Bow To Big City Dictates

 

The Big City

Part 16 of 28

Once again, the Big City takes us to a dark place. At least it's kind of dark, the shadows creeping everywhere. The barest light is sooner or later extinguished, with what little bit of light that remains flickering with promise, but the promise is next to nothing, then it’s gone. Everything is fairly dark, with moneyed interests and the way they’re forever greasing each other's palms, winking, signalling the separation of groups into those on top and the rest of us. The supposed new day begins, then it’s immediately dark, and that’s all the light we see.

How everything goes to hell like this -- which is my go-to sociological theory no matter where I live -- is a thing both to rue and celebrate, though darkly. Certainly ruing it is warranted, because the response to every injustice ought to be a stand against it. But because this response is never welcome with the powers-that-be, it’s tough to sustain, and is usually met in one of two ways: 1) A passive/aggressive affirming of their stance, then quietly tabling it once you’ve been sidelined; and, 2) An overt rejection, threats, mental/physical harassment, browbeating, criticism both to your face and subversive, or strangulation, or telling you the so-called parable of the Good and Bad Eggs, how the Good Egg sits unmolested in the refrigerator till it’s eventually retired to the dumpster, whereas the Bad Egg is immediately killed and eaten, although not digested but brought again to public shame with heaving and hacking, and all of it with severe prejudice. Ho hum.

But, my friends -- and my expertise in Big City sociology is more or less something I picked up on the fly with minimal experience; I’m a fast learner -- they can’t hide the truth forever. From the great unwashed masses, yes, they can hide it in a sense. Those unwashed masses are happy to live their pathetic unwashed lives constricted like this. It’s the old line about bread and circuses, keep them sedated, docile, and distracted -- mentally stymied, socially sidelined, forever in the vain pursuit of being Top Dog or what have you. Step by step, then -- and there’s lots of baby steps here -- they're finally kept in their place only apparently by force. Once inured, they maintain their station at the bottom rung by a sort of sleepy forgetfulness, knowing next to nothing of their lives. What an objective person would see as constriction, they see as freedom.

Just going over the more cheerful aspects as I have, I also see it as a negative thing. Which is only made worse by our own complicity, failing to keep our minds fresh and free, basically what’s common in the small town setting. There are, however, in the small town the Big City wanna-bes. Cheerful on the outside, but conniving behind the scenes, they want to emulate the Big City, and bit by bit to exercise power toward that end. Example: “Let’s build a spouting fountain in the park!” The unusual unwashed masses think that “sounds good.” In the interest of time, I’ll leave out some of the social progression here. But a couple months later you’ve got your precious fountain, then suddenly the town is the Fourth Reich and in deep. They may as well have moved to the Big City when they had the chance and forgotten the middle man!

It's all so typical, I almost regret boring you with the same old run-of-the-mill details. But the Big City is an octopus with its tentacles around the so-called Master’s legs. And the Master and the others are sooner or later, inevitably, dragged down to their demise.

Sex? Harumph!

Part 15 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Any one of us, were we to come near a live wire surging electricity, 100,000 volts, capable of powering a city for a year, would keep a wise distance. I can see myself to be the first to discover such a thing in my path. Then I'm standing there wondering what to do. “Do I run for help and leave it exposed for others to touch? Do I wait for help, someone who could run for help or would stand and watch the wire and warn others away? Do I cover it with a bushel basket and post a sign saying "Danger"? Right there I’d be fearful, maybe it’d spark, the basket would catch fire, the fire would blow into a park (on an autumn day) and next thing the city would be ablaze.

You can see the dilemma. A live wire's nothing to mess with unless the times, the hour, the moment has somehow chosen you. And that’s basically how life happens to me. Everyone else has missed the danger or urgency of any particular moment. You’d think just in terms of statistics that some other poor soul would be the first, but, no, it’s always me. As an example, I was hiking near some tectonic plates one day. I put down a blanket to have a picnic. When suddenly my basket was 10 feet in one direction and my plate 10 feet in the other. An earthquake.

As the meal went on the whole kit and caboodle spread over a small acreage. I’d sat my phone down and now had to run a mile to find it to call the geological survey or whoever. They said, “Thanks for reporting it. We’ve been monitoring it shifting for the last day.” Then the big one happened. Everything went to hell and I was flung back home to the Midwest, unharmed but mentally shaken, even more than usual.

The sprite in the picture is the sprite in all of us, right at the center of everything as it happens. In this case it’s the dawn of sexual understanding, naming it and touching its power. And while I cannot say I was a deep thinker in those days, unlike in the graphic, I was definitely a willing student, a willing learner of the magical forces, the tides rising, the tides falling, the oceanic feelings of [clearing my throat] bliss, my eyes rolled back in my head. The magazines not only promised such a rush but delivered it, until the pages were worn thin and the model’s had all packed up their bags and retired. Leading to bolder, more explicit pictures of hideous detail, open like a garage.

