The Century of the Self

There was a certain exaggerated quantity of psychical energy which accompanied the termination of my perception of Adam Curtis’ BBC television series The Century of the Self; yes, a sensation which could only be the derivative of powerful unconscious drives. Curtis crafts an exquisitely coherent acclamation of the centrality of the unconscious impulses of human society and the manner in which the U.S. and British executive administrations have used corporate tactics in buying the vote ( admiration, unconscious pleasure) of the proletariat as consuming citizens.

Freud becomes the mythical fortune-teller, whose repressed Cartesian Nietzscheanism saw him giving over to the will to power of the force of the unconscious drives over the politico-economical self-interest of exploited (over-repressed) classes. We see psychoanalysis ( rather the bourgeoisie’s ideo-psychological mappings) rise to the heights of the executive branch, apparently to the whims of sub-urbanites in Pasadena desires to see Welfare dismantled; from Freud’s nephew Edward Bernay’s through corporate public relations and the Spectacle, through 60’s and the appeal to the alternative individual self by corporate America, into the Reagan and Thatcher appeals to the individual against government (and for the private interests of big business), into the Clinton election and re-election (and the manner in which entire election campaigns were engineered by ‘analytical’ classifications of ideo-psychological personality traits of swing voters) and one can continue this into the election Spectacle the Democratic party put on this year.

Moreover, one begins to understand how the Post-industrial working consumer has been administered for the past century; ye, one might even see History in the making, thus gaining access to this river and past through onto the other side, the future, and take some of our repressed brethren with us.


Link to film Here.




First, we can not stress the importance of historical interpretations of Freud’s thought by politico-economic minorities of force in the control of the masses. Administrations have been in an enterprise of doping the public, satisfying libidinal and aggressive drives in individuals while maintaining the status quo. This is the very same group psychology interpreted by the German Joseph Goebbels and the construction of the Third Reich; Goebbels is quoted in film as saying his influences, as Reich Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda was none other than Edward Bernays himself.

The true importance of America must also be acknowledged by this film; American policy (cultural, political, economic) has truly effected the world over already. This is an experiment that must be the birth of the New World Order if there is going to be one for this World; it will either be the NWO of the same Old World Order of minorities of force manipulating the whims and desires of the masses (but only in the 20th Century with a scientific precision that might truly be considered systematic, though it be a system of self-interested founding principles riddled with catastrophic mis-interpretations of our world of Relationality) in order to maintain a repressive status quo of exploitation, or a New Socialist Order, holding no pretense to truly respond to the repressed impulses of Humenity.

We see how figures, certain enlightened figures, if you will, possessed with the shabby traces of Freud’s notions of the aggressive and self-interested trends of the unconscious impulses, rise to great personal success by developing these ideas for soiled wages from political and economic representatives of the forces of the status quo of private accumulation. Bernays, Philip Gould, Dick Morris; etc, these manufacturers of consent have created a government in the image of public relations firms; Freud’s most Nietzschean ideas have been emphasized, and successfully (though certainly not entirely) manipulated, through promises of change which are all but empty in all cases but the few promises to increase the power of the Spectacle (in the consumer-as-citizen’s own demand, we are told and Curtis’ interpretation of history and Freud’s pessimist thesis seems to make perceivable here).

Instantly we see Foucaultian insights. As the State has been progressively engineering the Discipline of the individual in society, through increasing classifications (sane, insane, psychological traits, class), it has used increasing knowledge of the citizen, increasing access and un-privacy ( for Foucault we are approaching the Panoptical picture of society) in order to impose the unequal relation between workers and capitalists more deeply into the self-regulated (ideo-psychological ecology of the psyche) conformism of the core citizens as working consumers. We see the increasing administration of the citizen as worker in the Bismarck’s government, and it is evident that capitalism created and is creating the bourgeoisie governments it needs to have help shape the economic climate necessary for continuing accumulation. With the introduction of public relations by Edward Bernays, however, corporate and political forces have gone past the manipulation of the simple whims of the consuming and ritualistic worker; it has dug into the very unconscious of the masses, and with simple techniques, it has truly discovered the ability to completely manipulate individuals, so that we may live in a society today waiting for a political figure to wield these desires and interests in a truly authoritarian manner. We see the executive branch of America slowly taking on unprecedented power throughout the 20th Century, and we now have a democratic House and Senate, and a president named Barack Obama.

We will continue to ride the wave of speculation this film catalyzes, tracing our own thoughts and trying to find confirmation in this presentation. The portrayal of both the masses and the minorities of force seem to fit Nietzsche’s and Freud’s accounts of civilization; the large majority of society must be interpolated and administered by a self-interested and enlightened minority ( in this historiography wealthy, powerful, or ideological English German American capitalist middle-aged and elderly males) always and forever, for the people are mere pegs completely slave to unconscious infantile drives and wishes. Nay, we won’t accept it, just to be critical!

Yes, we already knew how powerful the Unconscious was, is, and always will be, and the extent to which elemental Life and Death drives shape the desire of humen. Yes, we already knew about the wealthy, powerful, ideological, and yes, English, German, American old white males who are the most likely candidates for the minority most representative of power hungry aggressivity in society. This must mean that some form of an powerful elite will be necessary even if there were even a possibility of transition into something ‘other’ than what history as of yet given. This is the Bolsheviks, the Zapatistas, the avant-garde revolutionary class of capitalist nations.

Question: is King Rucks an elitist? The answer must certainly be an affirmative, as are all the people who make the very important decisions of our world today. The proletarian is not the leader, the general will is not the leader, the state is not the leader, the free-(unfree) market is not the leader; the extremely small group of individuals who have gained the trust of the people are the leaders, and they must rule this world into a New Socialist Order.

This idea has always been under the surface of my thoughts for the last four years now, since I was first introduced to Freud, Nietzsche, Sartre, and Marx, but I have always used a claim of having the interest of the people in mind as means of fortifying a false fortress in my mind; that humen are equal and that the will of the people, however blind to themselves this will has been made, is my call to authority and leadership, and thus I am no leader at all. This is only half true, for leadership and authority are just that, and the most diligent adherence to the conscious (consciously known) wishes of the masses is nevertheless the rule of the minority of the majority. This minority has been and, King Rucks here concedes, is still necessary to the functioning of civilization, and the avant-garde class of revolutionary capitalist nations must not shy away from positions of control. Our basic principles will be new, as socially produced value will be used for society and not private accumulation, and we will make rational us of the knowledge of the relational union of all citizens of every nation, and thus our actions and words will have less contradictions; in any case, true leadership (i.e. little – though more than under capitalism- direct politico-economical participation of the majority) is necessary in the administration of society, and we must head the organizations that will become the institutions of a New Socialist Order.

Further, we now understand that we must appeal to these desires as effectively as, nay, more effectively than, the mouths of the Old World Order (the Spectacle, the politicians, the capitalist private interests). Our praxis must no longer be one of fairness, truth, integrity, and appealing to the rational interests of discontent individuals. We must make whatever art necessary to agitate repressed revolts against a repressed world to the surface; we must appeal to the most powerful, destructive, and constructive forces of the unconscious of the phylo- and ontogenetic psyches of civilization.

