The dream started with me trying to get to a large white building to my fore. The way was blocked, however, by crowds of women pushing past me. Some of their faces I could see, faces of what looked to be Thai women. The others had long hair that always seemed to shield their faces from my view. A tuk-tuk joined the pressing masses, its shiny chrome frame bending somehow in the same manner of a human trying to worm his way through a crowd. I worked my way around to a railing at the edge of the thronging people and finally began to make headway.
Then, I was running into a stairwell and found it blocked by scores of women standing here and there upon the stairs. Each one had her back turned toward me. Each one had long hair. As I started climbing the stairs, the women would crowd me, preventing forward progress. After laboring to make it to the last few steps, I became exacerbated and turned around to voice my frustration, telling the women (who at that point were all facing me) to get out of my way and let me go about my business, claiming that I had to meet a friend and that their actions were hindering me from fulfilling a commitment. As one, in lockstep, the women turned their backs on me and started filing down the stairs, at which point I awoke.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
06 March 2017
03 March 2017
dreamstate writing 3 Mar 2017
In this morning’s dream, I was walking around outside (in an overgrown lot) looking for a place to bed down for the night. There was little ambient light, the sky above me a gray blanket trimmed with the rosy promise of dawn. Rounding the side of a one-storey brick building, I started to make my way through the trees and bushes that grew beside and behind it. Treading carefully so as not to alert to my presence the people living nearby (three-storey inhabited brick structures stood beyond a chain-link fence on a rise above the first building), I made noise nonetheless, the underbrush below my feet crackling loudly. On my way to the rear of the building I passed two makeshift blinds, one a flimsy construction of bent cardboard, the other a sturdier model made from a metal framework and some type of plastic cloth. Behind each blind was a pillow and a worn-down area where someone seemed to have slept recently.
Security lights turned on, illuminating the area brilliantly, and I became aware of what looked like many cameras watching, unblinking eyes that tracked my every move. Little red lights glowed upon them, indicating that they were recording. I attempted to lay down in an effort to avoid their gaze, but a thin beam of piercing white light shot through the chain-link fence, thwarting my efforts to escape it.
Time passed, for the sky had lightened considerably. I was standing in front of the one-storey brick building speaking to its apparent proprietress. She had dark hair, an attractive face, and the type of exaggeratedly-proportioned body normally found on girls' fashion dolls. Apparently, this woman realized I found her attractive, for she turned to one side to show me her large breasts and slender waist. Then, a different woman - this one with blond hair tucked into a tattered baseball cap and wearing a bulky coat - walked out from behind my field of vision to enter the brick building, a basket of what looked like soiled clothing in her arms. I then examined the structure in front of me more closely, leaning over to look past the dark-haired gal, and discovered it was a laundry-mat of sorts. The last thing I remember before waking up was that all of its washers appeared to be running, full steam.
Huzzah, mahalo, and om swastiastu.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Security lights turned on, illuminating the area brilliantly, and I became aware of what looked like many cameras watching, unblinking eyes that tracked my every move. Little red lights glowed upon them, indicating that they were recording. I attempted to lay down in an effort to avoid their gaze, but a thin beam of piercing white light shot through the chain-link fence, thwarting my efforts to escape it.
Time passed, for the sky had lightened considerably. I was standing in front of the one-storey brick building speaking to its apparent proprietress. She had dark hair, an attractive face, and the type of exaggeratedly-proportioned body normally found on girls' fashion dolls. Apparently, this woman realized I found her attractive, for she turned to one side to show me her large breasts and slender waist. Then, a different woman - this one with blond hair tucked into a tattered baseball cap and wearing a bulky coat - walked out from behind my field of vision to enter the brick building, a basket of what looked like soiled clothing in her arms. I then examined the structure in front of me more closely, leaning over to look past the dark-haired gal, and discovered it was a laundry-mat of sorts. The last thing I remember before waking up was that all of its washers appeared to be running, full steam.
Huzzah, mahalo, and om swastiastu.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
01 March 2017
on cutting hair
I’ve been cutting my own hair for more than two decades now. It took me a while to figure out how to hold a mirror in one hand (while facing away from the wall-mounted mirror behind me) and the clippers in the other so as to cut the hair at the back of my head in an appealing fashion. Initially, my brain would move one hand or the other in the wrong direction, resulting in a choppy fade-line.
Now, however, I’ve trained the synapses so well that this type of maneuver comes naturally. Averaging a haircut every two weeks at a cost of about 15 dollars each time, I’ve saved nearly nine thousand dollars by cutting my own hair. I know I did a good job if no one comments on the fact that I got a haircut. This means that the new ‘do isn’t a glaring and apparent failure.
