and a rounded bottom. I remember reading the description of the ruptured duck and finding therein few answers to pressing questions.

A few of my questions were as follow. 'Who chose the name for this emblem?' 'Is there an emblem of a whole duck, before its rupture?' 'Is the ruptured duck a secret image designed to enrage the simple-minded or is it merely a bit of medieval nonsense that somehow survived the ravages of time?' These questions well never be answered, but my initial puzzlement inspired me to start designing a coat armor, or coat of arms, for the modern street artist, graffito, and vandal. So far, there are two (similar) designs, found here and here. The goal is to develop a coat armor simple enough to recreate in less than sixty seconds that depicts both the tools of the graffiti trade and the graffito himself.

The rat represents street artists because they frequents hidden and scary places, bringing life to the ignored, the dirty, and the underutilized portions of their respective cities. And even though they tend to be interesting and productive people, graffitos are reviled by nearly everyone else, by cops and property owners, magistrates and fence builders, security guards and taxi drivers. Besides other graffiti writers and buxom female teenagers, the only persons who tend to applaud a vandal's work are ones who sell paint. The anarchy symbol seen in both pictures represents a common attitude held by Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists, or SDUBS: no one person owns the world, it belongs to us all; therefore, we will make the drab spaces beautiful by risking life, limb, and liberty in order to paste, spray, draw, and bomb our art into and onto the boldest possible spots. My design skills are paltry, and my ideas want for much, but perhaps if I keep bashing my head against the wall for long enough, something useful might come out of it.

mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥

31 January 2013

on drawing well

In the years since the author drew his last set of pictures, he has forgotten how difficult it is to transfer an image from brain-stem to paper. To expand his overall portfolio, however, he has added physical artistic expression to his daily protocols; in addition to his two writing sessions, he now allocates time for drawing, making sculptures, and graphic design.

This unworthy whorphan thought it hard to write well; then, he tried to draw well. Writing and drawing share certain fundamental rules, including those of symmetry, planning, composition, patience, and simplicity. Whereas, however, one can fix a broken sentence by following the guidance of Messrs Strunk & White and look in a dictionary for the correct spelling of a thousand different words, one of the only ways for the artist who works alone to correctly depict the bent leg of a kneeling woman is to act as his own model and hope that the interface between finger, hand, wrist, arm, and brain works well enough for him to accurately reconstruct the desired shape on paper.

Drawing the Grigovian coat of arms was easy compared to trying to capture a human form in motion, but with enough tries and dozens of body parts sketched out and promptly erased, he finally has something with which he is satisfied. The only way to get smarter is to play a smarter opponent (The Principles of Chess, 1883, as quoted in the movie Revolver, by Guy Ritchie); the only way to sharpen artistic skills is to practice them every day. As he works, the old lessons – those learned in gymnasium and college – float up from the sunken wrecks of distant memory, guiding his hand as often as they remind him of the need to be humble, diligent, and forgiving. Among the lessons he remembers most vividly is to not press too hard when drawing with a pencil. His mother taught him this when he was a child; it is as true today as it was then. In practicing yoga daily and getting better at it with something akin to painstaking slowness, he is learning another lesson passed down through the ages: piece by piece, the the treasure of the universe is amassed. Gradually, he may just make something of himself. Failure rarely kills. Mahalo.

23 January 2013

on planting face

Just when this author thought that he was on a virtuous path, he ran smack into the barrier of Truth. False notions that had come to commandeer his being scurried from the impact of unbridled reality as do cockroaches from sudden illumination. All is not lost – he recognizes his errors for what they are; he adjusts his modes of operation to combat the need to make claims and seek reward; he shoos that part of him that needs to self-aggrandize back into its filthy stall; he reins in those parts of his psyche that thrive on the fleeing notions of honor, pride, and satisfaction.

Months of diligent effort were ruined this past weekend when the author opened his mouth, and spoke. By speaking, he violated one of the basic tenets of the ancient texts: One who speaks does not know, and one who knows does not speak. At the time, it seemed logical to voice his opinions, as he had been in a nearby state park engaged in friendly competition with a married male friend. After listening to his friend talk about matters of concern in his life, the author thought it polite to speak on matters dear to his own heart. How quickly the addiction of his own voice took him; how soon his words turned bitter, and hateful, leeched of their goodness by the foul tug of ego and spilling from him in ever greater numbers as he tried in vain to dig himself from one hole after the next.