Forget about the truth in art; I am from this day forward appealing to the unconscious impulses to rebel against the father (or mother as father, and especially against the father as the established legal power relations between men) in humen civilization across the world. If you are not upset enough, hopeful enough, moved enough, to at the very least punch a wall, hug a relative, cry, sing, or dance after experiencing the art of King Rucks, I have failed as an artist.

There is no question of whom we are to appeal to, the masses or the elite. The primitive impulses of the unconscious run across cultural or politico-economic lines, as Bernay’s Spectacular transformation of the American public has shown; we must appeal to the sameness within the majority of ‘psychically healthy’ subjects across the world.

As we see, not only our art but also even our socio-political public theoretical pronunciations must appeal to these primitive drives. Though we have not the privilege of appealing to the same desires developed by a century of psychological programming, nor the repressive mechanisms already entrenched in the phylo-ontogenetic psyches of the American subject, we can always paint our vision in the clothes of the Spectacle. Those who see only the paint are at least as psychically satisfied with us as with the robotic representatives, (who have no need for masks, for their artificial faces have been engineered to please the masses) of the Old World Order. And, for those who see more than the paint of sensorial appeasement, those who follow the lines of speculation and memory-traces and begin to associate our symbols to re-create the subversive conscious intentions working quietly in our art, they are even better off in the conscious abandonment of One Dimensional Egotistical ideo-psychological conventions which must be destroyed if new realities (and reality principles) are to arise.

What seems obvious is the danger of the mask becoming more than just feigned affirmation; dancing with the programmed psychological expectations of consumers as citizens by denigrating the Authenticity (progressing content-form) of one’s art, in an effort to remain in fact non-identical ( to kitsch created psychological desires, i.e. subversive, unconformist, Art) yet satisfying, history makes perceivable the all too often failure to maintain the transformative quality of Art in the presentation (throughout a historical career), falling pray to affirming the order of the Old World. Coppola went Hollywood, and he never came back. As such, our art must satisfy, yet it must be critical, subversive, and avant-garde throughout. We want to satisfy the masses, and we will tweak the corners of our presentations to do so, but are Difference must always be evident enough. No, not even monetary success must rattle this commandment.

This insight has sweeping ramifications for all my previous thoughts on future artistic presentations. I was increasingly giving over to the need to progress content-form (form as content, content as form) even at the expense of the satisfaction of the experiences of the rear-guard classes. Marcuse, no doubt, played a great deal in this conception. Again, I legitimized this ‘elitism’ denied as such by convincing myself that I am make elitist art in the unquestionable interest of the people, for their discontent must be aroused even if it means they do not get my work. The Century of the Self seems to commend completely pandering to the whims and unconscious desires of the masses themselves, as they exist today in our consumerist society. Goodbye art, hello propagandistic Hollywood-like narratives with hidden subversive messages.

However, I was never given over completely to the idea of the elitism of King Rucks’ praxis in any case. Perhaps a naive universalism, perhaps with regard to cinema in particular, has always allowed me to maintain, beneath the surface, the idea that my elitist art will and must satisfy the masses, so that true AuthentiCinemArt can bring high art to the television of the American worker and be as well received as a kitsch blockbuster. I see know how this elitism for the masses might just be coherent; it is this pseudo-universality of the Unconscious Humen society.

The conscious associations my art will catalyze are structurally incapable of being identical amongst any two individuals in even similar conditions, let alone millions of vastly different individuals. But my art works under the surface, just like the dreams my art will follow in content-form; my art aims to tap into the unconscious energy of the psyche, into the deep reservoir of libidinal energy. My (authenicinem)art aims to tear down the gates of the conventions in the mind constructed by social institutions, the gates that ensure constant self-repression within the subject with promises of the increasing wages (and psychical satisfactions) of this administered world. You are not supposed to understand the art of King Rucks (or avant-garde art in general), but you are supposed to be powerfully affected (at least as much as kitsch) after experiencing it. The avant-garde filmmaker must have this need to effect universally in his mind, even if she is to use symbols which only few consciously interpret as she consciously interprets them. Here is a real demand.

We have drained this film of too much already in this first transcription; and we will no doubt further elaborate what we already have in the repetition of the writing of our interpretation of Adam Curtis’ four-part television series The Century of the Self. We can not over state our congratulation to Mr. Curtis on this historical perspective, and can not overstate the psychical stimulation said film has provided us and no doubt any one who is to take it seriously; yet we would be unclear if we did not briefly mention at least one serious criticism. Curtis’ portrayal of Freud seems standard for those revisionists of Freud which he chronicles, but he completely misses the revolutionary undertones to Freud’s thinking (we admit these are stretches of Freud’s thoughts, and only slight stretches, in the interests of progressing the science by Freudo-Marxists such as Herbert Marcuse, who is given the place he should here in this historiography); society is repressive, and Curtis’ represents this, yet he represents society as identical to this repression.

Freud himself thought repression necessary, but we must be able to separate quantity and quality differences in potential degrees of social repression. Society could be less repressive, and Freud hints at this throughout his career; Curtis’ misses this, and his portrayal of Freud seems to be of a man who was an unwelcome prophet of a truth of control and force of which even he did not want to know. We must claim that Freud was in fact conservative (whatever this term means) at decisive points in his intellectual career, and we must claim that he might agree to this interpretation; we nevertheless maintain that glimmers of a better world (less unnecessarily over repressed) are in Freud; glimmers in which, though they be few, one finds every color of the light spectrum of a much more valuable and satisfied world in prismatic beauty.

We could continue finding fault in the content of the film (and even of the form if we so chose i.e. the master narrative of the white male removed God-eyes narrator and its invisible interests, the lack of real surreal and poetic use of cinema though the subject be so admitting, etc), but I will end here. I cherished the film, and do not need to embellish it here with my own masturbatory critical reflection. Watch the film, and go out and experience and create images of the socialist democratic alternative, and always, always satisfy the self of the people.

Century of the Self

The Poverty of Culture: Fiction of Customs

The Fiction of Customs (aka The Poverty of Culture) is a venture into the farther reaches of, the most abstract and experimental forms of, what I, King Rucks, call, AuthentiCinemArt; more specifically the AuthentiCinemArt (or style, perspective) of King Rucks. Fiction is experimentation into the de(and re)construction of both the cultural and cinematic codes of contemporary society. The film is a denouncement of some of the major illusive, deceptive, and repressive components of historical human society and specifically those of dominating 20th Century societies, and an avant-garde attempt at a cinematic art piece. I aim to make a film that is visually, psychologically, and emotionally unsettling, agitating the viewer to consciously transform its repressed psyche and subjectivity. Through an ordered aesthetic transformation of found footage material, I look to affirm the possibilities of an unrepressed cinematic form. Indirectly then, The Fiction of Customs is a call for new cultures and for new cinemas.

