The Judas Cradle
- Details
- Parent Category: Spirituality
- Category: Philosophical Discourse
- Published on Tuesday, 22 May 2012 16:08
- Written by Doug Jackson
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Black birds trail me on this strange red afternoon. Man’s guilt is revealed at stop signs and red lights. We are but puppets in submission, constantly pleasing each other’s egos. The cellulosic scars of neglect resonate in the shopping mall. Capitalism acts as the catalyst for the mental & spiritual genocide in today’s society, finally placing us on the waiting list at the brink of destruction.
… A combined effort of miscommunication and politeness sways the night in my favor. For the moment, there is nowhere else I would rather be than in this chair staring at the oddity-man crossing the street in a white t-shirt, without a rotator cuff, swinging his arm spastically and involuntarily. The desperate desolation of forced calligraphy stings like a fresh ulcer. Where am I and what am I doing here, for that matter? I am still asking these questions after heavy tortuous dwelling upon the issue of life at hand, a life, rather a cosmos that is in perfect order, otherwise none of this would be in existence. If life in our universe is so perfectly calculated to have matter, space and time work together: why than do we stress the little things so much? Half the day I am bewildered and angered at powers and forces that are way out of reach for me to effect. But I carry on stressed, pushing and chasing a goal to redefine the human race. To find meaning in theoretical passages of the universe is the key, but where should I start? One starts with the self. Such is the path walking step by step, as is our relationship to the flow of the constantly expanding and creating universe.
With mythology dying, man turns to nature, a scorned and perverted view of nature as Moral Law. Nature has no morality and does not care how old, young or well-off you are if you are in the way. Man’s follies drip on my forehead like water torture building up with pain, drip by drip. One must choose Reason over emotion, as well as Wisdom over Ignorance. Inside the pineal gland of my brain the soul and the mind meet. What are the agreements they share: will and freedom perhaps. As passion is a confused idea, love/hatred, joy/sorrow, all blare warnings. In order to carry on I must cease passion by relating to the mind alone. Reason is King.
… Illiterate wenches and ready-made whores entice my soul with the aroma of crimson rags and silk robes. Who are these people: the liars, the believers and the ego-ridden morons, who are they? How do they benefit society? The weak moan as the strong sleep. Predominance in Candyland is established by cow-towing, a$$-kissing, but more important, nepotism which is a main artery of capitalism. As if on cue, a voice screams violently in my head: “Beg, now jump for the dollar, don’t forget to tap.” The ink provides the mask today as I shield my warm cup of sake from the rest of the world. I’ve been able to outwit society tonight by staying on the low, as they say, avoiding any kind of eye contact. The plan is to drink enough until I go numb, than I can figure out the rest of the night. The good news is: suicide has been far from my thoughts. I simply do not care enough to kill myself. I used to have such drive and passion about projects and whatever I did with my time, but now it’s as if the plug was pulled & the a/c is near dead. TIME will not stop. Why I feel that all of the “in-between” needs to be explained is because certain tyrants have taken control and are destroying generations.
This is the turning point. I do not seek the “meal ticket”, humane fame, nor a family and a “9 to 5” job. Where then does that put such a person with such a psyche? Label me a quitter? No, my soul has never been known to the likeness of submission, why would it start now? This confusion puts me at the end of the roach of roaches rolled in a Dutchmaster to numb the distance spanned with spacetime. Still with no answer but worse, the team was sold to Kansas City. Roaming ronin, I roll, the accuser, the benevolent Buddha born in the wrong era, placed to be dismissed as myth or theology. Give it a name.
Doug Jackson is an artist, poet, vagabond & philosopher. Read more from Doug Jackson at: www.agoodamericanlikeyou.com
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