Just yesterday, I purchased a new set of battery-powered clippers to replace the last one I bought, five years ago. The old clippers had been jamming, their cutting faces apparently too worn down. The new clippers turned out to be a waste of 14 dollars. I dug the old model out of the trash, oiled it from the small bottle of lubricant that came with the newer model, and fixed the damage I’d wrought trying to cut the thick hairs at the back of my head using a cheap device apparently designed to tackle the facial stubble of a prepubescent female teenager. Caveat emptor.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Now, however, I’ve trained the synapses so well that this type of maneuver comes naturally. Averaging a haircut every two weeks at a cost of about 15 dollars each time, I’ve saved nearly nine thousand dollars by cutting my own hair. I know I did a good job if no one comments on the fact that I got a haircut. This means that the new ‘do isn’t a glaring and apparent failure.
Just yesterday, I purchased a new set of battery-powered clippers to replace the last one I bought, five years ago. The old clippers had been jamming, their cutting faces apparently too worn down. The new clippers turned out to be a waste of 14 dollars. I dug the old model out of the trash, oiled it from the small bottle of lubricant that came with the newer model, and fixed the damage I’d wrought trying to cut the thick hairs at the back of my head using a cheap device apparently designed to tackle the facial stubble of a prepubescent female teenager. Caveat emptor.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
27 February 2017
dreamstate writing 27 February 2017
My memories of the dream start with me intending to visit an Australian bloke, a friend from Bali. I met him within the footprint of a run-down structure in a valley sheltered by sand-dunes. The walls of the single-storey house were largely ruined, in some places completely gone, in others still intact. Wind-borne piles of sand sat here and there, heaps and drifts aplenty. The scene was lit as if by a golden light, but I was not aware of its source. I couldn’t see my friend but knew he was sitting just out of view on the other side of a partition. The top of his head alone was visible at times. No matter to which part of the structure I moved, however, I could not ever fully glimpse his face.
We spoke, he and I, but the exact words of our exchange now elude me. I remember sensing trepidation on his part, a reluctance to step fully into view, and addressing it. “This is just a dream,” I told him at some point, my full upper-level consciousness flaring briefly into the landscape of the dream. Near the house grew tall palm trees. Low bushes crowded a neighboring oasis, a growing puddle of clear water seeping from cracks in the long-barren earth.
At some point, he fled using what looked to be a gasoline powered four-wheeler. After his departure I exited the house, at which point my memories of the dream end.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
We spoke, he and I, but the exact words of our exchange now elude me. I remember sensing trepidation on his part, a reluctance to step fully into view, and addressing it. “This is just a dream,” I told him at some point, my full upper-level consciousness flaring briefly into the landscape of the dream. Near the house grew tall palm trees. Low bushes crowded a neighboring oasis, a growing puddle of clear water seeping from cracks in the long-barren earth.
At some point, he fled using what looked to be a gasoline powered four-wheeler. After his departure I exited the house, at which point my memories of the dream end.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
24 February 2017
his ignorance of
The People should be happy that their sitting president has apparently not read The Prince, by Niccolo Machiavelli. If he had studied repeatedly the contents of this masterpiece of political subterfuge, he would be sending out willing lackeys to do his dirty work and then publicly distancing himself from them (or letting the enraged masses rip them to shreds) once they’d performed their wanton duties.
If our luck holds, he will also not read The Art of War by Lao Tzu or the U.S. Constitution. His ignorance of the former will hinder the swift implementation of his sinister agendas; his ignorance of the latter will speed the collapse of his faltering administration. Should he continue to stumble along in the dark, blind to the immorality of his actions, oblivious of the damage he is doing do the frayed fabric of this Union of American States, the pillars of its civilized branches of government will have no choice but to stymie his transgressions at every turn.
The American experiment is now akin to a sick man drawing his last, painful breaths. Sometimes, it’s best to just let things die. Sic semper tyrannis.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
If our luck holds, he will also not read The Art of War by Lao Tzu or the U.S. Constitution. His ignorance of the former will hinder the swift implementation of his sinister agendas; his ignorance of the latter will speed the collapse of his faltering administration. Should he continue to stumble along in the dark, blind to the immorality of his actions, oblivious of the damage he is doing do the frayed fabric of this Union of American States, the pillars of its civilized branches of government will have no choice but to stymie his transgressions at every turn.
The American experiment is now akin to a sick man drawing his last, painful breaths. Sometimes, it’s best to just let things die. Sic semper tyrannis.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
22 February 2017
on required reading
In order to see the world through as clear a lense as possible, it is necessary for each person to expose himself to a variety of conflicting sources. Educated in this fashion he learns to read between the lines, thereby “distilling truth from the essense of nuance,” to quote from Neal Stephenson in his work entitled Snow Crash.
Anyone interested in expanding his mind and broadening his heart might consider reading the following books, which are blowing my mind own right now:
A People’s History of the United States, by Howard Zinn
Living Like You Mean It, by Ronald Frederick, Ph.D.
Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl
There are other books I am reading, but they shall remained unnamed. The two books listed above will be difficult for most Americans to digest; they fly in the face of various misinformation campaigns that have, over the past few generations, sullied and perverted our collective national consciousness. Time is short, so get reading. Aho, mahalo, and om swastiastu.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Anyone interested in expanding his mind and broadening his heart might consider reading the following books, which are blowing my mind own right now:
A People’s History of the United States, by Howard Zinn
Living Like You Mean It, by Ronald Frederick, Ph.D.
Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl
There are other books I am reading, but they shall remained unnamed. The two books listed above will be difficult for most Americans to digest; they fly in the face of various misinformation campaigns that have, over the past few generations, sullied and perverted our collective national consciousness. Time is short, so get reading. Aho, mahalo, and om swastiastu.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
20 February 2017
in China, briefly
In the winter of 2014, on a late-evening domestic flight from Beijing to Shanghai, I sit next to the deputy mayor of Taicang, a city in Jiangsu province. Excited to practice his English but not confident in his skills, he calls over his assistant, to translate. Over the next few hours we talk about families and cultures, politics and religion. They invite me come spend the night in their town. I accept.
We disembark at Shanghai’s domestic airport and squeeze into a minivan for a more than hourlong drive through the darkened Chinese countryside. Along the way, I realize that I have no idea who these people are, where I am, or where I am going, but the boisterous mood and smiling faces of my new bureaucratic friends calm any lingering worries. With the help of the assistant, a bespectacled, skinny man who speaks English well, I check into a Western-owned hotel near the modern center of town. We make plans to meet the next morning so he can show me around. Jetlagged and in unfamiliar settings, I get little sleep, watching reruns of classic Chinese movies subtitled for hearing-impaired locals.
I awake early, have a light breakfast, check out, and wander the surrounding area until the assistant arrives. On a Saturday morning, in an official Chinese government car - complete with driver. As we are making our way over to Zhouzhuang, an older town not far away, the assistant explains that the 15th Century explorer Zheng He was based out of the area, hence its enduring fame. We tour the ancient city, a wonder to behold, tidy wooden structures standing shoulder to shoulder, cunningly crafted stone bridges spanning narrow canals.
The assistant takes his leave, saying he wants to spend time with his children. I am deeply ashamed upon realizing that he has used his day off to show me around, and that I didn’t buy anything in the artisanal stores we entered. The driver heads for the highway. We smoke cigarettes and speak little. As we are approaching downtown Shanghai, I catch people in the cars around us staring, apparently trying to figure out who I might be, a Westerner riding alone in a chauffeured official vehicle.
I wander around near the Bund, harvesting graffiti and getting a feel for the city’s layout. Then, sensing my apparent loneliness, I attract a hanger-on, a fat and sweaty man who speaks good English. He tries to get me to buy gold at a gaudy shop. I refuse and walk out, but he’s hot on my heels. I buy trinkets at another shop he leads me to, however, a tourist trap that sells mass-produced items. Then, because the man claims he is broke, I treat him to an expensive pot of tea and the last of my Chunghwa cigarettes, which he enjoys immensely. Exhausted and out of cash, I hop the subway toward Shanghai Pudong international, and flee finally the madhouse scramble of another world city.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
We disembark at Shanghai’s domestic airport and squeeze into a minivan for a more than hourlong drive through the darkened Chinese countryside. Along the way, I realize that I have no idea who these people are, where I am, or where I am going, but the boisterous mood and smiling faces of my new bureaucratic friends calm any lingering worries. With the help of the assistant, a bespectacled, skinny man who speaks English well, I check into a Western-owned hotel near the modern center of town. We make plans to meet the next morning so he can show me around. Jetlagged and in unfamiliar settings, I get little sleep, watching reruns of classic Chinese movies subtitled for hearing-impaired locals.
I awake early, have a light breakfast, check out, and wander the surrounding area until the assistant arrives. On a Saturday morning, in an official Chinese government car - complete with driver. As we are making our way over to Zhouzhuang, an older town not far away, the assistant explains that the 15th Century explorer Zheng He was based out of the area, hence its enduring fame. We tour the ancient city, a wonder to behold, tidy wooden structures standing shoulder to shoulder, cunningly crafted stone bridges spanning narrow canals.
The assistant takes his leave, saying he wants to spend time with his children. I am deeply ashamed upon realizing that he has used his day off to show me around, and that I didn’t buy anything in the artisanal stores we entered. The driver heads for the highway. We smoke cigarettes and speak little. As we are approaching downtown Shanghai, I catch people in the cars around us staring, apparently trying to figure out who I might be, a Westerner riding alone in a chauffeured official vehicle.
I wander around near the Bund, harvesting graffiti and getting a feel for the city’s layout. Then, sensing my apparent loneliness, I attract a hanger-on, a fat and sweaty man who speaks good English. He tries to get me to buy gold at a gaudy shop. I refuse and walk out, but he’s hot on my heels. I buy trinkets at another shop he leads me to, however, a tourist trap that sells mass-produced items. Then, because the man claims he is broke, I treat him to an expensive pot of tea and the last of my Chunghwa cigarettes, which he enjoys immensely. Exhausted and out of cash, I hop the subway toward Shanghai Pudong international, and flee finally the madhouse scramble of another world city.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
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