Imagine Brakhage’s Prelude to Dog Star Man meeting Guy Debord’s Society of the Spectacle. Fiction will be at this nodal point. The film is a poetic usage of the authority of reality (Deren’s conception of cinematography), the meanings made from montage, and the hypnotic visuality of cinematic perspectives on locales of time-space (Vertov and his perfect camera eye as truth). Fiction shall be an exploration into the surrealistic, lyrical, architectonic, historical materialist, detourning , poetic, and visual film. The film will be primarily silent, highlighting the visual element of cinema. We will be using found footage and documentary footage for the film, in a voiceless use of detournement, highlighting the importance of the reality itself; both the reality of the unstaged reality of the historical world as documented by cinematographic devices, as well as the reality of the staged reality of historical cinema- the Spectacle and its call to consumerism. Through montage alone, we will aim to criticize specific cultural codes, each act having as its theme a particular code. These include commodity culture and the Spectacle, religion, upper-class veneration, and xenophobia.

Montage will also help us achieve the surreality of cinema. Through juxtaposing and overlaying images, meaning will poetically arise in the relations of difference between image-concepts. This film will aim to act as a springboard for the repressed psyche to make conscious its discontent. The film attempts to merge reality with dream-state in an attempt to include the imagination of the viewer into the experientiality of the film; each individual is to create different associations to their own personal psychical life through the apprehension of the surreality of Fiction. Fiction attempts to both catalyze the thought of the viewer as well as act as the actual functioning of thought; as the mind works through images and associations, as will Fiction, and these two will combine in a dialectical dance whose only aims are to agitate the repressive apparatus of the psyche as well as give sublimated satisfaction to this psyche through aesthetic beauty (which provides invisible feelings of hope, as opposed to the nihilist despair such a deconstructive endeavor could catalyze within an individual).

The Fiction of Customs, then, is an attempt at an attack on the apparent validity of existing cultural codes (customs of society and cinema). It is a cinema of poetry, of intervals, of surreality, of Relationality, of detournement, and of the avant-garde raison d’etre. We will be trying to create a visual poem that can communicate the audience’s (and the historical audience’s) discontent with the arbitrariness and unfreedom of its psycho-socio-political codes. The Fiction of Customs aims at being a part of the seventh art; the poetry of the visual ideo-experience that is AuthentiCinemArt.

Images of a New Religion: Part 1

Here's the new religion. I provide all, and pray ye dine on as much as fills ye. Marvel at one illustration [poorly written no doubt and always already in revision] of Atum, God of Relationality.

God as I as I am God as God is All as All is I

I might have said that my God was the Universe- by which I meant the total system of physical, multidimensional relations, which is the time-space in which we are constituted.

I, however, know to whom I pray much more certainly. It is the God I discovered summer of 2004.


One night, I had a terrifying experience on MJ. I began to consider my own mortality, a frightening concept when you begin to abandon the afterlife idea. I must have had time to think, and to finally put to bed my agnosticism.

Throughout high school, experiences at home, and information at school were clearly pointing towards the lack of an all-powerful God; man had arrived at a consistent theory of evolution which involved no sand turning into man, and history has shown the domination and destruction that has been attached to religious societies, customs, and states.

I was still uncertain, though; I had the proof I needed, both rational and emotional, but I was still afraid to give up the idea of God. Years of religion, bible studies, prayers and forced fasts, church members, and hopes for God’s help had above all made me certain of one thing- I was going to die, and was either going to heaven or hell.

Heaven or hell, hell or heaven, eternal bliss or eternal pain, fire and dark or water and light. Heaven or hell. Fear is often a tool of justification for the domination of the false. It goes from in our psyches, the unconscious portions of our minds, all the way up to the way are societies are organized; from our delusions to the very structures of societies. You must slave and work or you will die, you must give up pleasure or you will not survive, you have to obey authority or society will fall into chaos, you have to respect authority and the state and the president or God will be mad at you, you have to love America or terrorists will kill you. Fear. Very powerful emotion, and society’s structure is based on powerful emotions like fear, guilt, and father love.

I figured, if there is no God then there is no heaven or hell. Logical deduction. Both if there is no heaven or hell, what is there? Uncertainty. Unknowns. Unknowns are a very strong source of evolution, and human evolution. That which is unknown is puzzling, it raises questions; the questioning mind is the freest and most vigorous a mind can be. It is the most engaged with the universe that consciousness can be. Unknowns and uncertainties helped us form language, religion, culture, philosophy, astronomy, science, etc.

Unknowns and uncertainties, then, like fear, evoke powerful intra-subjective emotional experiences. At its most stable, the emotion of not knowing can cause a tickling like a mild electric shock. At its most explosive, it can generate earth-shattering experiences such as deep fear. As we have seen, fear is a tool to justify domination (at least it has been throughout all of human civilization)- electrical uncertainties helped start language and even primitive religion (mother of all religion), and fear of uncertainty is the essence of conservatism, cultural backwardness, and domination.

Fear of uncertainty might have made me justify a clearly illogical system of thought, but I have always been a child/man living in the electrical uncertainty; I am used to being deeply puzzled a.k.a. curious. As such, this uncertainty after death was not terrifying- at least not immediately. No heaven and no hell; ok, what else could there be?

Slowly, electricity becomes unstable, high levels of energy begin to emanate from my psyche; I realize that there is probably no form of life after death. No eternal return and reincarnation, no fuzzy zone in between galaxies, no memories and no family. Nothingness. This is the name for it. Nothingness. The MJ began to mess with me, mixing with the high levels of neuronal-emotive energy my growing fear of uncertainty was rushing throughout me.

Ok. Nothingness. That doesn’t sound too good. (Increase energy) Darkness and darkness and darkness. That’s the only thing it could be (INCrease energy). My perception of the world around began to change. My head was swimming; my imaginative capacity (akin to hallucination) was increasing uncontrollably. The darkness of no-life was enriching the borders of my self-conception. I was born, I live, and I will die. No illusions, just plain life and death, being and then nothingness. (INCREASe Energy: Passing threshold of curiosity, entering fear) That’s when it hit me.

Not only was I going to Nothingness, no friends, no family, no nothing, but I would also continue to exist in the Nothingness. (WARNING: Leaving fear, entering DEEP FEAR.) My mind, my consciousness would still function in the Nothingness; I would have to know this nothingness, live as this nothingness for the rest of eternity. (WARNING: Decrease energy! Entering extreme unpleasure...WARNING, WARNING, WARNING!!!) This is when the radar went straight up and past red into the critical zone that read ‘DEEEEAAAAATTTTTTTHHHHHH!!!!!!” (Death!)

The borders were certainly enriched. Enriched with the darkness of that which surrounds. The shadows seemed to swim with a darkness that was alive. Darkness shattered light's force, invaded light's territory and conquered all.

I fell to the floor, my eyes open but only Darkness surrounded me. Slowly my perception of this world returned, moments after any soul I possessed was crushed by my conscio-connection to the Universe. Every thing in the room seemed to mention Death’s name, whispering the darkness into me. I began to see skulls everywhere I looked; in the darkness behind that brown dresser, in the dark reflection of the television, in the mirror and in the darkness in my eyes, in the darkness behind my closed eyes. Everywhere. Darkness. The shadows reached out to swallow me for eternity.

It is a disturbing experience.
When you really taste
the idea of Death. When
it reaches into you, or rather you reach into
it, the death that is
inside of life, the death that
is wed to life, the death
that we all are.