Later that same night, the house of cards finally collapsed when the aforementioned friend announced to an assembled host that the author was not doing what he kept saying to the family dog – “Rule #1: shut up.” One after another, the layers of malice and discontentment loosened their grip on this worthless whorphan's psyche, falling off and away in the manner of petals loosed from a dying blossom. As each foul shackle sloughed off, the author realized how much anger and frustration he has kept locked up in his bosom, negative emotions that drain life of its color, that poison its deep and abiding well of Happiness. Sometimes, he wonders how other people stand to be around him, and why so few don't outright cancel their friendship. Perhaps with a more dedicated and concerted effort, he can alienate and abuse every person in his life, and not just those closest to him. Oh, well – still warm the blood that flows through these veins (Turkish, Snatch). Time heals all wounds. Mahalo.

mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥

07 January 2013

people in motion

On a velocipede, or bicycle, a person is a largely independent entity beholden to few others. The velocipedist drags himself across the phaltscape (or asphalt landscape) by pumping a crank with his legs in order to move a thin chain across a series of skinny gear wheels. Beyond the maker of his smog-sled, he interacts only occasionally with replacement parts manufacturers. In order to commute across the face of the Earth, he requires neither filling station nor foreign oil; he has use for neither computer diagnostic tool nor power-train warranty; he spends his money on things other than monthly finance charges, oil changes, state inspections, and car washes; he is one person in motion whose mobility hinges on his ability to balance on a pair of rubber tires and to keep his head on a swivel.

Let us briefly consider, however, the operator of a motor-vehicle, or car. In order for her to move herself across the phaltscape, she needs prospectors, wildcatters, pipeline inspectors, ship captains and crews, deep-bore drill operators, indigenous security forces, foreign policy wonks, navies, supply-chain logistics specialists, fueling-station clerks, unleaded-gasoline delivery drivers, brake-line hose manufacturers, industrial robot maintenance engineers, TIG welding specialists, and many others; in order for her to stay in motion, a thousand other people need to be in motion; her mobility hinges upon all elements of a ridiculously complex system working together in perfect harmony, a thousand different people all doing their job with precision, care, and diligence.

On the one hand, the driver who fills up her car with gasoline keeps the money flowing to a thousand different persons working in a hundred different places; her actions grease the wheels of the global economy and tighten the bonds between peoples; her dependency on the pump, her slavery to the self-propelled chariot, fills the pockets of armies of workers around the globe. On the other hand, however, oil and its derivatives are a dirty business that relies on the burning of a useful and valuable resource; their production and removal taint the groundwater and the soil of any region where they are found; their sale has made the autocratic leaders of oppressive regimes – persons who support and finance terrorism – fantastically rich. The driver's mode of transportation leads to war and pollution, while that of the cyclist promotes self-sufficiency, healthful living, and peaceful interaction with both Nature and neighbor. Free yourself from that self-propelled glass and steel prison; mount a velocipede, today.

mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥

19 December 2012

on graffitos' patroness

For all of their differences in style of clothing, method of address, performance under fire, gait while walking, and ability to tolerate bullshit, street artists share one thing in common: a life-long love for the dandelion (and for kicking off their white, fluffy, puff-ball-like heads). As an individual who spends his time altering the appearance of things that everyone else seems to be ignoring, the graffiti-writer will – should the opportunity present itself – run wildly into a field of dandelions just to decapitate as many of them as he can, as quickly as possible. The dandelion requires just this sort of action to deliver her seeds to the Shifting Winds of Fortune; she gains of the graffito's destructive tendencies; thus, she is his goddess, his flower-patroness.

Beyond the symbiotic interdependency of dandelion with graffito, the two also share other traits, albeit ones perhaps less obvious to the casual observer. Both are loathed by the population in general, the flower for its tendency to grow nearly anywhere regardless of efforts to keep it out, the artist for his tendency to access most any imaginable surface – regardless of perimeter fencing, guard, closed-circuit television camera, or watchdog. Both are loved by a small but growing group that keeps its opinions to itself and enjoys beauty wherever beauty should arise. Dandelions grow in neglected, contaminated, and otherwise ignored places (gutters, trash heaps, empty lots) where little else can gain foothold; street art is applied to neglected, contaminated, and otherwise ignored places (alleyways, abandoned buildings, concrete highway embankments) where few people venture. Cities hire squads of individuals, outfit them with brushes and paint-buckets, and send them out to paint over great patches of well-executed works of art, thus providing the graffito with fresh canvas upon which to erect new works and encouraging him to pursue his Happiness upon surfaces always harder and as a rule more dangerous to reach. Cities treat the dandelion similarly: it is sprayed with poison, assaulted with shovels, dug under the soil, weeded, treated, and burned, all to little avail - a cheerful and resilient little blossom, it will re-appear during the next growing season in larger numbers and with deeper and more tenacious roots.

It is as hard to catch a vandal in the act of applying his craft as it is to catch a dandelion in the act of colonizing new terrain. Both street art and dandelions improve the human condition freely and without ado, bringing beauty to the world without seeking thanks or a by-your-leave. Street art covers and enlivens surfaces that just a day before had been blank concrete walls, and dandelions appear just as suddenly, shining yellow faces enlivening lawns that just a day before had been mono-cultured swaths of grass devoid of Nature's abundance. We, the Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists (SDUBS) of America, ask the inhabitants of Terra to search for beauty in all places, to pursue Happiness with us by blanketing the urban and the natural environments with bright and vibrant colors, to rejoice in the sudden appearance of beauty in places forgotten and forlorn, and to remember to honor our common goddess, the dandelion, by kicking as many of her puff-balls as we possible can. Stay on your toes out there, dear friend, and may you be filled always with divine breath.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit

05 November 2012

protect economic Safety

Persons who respect and read the Declaration of Independence will recognize that the role of government is to serve one main purpose: to bring about our Safety and Happiness. Keeping this in our minds, we look at the banks in this country that continue to steal billions of dollars from the American people, banks that starting in 2008 C.E. (common era) were given hundreds of billions of tax-paper dollars so that their larcenous and short-sighted practices would not drag this country into total ruin, banks that to this day are removing the families of active-duty military personnel from their homes and evicting old and sick persons with the the full support and active participation of armed and role-crazy police officers.