I was, of course, tripping off the MJ. I had consumed enough to replicate my highest levels of inebriation. It increased my neuronal activity, and this only increased the strength of the displeasure, but it also opened up passages in my memory (emotional residue in the neuronal canals). I am more capable of considering death than most, perhaps, as I have had an increased experience with it. (One can obviously imagine a variety of circumstances that might lead to a de-sensitization of the honest consideration of the concept of one's own death) More importantly for this story, this experience had changed me, in three significant ways;

1. It helped me finally give up the Christian idea of afterlife: I now had a fear more terrifying than even hell.

2. Next, I recall I looked at myself differently in the mirror. Perhaps death was always lurking, somewhere unseen in my eyes.

3. Lastly, I begin to have a strange slip of tongue. When looking in the mirror, sometimes this phrase would leave my mouth without my forethought, “God As I.” How strange, I would think immediately aftering saying it. I had no idea what it meant, nor how it got in my head, nor why I was randomly saying. But every once in awhile a glimpse in the mirror would lead to it. “God as I.”

I have had quite a bit of philosophy since then. I began taking philosophy much more seriously than I had ever taken religion, even though I had once truly believed that a blue-eyed children book Jesus could solve my family's economic situation. I learned that religion was only a type of philosophy, rather different religions were different philosophies, and that no religion had any more validity just because it claimed so than any philosophy had any validity because it claimed so. Further, theologians of the Middle Ages revised the religion just like one revises a philosophical system of thought; Revelations was of course added much after the works of the Disciples, and its inclusion was highly contested. What’s more, the Christian religion is clearly just a combination of different myths, proverbs, and teachings floating in the culture around the time it was written, especially Egyptian myths.

Highly influential philosophy of the modern period was highly influenced by religion; rather, it arose from a world (feudal Europe) where all serious thought was on monotheistic religions (especially Christianity). Religion, and theology, birthed modern philosophy; history birthed the steps past it. Advanced thought (what I consider advanced) slowly moved away from idealism (belief in spirits, ideals, and other realms) and into historical materialism (the universe our human life lives in).

The key element was slowly taking ultimate importance and determination of what we experience as reality out of the hands of something outside of us ( in heaven, in the non-physical, in the transcendent, in the Absolute Idea) and into our human hands (into our minds creation of what we see, into our historical place in the chain of the universe/necessity coming to know be/itself, into our natural humanity and our actions on the world to change the world, in our ability to create ideas such as God and infinity, into our essential freedom to decide what we believe and do, the laws of our civilization, and our union with the universe in and around us).

Advanced thought went from granting ultimate power to some strange entity in another universe who we could never know or understand, to ourselves and our society and religions and cultures and our humanity, and now to the understanding of our human, animal place in a vast universe that definitely has extra-terrestrial life teaming all over it.

What I have since discovered, then, about my strange statement ‘God as I,’ is that I am the only God I can know. I create who I am, what I do, and what I think. This is the only way that it can be. God as (is) I. I have chosen to by King Rucks, a new age sort of storyteller. This, then, is authenticity for the American citizen legally recognized at birth as Jody Rucks, Jr.

King Rucks is the story I tell myself I am striving to be, as I can never be anything truly. I also found that the Nothingness I feared is inside of us and all of Life; who we are, the it behind the consciousness we have- is pure nothingness. There is no I, there will never be a King Rucks except for the story that history tells those who come after ‘I’ merge into Nothingness. God as I, god as King Rucks, god as…the story you want to be before you die. Come up with a name, my god and I will call you it for the rest of our story.

And finally, regarding Death, I have no fear now. My philosophy has done away with it. I discovered the truth of the matter was the first thing that popped into my head that fateful night. It was the truth before pure, sweet, refreshing, curious electricity became earthquakes of fear. It was the truth of Nothingness. As I said above, Nothingness is within Life; there is no Being without Nothingness and no Nothingness without Being. No life without Death. No change without destruction. Nothingness shows that there is ‘no-thing’ (that always was and always will be the ‘thing’ it is). As such, there is no my mind/consciousness/ego/brain/soul; as such there is no I that knows the Nothingness. There is only Nothingness; neither dirt, nor air, nor ‘I’s and ‘we’s in Nothingness.

Death is not painful, though dying may be. Death is Peace. Peace is a state of stability, it signifies a continuous constant in the state affairs; peace, then, is the opposite of chaos, continuous instability and change. Death is a return to the maximum stability of the womb, the human mental state just before any form of conscious perception. The greatest Peace possible because there is no you who has Peace, you ARE Peace in death. Not heaven or hell, not fire and red or sun and yellow, but peace in death. Simple.

God as I, I in I am Atum, Atum is all, All is Atum, Atum is King Rucks, King Rucks is All, King Rucks as God. The web beneath these things (Being) we see is greater the sum of all the things (us) combined. We are the web, the Web is ‘god’, we make up ‘God,’ We are God. God as I.

The Unsanctioned Gods: Part 2

The beginning of becoming unfolds. Revolutions are daily unfolding. The season's path lays bare and leads to fruit.

The Unsanctioned Gods: Part 2

I in I am the pagan god, unknown and unthought
for thought by the unknown in unknown thoughts.
Within I in I, the tales that lie
just beneath confused language and lingering culture
Here in the nectar of Atum, the relation of the universe.
Those rays of depth unseen, those perceptions unstained
by rancid re-cognitions of a weak conscious.

I in I, King Rucks, created your Gods, long ago,
and you’ve mangled my words,
painted elitist Roman wolves with blue eyes,
halos on unfree men,
and chains on the fears of a child’s mankind.

You’ve twisted the simplicity I loaned you
to speak sick poetry of death, murder, and hate.
Where I in I spoke love you, egotism, preached blood,
where I in I spoke stars you, egotism, built bars.
I in I, Atum, shall decipher your tangled code,
I in I, Atum shall rescue Life’s religion, emotion, fears.

Let them have those misinterpretations I gave Egypt
Just symbolic poetry to help man build meaning
We pagans will now speak of new Gods,
always new gods,
changing with the change
which is all, which is Atum the stability of constant change.

Lets talk of the Unsanctioned Gods,
those thought by we the unknown
thus the unthought Gods.
Gods of hate, of ecodestruction, of corporate greed,
of Congressional corruption, of prison-industrial-
psychopathetic-militaristic proportions.

Those gods of famine, man-made disease,
those cursed administrations of white Southern rich male deities.
Lets talk of the Gods of licking, of sticking, of touching, of fucking,
of the Truth that Truth is always becoming and never is
the gods of global-corporate self-destruction.

You’ll give them names, will give them names,
Atum, the I in I, the all,
will give us a better culture through them.

Lets talk of the Unsanctioned Gods,
pagan Gods others fear to love…

The Unsanctioned Gods: Part 1

The end of destruction is the beginning of becoming. Last week was a holy week for me. I can only speak of the Gods (all Atum as Becoming) here.

The Unsanctioned Gods: Part 1

Yes, let us speak of the unsanctioned gods,
pagan gods others fear to love
Lets talk of the gods of Saturn, patterns, rhythm, rhyme
Psalms to god Ecology, Relationality, flow and Time

Eros and Ananke, Life, destruction, decay, and change
We pagans dare speak of the wonders of new gods,
great gods created by men for meaning and culture

Your sanctioned gods are puppets,
flapping mouths burying the truth
they contain with rules and rulers
Lets speak of the Egyptian gods which have
formed the religions of the world
like time’s growing pyramids,
relentless wind ever blowing rustic sand,
birthing new layers and iterations

Ha, we read through your gods like children’s tales
Poppycroft dear sir, poppycroft,
that is an Egyptian imitation

Singing psalms to the Father in the realm of light
surrounded by others to sing praises to you
for making it, dressed and on time
for the reunion of you and your loved ones
in this the holiest of lands,
surrounded by purity

Ha, Egypt dear sir, and your tired fantastic heavens
have bored me since then and just before.

I in I am the god before even the Egyptians,
I in I am the god of History
I in I wield your gods like two blazing yo-yos
whistling through wet wind, whirling tall tales
of love hope despair, death, hate, deceit,
sex, fear, isolation, success and defeat
Tall tales of Greed, lies, and money
tales of history’s culture mummies...

Poetry Blog

No posts for a minute now. Work's been easy enough but I'm stacking up hours. Only thing of worth saying right now is that we need a revolution; did you think I was joking about Obama? Take a second look before its too late. I already told you- see Illusions.

Botanical Garden of Metropolis

Here, future earth baths in the sun,
Nature revered, respected,
planned and produced,
manufactured by sentient Nature itself,
In the guise of the homo sapien

Lakes’ reflection reflects world,
endowing Nature with the magic
of neurological-mental reflection

Hear, Earth emitting sound waves
reacting with consciousness, language
creating concepts, sensations,
fantasies of reality made by reality
In the guise of the homo sapien

Wind sings softly
Words of World
through neurological-mental reflection

Botanical garden of Metropolis,
here hear reflections sing softly,
endowing nature with words of world
All manufactured by reality itself
In the guise of we natural homo sapiens

Reality in Potential

In severe silence,
the shallow seconds between functional thinking,
the Eyes of Existence
will show the One, the One universe

Lo, what deep, despondent, darkness
Darkness surrounds!
Death loams in the shadows
Undetermined unknowns threaten to destroy
Lo, Death awaits, tis certain

Yet, in that overwhelming darkness is freedom,
the white web of potentiality
Consciousness creates reality in infantile fantasy
Objective Reality shines forth as only
the total working of the architectural mind

See now, ivory illumination immersing infinity
Yes, certainly, welcome to the only light,
the light of the One universe
Thou hast espied through the Eyes

Eyes of Existence,
sweet apparition of the One
the One, the One Universe,
Universe of united mortals
Homo sapien civilization and its benighted wisdom
fabricating a shared consciousness
through life, through love, through language.

The One, the One Universe,
no subject, no object,
only human thought-language
harmonizing human actuality,
harmonized in turn by Being and the white web.

In severe silence,
the wasted life between memories and duties,
perceive thou fabricated reality as such
Redefine thou hollow art, thou strange estranged religion
Thou precise philistine philosophy, thou existence

In the dark doom of unmoving silence
one must learn to see, indeed listen
with the Eyes of Existence

For now, use mine.

See more poetry at: http://www.canonmagazine.org/contributors07_08.html

And it was written...From the Journals of--

Please excuse my 'writing' of excerpts of a private journal entry. I believe it is worth including here, though. And I've included a piece of poetry for the patient.

...If you've read my previous entries, you will understand my references to this third-party King character.


May 2008

Writing life in New York

King Rucks is a storyteller. The same storyteller of ages long ago. The bearded hermit, solemn, full of riddles and poetic bits of wisdom. The magician, the creator of culture and of a common worldview.

The same storyteller and miracle maker as Socrates, Homer, Jesus, Socrates, MLK. King Rucks tells them through written word, through speech, through situations, through audio-visual productions. As the message of storytelling has inevitably evolved, so has the medium.

King Rucks tells stories of pain and of pleasure, of despair and of hope, of destruction and of birth, of existence and of meanings.

Throughout each medium, your writings will be traces of what you were, and what you have yet to become. King Rucks will never exist, but the actions King Rucks would take are as real as the actions which he would bitterly condemn. Write the path of King Rucks, write the path of history.

Conscious existence is but a mere feeble whisper in the great span of the tornado of 14 billion years which is Being. There is no time to stumble. Every bump along your path must only define your next step. A child looks into the mirror, wondering how he will look with facial hair. A teenager looks into the mirror, wondering how he will look with a beard. A man looks into the mirror, wondering how he will look balding. A middle aged woman wonders how she will look completely gray. An old man looks into the mirror, sees his nonexistence, smiles, and wonders what his grandchild will look like with facial hair. With only a blink of the eye, a million moons rise, and this tragic human cycle passes on and on through blood-drenched centuries.

Live your existence with no worries, no regrets. Pain is the other side of pleasure, life is the other side of death. Stay focused on the vision of the old man in the mirror contemplating death, and you live every day, free, like the baby faced young child. Go, and write my child, my King.

A(miri). Baraka Speaks! 2-13-07


History speaks to Present
Facts, Fidel, fire
Newark 1967
Revolution is the main trend today
Burn, baby, burn

History stands behind the podium
Inspiring, invigorating, invincible
Forty years strong on the frontlines
Do not leave college ignorant and passive
Who blew up America? Who, who, who?

History speaks to Present
Art, activism, accord
Lenin and Dubois knew art was always political
Today’s generation must of forgot the word struggle
We are all slaves under imperialism so we are all brothers

But, History is an old man
Doddery, drained, defenseless
His power fades when his words end
He has seen it all and fights on
But twilight is inevitable, twilight descends

History speaks to Present
Politics, poets, people
Not all of us understand his politics
Not all of us subscribe to his poetics
But we are all History’s people
And with a leprechaun’s grin
History invites us to seize life, and seize power.

Africa Rising

It is unfortunate, the fate of Africa. Birth place of humanity, perhaps all of life on this planet. Fountain of wisdom, map from our animality to our conscious existence. It gave this earth man, and gave man the foundation for all his knowledge, from Egypt to the present. And look at it now. It's people alienated, its melaninated people destroyed and persecuted, its wisdom forgotten and called lies. A tragedy. Even the post-apartheid governments are rippled with the greed of destructive man and his European and post-European governments and global institutions and corporations. Zimbabwe. What are we going to do people? I guess acknowledging the severity of the issue is number one. Africa is not free. The people of Africa are still destroyed and abused at horrific levels. This international system is still abusing them, and us as them.

http://www.democracynow.org/2008/6/23/zimbabwe_in_crisis_opposition_leader_morgan

Africa Rising

Africa
That robbed, beaten, exploited wholly mammoth
That mother, that bitch, that incessantly inconvenient truth
Fat, slow, old, wise, spiritual pregnant elephant
Drearily dancing in the dome tent circus of destiny.
Enslaved, oppressed, and worse, abandoned
by its mutated offspring, who are both
the unbathed, wealthy, garish and drunken ringleader
and the broken, bored, banal plebian audience.