These are not victim-less crimes: We the People are the victims. The very things our government is supposed to do for us – to protect our Safety and provide for our Happiness – it is not doing; the very purpose it is supposed to serve has been supplanted by the practice of protecting those persons who have rigged the system in their favor and ensnared millions of people around the globe in the swollen tendrils of their me-first capitalism. Tomorrow, friends, we go to the polls to elect a new president. Despite the media blackout being perpetrated by nearly all media outlets, including CNN, FOX, NPR, MSNBC, ABC, and their foul ilk, we have more choices that just one or the other, more candidates to select between than just Mitt and Barack: we also have Dr. Jill Stein and governor Gary Johnson to consider, two candidates who are not part of the Democrat or Republican parties, that massive duopoly that has wrapped up our liberties in a strangle-hold so tight that we might soon see freedom snuffed out forever.

In order to rein in our government and help it to actively create our Safety and Happiness; in order to stop the greed-based actions of giant banks and tax-payer funded bailouts; out of an honest belief in the idea that liberty thrives only when the adult citizen is entrusted with the enormous responsibility of being able to decide to live a life free of ill health, wage-slavery, and police oppression; for these reasons and out of abiding love for the generations yet to come, please vote for a third party candidate this Tuesday, ignoring the ill informed fear-mongers among us warning us to choose between the lesser of two evils. Perhaps one day we might all be as brave as Gary Johnson, who said he would rather die than vote for ass or pachyderm, or as fearless as Dr. Jill Stein, who was just last week arrested for trying to bring food to a group of persons using their bodies to stop environmental degradation in Texas; perhaps one day we might realize that by voting for establishment-sanctioned candidates we dishonor the covenant established by the Declaration and violate the sanctity of our most precious document, proclaiming boldly to a candid world: ”We deserve neither Safety nor Happiness because we have sacrificed the latter in hopes of getting the former.” The only path that leads to true Happiness runs along the violently-rushing brook of full and total liberty; the only candidate courageous enough to take us down this path – and who will gladly get his or her feet wet in the process – belongs to a third party. Demand Safety, create Happiness, and say no to politics as usual! Mahalo.

© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)

15 October 2012

on frequent simplification

During the course of my writing, I often work myself into a lather while exploring the apparent evils of this particular group or while expounding upon the virtues of one idea or the other. This, dear reader, is a dangerous trend. This, my friend, is something I shall endeavor to do less of, in future. The writer who over-simplifies issues of any type nearly always proves to be a holier-than-thou, fly-in-my-soup cocksucker with no more of an idea how to solve the situations he sees as problems than the smart and talented motherfuckers who – due to position, wealth, or access – actually can; my ideas and notions are, to judge by my readership statistics, old, tired, worn, full of redundant or faulty reasoning, and flat out lame; my frequent use of personal opinions violates the fundamental rules contained in The Elements of Style, Strunk and White's ultimate and indispensable writer's handbook. (I am tempted, at times, as I sit here struggling for syntax in this cold but sunny room, to increase the level of fire and brimstone and really start head-hunting for easy pickings, unless I am doing that already, in which case I am not surprised that few people spend time to read the fruits of my labor, which are as close to beating dead horses as one can get without showering afterward.)

Perhaps it is out of laziness, perhaps it is due to my inability to see the Big Picture, but, mostly, I find that when I write on these sites I stick to simplification; they make for quick and juicy arguments, for high-fructose vituperations that so closely resemble candy-floss as to make a body's sweet tooth twinge. It is likely that I need to step away from these blogs for a spell, to take a week off in honor of the first fall frost in order to give my brains' writing centers a break after working them continuously since last December. (Upon review, it appears as if I have been posting six days a week for the past ten months, now, a streak I dare not break for fear of shaking the foundations of my fledgling sanity.)

I don't think I nor any other simpleton writing today could avoid using simplification for too long, since writing in specifics would be akin to trying to condense all of mankind's knowledge and knowing into a Complete Theory of the Entire Universe, a task for which only a few living people are equipped with the necessary patience, genius, and understanding. (I am not one of these people.) To cut down on frequent simplification seems a good place to start if I hope to improve the quality of my writing's content, however, let alone if I want to inject a shred of rational analysis or positive thinking into my daily word-smithing. And so, I say, begone, ye foul generalization! Out with you, simplified thinking! Welcome in, old man Compassion; make yourself at home on the couch next to lady Moderation; stay a while, oh humble hubris, in this whorphan's cluttered and sad excuse for a functional mind. Oh, what great fun it is to be alive. Mahalo.

© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)