O, Africa,
the truth you speak is history
And you've shown the evil men do.
Yes, Africa, things undone have to be
Yes, drastic undoings for what they did to you.
Love must stand and defeat Power
Defeat, destroy, and decimate.
This cruel historical circus ends this hour
Africa and mankind wage war against hate.

Africa, my mother, you are no longer the dancing nation
Your children must and will now dance for your liberation

Culture Industry #1

When we come to understand how closely related are the profit of the disparate industries of mass media and their connection to the continuation of the current economic structure (state supported private capitalist accumulation of surplus value), we come to understand the degrees of ideology which these media propagate.

On the most affirmative end, you have the blatant propaganda of aggressive-capitalist accumulation i.e. Fox News, corporate elite statements and personalities (Trump), ultra-right media personalities (Alan Greenspan, televangelists, etc), drug-related hip-hop (Dip Sets, 50 Cent, etc), political genre cinema ( Twin Towers, independence Day, The Transformers, 300, Iron Man, Pearl Harbor), financial publications ( Wall Street Journal, Fortune 500, etc), military advertisements (during the NBA Finals, Superbowl, whenever they like), etc.

In the mid-range, you have neo-liberal deceptively non-controversial amusement and information dissemination i.e. most movies ( The Simpsons Movie) most news media (LA Times, New York Times, news television i.e. MSNBC), nightly news (‘local’ news, network news), most television, most popular music, most advertisements, etc.

The other extreme, is the liberal hinting of true art, a truly democratic public sphere, and critical/questioning information. The New Yorker, The Nation, CSPAN, Kenneth Olbermann, popular contemporary forward-thinking artists, political music and artists (Rage Against the Machine, Dead Prez), director based popular cinema ( some of the films of: David Lynch, Spike Lee, Stanley Kubrick, Gus Van Sant, PT Anderson, etc), some science fiction films (The Matrix, V for Vendetta, Manchurian Candidate, They Live!), etc.

When we understand the relation of power, ideology, and propaganda, we come to understand what media/light art is completely intolerable, what is questionable, and what is acceptably questionable. More over, we come to understand that some degrees of affirmation are always intolerable, that some popular culture/ Light Art/ kitsch/ capitalist realist information is some times tolerable, and that there are times when nothing (or extremely little) from the Culture Industry is acceptable.

When the corporatist state government empire allows the private media conglomeration corporations to concentrate further towards one (now only six large mega-corps control more than 75% of all media produced), when all of the media industries (including every type of news medium) are being further commercialized, when all of the media industries are being conservative- either conservative politically i.e. regressive politics, or conservative in terms of sticking strictly to what has been done in the past, and when the corporate media just sucks as badly as it does today, one might consider avoiding/boycotting the culture industry altogether. Do you really want to go see another film about black comedians behaving buffoonishly on airplanes when every family you know in impoverished and poorly educated urban areas has a son in prison on drug related charges ( i.e. were alleged to be workers in the underground state-supported economy)? With Bush in office, the country going down the drain in every category (working class rights, American credibility, the economy, our tax dollars, the environment, our political culture, our crumbling/blown-apart infrastructure) you should be asking yourself when Spike Lee is coming out with a film on Huey P. Newton and the Black Panthers, right?

In other words, the media industry, propaganda for the continuation of the capitalist system totally or not at all, is a business ( i.e. a state-regulated business); it profits from the advertisement money paid to it, from the subscription of its viewers, from monopoly minded corporate state laws, from the viewership of saps/’viewers like you.’ We effect what is produced by what we consume. You don’t not have to accept everything they put out. Find out your political interests, and make sure the media you consume represents your interests. If everything is bullshit and flag-waving gentle Uncle Sam and his spinning 36’ platinum wheels, then you should probably read that old book you liked. And when the ratings drop, when we stop letting our children watch their elementary, predictable, fairy tale crap at theaters, stop listening to the same, tired, stereotypical musical, stop listening to their useless and pointless and inaccurate news reports, perhaps the corporate media will start saying something interesting. As for now, I’m not paying a cent for popular television, music, or films. As for now, however, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to find out what their saying through non-paying means, yadada-mean? ;/.

Short Story 1: The Last Days Are Nigh

The Last Days are Nigh


Yes, they are here dear brother.
they have arrived at last.
Journeyed through dark, fire, dirt
determined to meet us.
Yes, smile happily dear brother
The Last Days are Nigh

We must dress ourselves
the dance will be amazing
every man, woman, child
jyriating melodically in the harmony of species being

The Last Days are Nigh, brethren,
Come, come!

There was a man in my bedroom this morning. I don’t know who he is, but I feel he belongs. Though he woke me suddenly, from a coherent narrative dream of a life with no mysterious men and no fanciful appearances, I was never frightened. I suppose I stlll am not frightened, but there is a creeping throughout my person which feels akin to fright. Perhaps anxiety’s the word...

He woke me with a smile. Leaning over me, his arm still stretched out, his hand still lightly placed on my shoulder from where he had rocked me a-wake. I opened slowly to him staring at me, smiling the largest smile his face could possibly allow. His eyes, his face, all the image of pure jubilation, glee, yes even ecstasy. I found myself staring, bewildered, at a strange man in my bedroom, face alit with joy. Bewildered, not shocked, not alarmed, not even as much as surprised; no, just bewildered.

He had a trustworthy face. The type of face you find on a doctor, a philanthropist, a social activist, a successful relative. His smile fit his face too well, hugged it in a way that could only come from long use, and perhaps practice. His face muscles were chiseled for expressions of happiness; you felt like he smiled every second of his life.

He wore a suit. Black, clean, extremely well cared for, and it fit him in an honest way. It was the kind of suit that you expect a person to buy when its on sell; expensive, but bargained down due to a capitalist market based on the ‘now.’ One envies a person for this type of suit; not because of its probable initial cost, but because of the deal, because of the amount of money he saved one it. It was a well-cared for bargain suit he wore.

We stared at each other, his face not four feet from kissing me. He smiled, chuckled, stared, said, “Wake up, dear brother, the last days are nigh. We must rejoice.” My slow, monotonous blink must have alarmed him to my then inability for comprehension. He smiled, and moved towards the center of my room. Mysteriously, my room was now re-arranged; arranged the same, but the room seemed to have been flipped. Where a window was a wall now is, where a wall a window, where a desk a door and a door a desk. Intense sunlight pierced the room for the windowed wall; an obnoxiously intense sunlight. It would have certainly waken me in a matter of dream images from now, had not Mr. Smiley face. Out the window I saw only a white cloudless sky. Mr. Smiley face pulled away, walked around the room slowly, dusting off my (his) suit, smiling his jubilant smile on his doctorial face.

“They have arrived! They have traveled through dark, dirt, fire, and blood. Slowed by the weather of necessity, at times windy, at times artic, at times arid deserts of fate. But they have arrived on time. The last days are nigh dear brother, we must rejoice before it is too late.”

Every word was filled with so much happiness I nearly feel ill. Still I felt as if it pained him to speak, as if communication took him from his blissful thoughts. There was something he wanted to tell me; I could barely raise myself from my bed sheets, which seemed intent on holding me down, (as if I were a madmen, being held down by orderlies ready to give me the shot I needed to relax) let alone comprehend this (what must be) drugged induced speech of a stranger. I sat up only with an effort; I could only imagine that Mr. Smiley face thought my struggle melodramatic, and I resented the fact that he would misunderstand my serious attempt to sit up and address him properly. Never had I wanted to return to slumber so vehemently, never have I struggled against my natural, sleep demanding impulses to return to bed for another minute; all this after having been awakened by a strange, black suit wearing smiling madman of a philanthropist in my bedroom! It were as if I were drugged, with enough tranquilizer to lullaby rhinoceros to sleep.

I sat up fully finally, slightly out of breath. This is how things have gone, thus far this morning.

“Yes, yes. Awaken in the light of this new day, a close relative to the Last Days ahead,” he said, looking at the window, face a lit by the spotlight sun. The light blinded much of his face, yet I swear I can make out the doctoral smile. Who is this guy? What the hell is going on? Am I dreaming?

“Wh…who…who the…hell are you? What the… what, what are you doing in my room?” I saw myself saying, felt my self struggle to say it as if drugged and doped, but these words I never spoke. I stared in silence, trying to…trying to do something.

Smile, he pulls away from the window, slowly draws near the bed, his terrific black suit like a fly guy’s funeral outfit. Glides towards me in this topsy-turvy room of mine, my door where the floor were.

“The Last Days are Nigh

Yes, they are here dear brother.
they have arrived at last.
Journeyed through dark, fire, dirt
determined to meet us.
Yes, smile happily dear brother,
the Last Days are Nigh

We must dress ourselves to address
the dance, man dancing with destiny
every man, woman, child, prepared for the end
celebrating the finish in existent ecstasy.

The Last Days are Nigh, brethren,
Come, come!”

Ok. Yeah, yeah. I’m definitely dreaming. Weird, I’m conscious of myself dreaming…Wait, what the hell am I talking about? This guy is a fucking psycho! I need to figure out what the hell’s going on. What did I drink last night?

Mr. Smiley moves to my relocated closet, moves through my shabby New York wardrobe. “ You know, men dance differently in the last days. It as if truly knowing nothingness and death, one begins to truly know being and life. Yes, men dance naked, no masks, no lies. Pure natural human passion, swaying to the throb of existence. And oh, the moves the ladies will be bringing out. Yes! Arise brother! Dress yourself! Ha, ha!”

He pulls out a black shirt I got from eBay. Throws it at my lap on the bed. “Watch it, buddy! I don’t like to iron anymore than I have to. You cant go around slinging people’s ironed ebay shirts around.” Again, not a word came out. He starts in on my slacks; brings out the only pair of black slacks I own. I hate the color black, anyway. I refuse to buy black clothing. What? Stop!! What the hell is you’re problem!? A strange man, who you did not invite in your home (or did I) is going through your clothes, has already re-arranged your room, and now is trying to force you to get dressed in black clothes, and all you can think about is your distastes for black clothing? Wake up, man, you are seriously dreaming…

He throws the slacks at me. Takes a seat on my dresser, smiling, as if waiting for me to get dressed. “Things will be different now, dear brother. You’ll see. Nothing will be the same. The last days are nigh. The world to come will be marvelous and majestic. Never will we come down from the high of this dance. Ecstasy eternal, dear brother. Yes the last days are nigh.”

Somehow, my hands grabbed hold of the shirt, began unbuttoning the top buttons, began placing the shirt over my head and on to my upper torso.
Somehow my hands re-button the shirt, up the midsection and on the sleeves. What am I doing? “Who are you!!? Get the hell out of my room!! What the hell have you drugged me with!?” Nothing. Not a word, though I felt myself say this, I saw myself say this. Nothing, though.

I move to the side of the bed, start to roll the pants up my legs. “Yes, smile happily dear brother. Its all over. We are in the last days. We will dance on a hill, hand and hand with the end. I can’t wait. Dress yourself, quickly! Ha, ha!” I button up the pants, tuck the shirt in as best I can in my current position. Ah well, if it’s a dream, it’s a dream. Nothing I can do about that. Go with the flow, right? Besides, I can’t even control my own actions at this point. He throws me my belt. As I wrap it around my waist, shoes and socks are passed to me.

What’s this guy’s story? I’m coming to understand there’s some dance we’re going to. Something about last days? Last days? Sounds like…like death. Or the end of something. I am dying? Am I dead? No, no such thing as an after-life, so I’m not dead. Dying, then. I’m dying. No, I’m out of it. This is just a bad dream. Is it? Happiest nightmare I’ve ever had, if that’s the case.

I stand up, socks, shoes, and belt all on, and walk to where the mirror now is. Mr. Smiley face, smiles at me, watching my every move with an unmoving grin. What a doctor, this guy! I adjust my shirt and pants in the mirror; I guess I notice that there is no world around me in the mirror. Just myself, fixing my attire in an infinite white space. I don’t really think I notice, though, or if I do I don’t seem to care. I’m going to die, and before I do I’m going to dance. I think I remember him talking about ladies.

‘Excellent. Let us rejoice. They have arrived. Through dirt and dark and fire, arrived. Come to strip us of masks, of roles, of self-deceptions. We will be ourselves now. We will live as never before in these the last days. Come, come, dear brother.”

Smiley face heads to the door. “Wh…whe…where are we going?” “Where? We are going to the hill. To dance.” “Wh…why are we dancing?” “That’s what you do in the last days. You dance, and rejoice.” “Wh..what do you mean by the last days?” “You know exactly what I mean. Its all over. Now come on. Our dance partners are waiting.” Wow, I’m actually having a conversation. Strange, though, as I don’t feel or see myself talking at all this time. “Our partners?” “Yes, are dance partners. They’ll be forced to wait if we don’t hurry. And we can not replace last days. They come and they go. We must be quick.” “What are our partners like?” “They are women and men stripped of pretense and illusion, naked and living like never before. Dancing every drop of energy out of their bodies. Come, come.”

Smiley face walks out my door, where my desk once was. I try to wrap my head around this dream, if that’s what it is. “Well,” I see myself say, “if these are the last days, there’s nothing I can do about it. Might as well dance. Can’t see myself living the last days any other way. That’s what you do in the last days, anyway. You dance and rejoice. Besides, there’s going to be naked women.” Hell, now that sounds like my type of dream. And out the door, and towards the last days, I followed the strange, smiling man who calls me brother.

Yes, they are here dear brother.
they have arrived at last.
Journeyed through dark, fire, dirt
determined to meet us.
Yes, smile happily dear brother.
The Last Days are Nigh.

We must dress ourselves to address
the dance, man dancing with destiny.
Every man, woman, child, prepared for the end,
celebrating the finish in existent ecstasy.

The Last Days are Nigh, brethren,
Come, come!
To thee I shall never lie.

Illusions

There has been a very obvious consensus amongst the 'two dominant' parties over the last 50 years. Pro-big business, a dominating military and foreign relations strategy, and a civil rights type of appeal to the domestic population. Nevertheless, the consensus masks it self as difference, the homogeneous products shout their brand name and stimulate interest. The potential nominees run their campaigns exactly like public relations and marketing firms do; indeed, some of these campaigns have higher budgets as well. The illusions are researched, produced, and distributed.

Who does the American people want, President Pepsi or President Sprint? A young man in the crowd with blue paint smeared on his face in fanatic jubilation waves a sign smeared with 'I Believe in Pepsi. "Pepsi, Change, Yeah!" A grandmother in a red shirt wiggles her hips shouting, "Yeah Sprite. Experienced Change! Traditional Change! Yeah Sprite."

Someone, jaded no doubt, perhaps a college graduate who studies philosophy and is now working an office job with morons for co-workers, dragged here by with his Pepsi-loving Sprite-looking ditz of a girlfriend, mutters to himself, "Who cares, they are both sodas." ...

The music stops. 

The crowd suddenly grows indignant. People slowly turn to stare at him with angry eyes. The candidates on stage turn towards him, shaking their heads, pissed. His girlfriend glares him down, tired of the same stupid argument. "Yes, they are sodas, Tyrone. What about it? I like soda." The crowd shouts in melodious synchrony, "We all like soda." Cameras and studio-lights turn to him. 

No one makes a sound.

The young man looks around himself. He was just at a network coordinated and televised debate between two democratic candidates. Some CNN producer telling Obama to repeat his lines from the top, this time with a little more bass in his voice. The kid, nestled away in the shadows cast by the lights and illusions onstage, seated amongst Obama supporters standing and shouting and clapping, thought he was safe to laugh off the matter alone. Suddenly, however, he found himself in the spot-light, enraged audience members staring at him with murderous eyes. He could tell a riot was going to break out,

 and he was going to be the burned city at the end of the night. 

Even his girlfriend stared at him, ready to punch him in the nose. The candidates were making calls to hit man, studio security were pushing their way towards him, intent on causing some injuries. What the hell is going on, our jaded young man thought to himself. This must be a dream.

A hand jerks him backwards. He turns expecting Mike Tyson aiming to knock his head off. Instead, our gyrating grandmother scratches him in the eyes. " Keep that philosophical shit to yourself, sonny. I'm here to see the show of my life. And I aint got time to waste." The crowd begins to shake, slowly tensing their bodies in a zombie's freeze. Their pupils vanish. "We all like soda. We all like soda. We all like soda." 

They begin to slowly creep towards our jaded young man. "Zombies! You're all zombies!" He backs away, his psyche permanently scarred. A small chase ensues, and he's backed into a corner. The candidates, the moderators, the producers, the babies, all of them creep towards him.

As the cameras pans away from him, cranes above him to reveal the room creeping towards, the voice of Rod Sterling narrates the following:

"Tyrone Stanley. Age 24. Was under the impression that he was at a debate. A debate between two individuals vying for command of the highest post in the world. America in the last stretch of its four-year period. A democracy practicing its freedom of thought and choice. But where Stanley actually is there are no candidates. There is no America. There is no freedom, no choice, no debates. On the stage tonight is a performance. A fictional showcase for the workers of the USA. A ritual with no meaning. The laws of the land are simple: the rich get richer, the poor get poorer. Capitalism is as simple as that. Whether Kennedy is in office or McCain is, whether Clinton or Reagan, Carter or Johnson, America looks to promote the growth of the accumulated capital of its accumulated capitalists through takeovers, mergers, or acquisitions of the resources of its allies and enemies, partners and competitors, by any means necessary. The people do not choose, their choices are given to them by ideological state appartuses i.e. affirmative and ideological education, public relations i.e. advertising i.e. propaganda i.e. corporate media industries, and bought off politicians. Whether Obama or Clinton, the zombies will still be in power. There is no bickering or debate about this, Tyrone Stanley, 

here, in the twilight zone."

Illusions.

Obama vs McCain. There are differences, of course. Right? Right? War, uh, health care, uh... fixing Washington, right? Fixing America? The World? 

And it Was Written...inauguration

Let us commence! Our story begins this moment, every moment. We are the main characters of a gripping autobiography with love, anger, pain, and pleasure. We are completely free to create our life's story; completely free to imagine alternative ends, and to struggle for these ends against a world that is bigger than our mere ends alone.

Our stories will have certain similarities. Our conscious existence is merely a manifestation of our unconscious existence, the myriad of relations between our selves and all else. As such this conscious existence is governed by laws man has yet to fully fathom; laws of thermodynamics, ecology, physiology, and other very real detriminant-participants in our conscious perception. We fail to put these into play when we consider sociological man and his field of action.
Yet we have come to see that the unconscious hides a deep connection to our world and our flesh. 

All conscious stories must be filled with love, anger, pain, and pleasure because these terms are indications of deeper realities. Universal realities: love = the coming together of forces to create productive relations - anger = explosive transfers of energy and matter - pain = tension created by the destabilization of energy levels. These are conditions of life, and thus conditions of human life. These will be in your story.

Yet, you are author even still of your narrative. Your story will end, so allow your scripting to truly begin. When we realize that we are the makers of our narratives, that our actions and reactions determine the life we lead, one finds oneself already the character in someone else's story. We have a past, we live in a certain time and place, inexplicable things routinely happen to us, and we have very little control over our part in the play of society. We assume that fate, God, the Idea, the Spirit, Atum, or some other force is the author of a book we are a minor part in. And we, at our most sincere moments, understand that our psyches' and emotions are greater than any rational we may have.

But with the knowledge of our demise, we realize that we are the only transcedent author. We are born a character to ourselves, and we will die a character to our selves. We must write this character. I shall do so here. I shall clarify my philosophy, and begin to  invite all-others to practical-theory in the making. And it was written, King Rucks lived.



Il(De)lusions


Illusion-Delusion

Ruby, rich radiant blood rock
glimmering in darkness,
refracting images of Reality.
Red dream-life taken for Truth.
Scarlet Memories breast-stroking slow-motion
in reverse refractions in red tint.
RED
with shades of deception;
colored images of reality beautifully engineered
to deceive, exploit, and repress.
Rubies, all of them, crimson sweet
half-real half-illusion jewels floating in nothingness.
Religion, Race, Repression called Freedom,
beautifully obscuring animal impulses
with deceptive sublimated pleasure.

[Ruby red ir-religious repression shading reality with deceptions.]


Illusion-Delusion

Diamond, brilliant dimensional gem
reflecting star-light
emanating from within.
A glow carving its space-time in Reality.
Diamond sun blasting forth light
into its infinite dematerialized dark galaxy;
LUMINOUS
with a dazzle of lies;
Life blinding itself, fighting to conceal Existence,
battling to obscure the terrifying nothingness that surrounds it.
Diamond, this lie, sparkling star
projecting alienated shining chimeras in(on)to its universe.
Heaven, Afterlife, Spirit, Re-incarnation
radiantly eclipsing the necessity of Death
with deceptive enslaving fantasies.

[Dazzling diamond alienated projections blinding existence with lies.]


Illusion-Delusion


Il(de)lusions,
Gems of historical necessity thus far.
Beautiful, economic jewelry
more sine qua non than luxury.
Natural in the artificial naturalness of human existence.
Ornaments both cause and effect of human thought-life.
Glimmering beautifully, blasting forth light,
obscuring animal impulses, terrified by the necessity of Death.
Brilliant ruby red diamonds;


The best il(de)lusions make the most alluring jewelry.