The sprite has it right to puncture the pretensions, the power of those perceived-mystical forces, wisely upon examination reducing it to the mere mechanics of it. Its power with this naming, this reduction, is minimized and now within control, domesticated. "You are nothing more than a phallic symbol. A snake standing for something else. Slither your sorry ass out of here, go haunt someone else. Because now I know -- and I raise my washed hand to swear to it -- There’s Death in Them Thar Drawers. Neutralized, tamed, defanged.

May the same be said for all of us, harumph.

Power-Hungry, Crazy Ambition

Part 13 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I'm sort of a fan of big ambition. But I admire it from afar, since my own ambition -- while it exists in seed-form doesn't always sprout. Because I'm picky; anything I do, I want to be the first. Anything else and It's been done to death. If I can't come up with a fresh take on a thing, why bother? No one likes an imitator. Go big or go home, or just stay home. Maybe eat a big meal, wait a few hours, then go big.

So without big follow-through I'm a guy with just a little drive. I'm no Dr. Frankenstein, for example, who wanted to bring people back from the dead or piece together one guy out of multiple bodies. But his problem was like the guy in the graphic -- the danger of messing around with lightning. Thinking, "No pain, no gain," then proceeding, "If that's how it's done, that's how it's done. Gotta do what you gotta do. Let's get it in one take. If I'm gonna get knocked on my ass, I only wanna do it once..."

In Frankenstein, his book and movie, lightning reanimates a corpse and they basically live happily ever after. Yes, they had a few problems. A little girl was unfortunately frightened, but nothing terrible, about the same as if she turned over a rock and saw a spider.

But in the graphic, it's a different guy -- we're calling him Samson -- with big ambition, who undergoes the pain involved in achieving it. Because grabbing lightning is dangerous; it either kills or heals you. With a big payoff in Power, Force, Strength, and Endurance if you beat the odds.

It would be fascinating to watch Samson do it. With me standing far back in safety. He's got a huge ego, he's too big for his britches and not afraid to show it. He's stomping 'round the ring like a professional wrestler. He's cursing all heavenly powers, lightning bolts are going off everywhere. His grandma rolls up in a motorized wheelchair and shakes her cane at him, telling him to stop. A bolt of lightning strikes his head and he channels it out his arm toward her, blowing her across the arena. It's a mess, but there's no stopping him. Unfettered ambition!

He reaches his hand up and knows this terrible enterprise is the same as stealing fire. He has a grasp on several bolts. But he needs as large a dose as he can get, so he's got the bolts and he's wringing them dry, with prodigious quantities of Power, Force, Strength, and Endurance spilling everywhere. Someone brings in a huge funnel and bucket. But there's no telling what happens if it's all carelessly combined.

What should he do? You mess up, there's no Take 2. Grandma lies dead on the floor, he sees no use in stopping short of complete ambition and fulfillment. "Bring it down!" he commands, with the heavens responding in an enormous eruption. He gets the sense he can do all things. This is uncharted territory. But what happens is, If you have that much force flowing through you -- and all of it being carelessly combined, no isolation -- you are literally blown to smithereens and immediately declared dead, even in the absence of recognizable pieces of a human body.

So Samson's death is a death we can all celebrate. Anyone that bad ass who succeeded would've raised the bar way too high for the rest of us. We don't want a guy like him around. We want to get dates, too. Had he succeeded, he would've been proverbial, and every time anyone said, "Go for it," and you were afraid, they'd compare you in a negative way to him. Now as it is, he's the failure, and those who avoid such stupid ambition are seen as having enough sense to come in out of the rain.

Good riddance, Samson, and the same goes for your idiot grandma! Thought you were better than us, huh?

February -- We Barons Confer

The beginning of February brought with it a meeting of the various barons of society. I was eager to get together, being consumed with the issue of February and its continuance as a month on the calendar. To which I am opposed.

It's always quite an assemblage of power brokers, myself the Baron of Blogging in conference with the Baron of Politics, the Baron of Business (not pictured), the Baron of Industry, the Baron of Banking, and the Baron of the Church. Our overall mission is to keep society on track, nudging here and there where it seems appropriate. The Baron of the Church asked the Baron of Heaven's blessing, then we went into session.

Among the items on the agenda was the February Question, a hobby horse I often ride. Naturally, I came in for some good-natured ribbing, the Baron of Business saying, "What about Groundhog Day? The people need it to brighten their dreary lives, being, as they are, little more than boils on the backside of existence and, worse, knowing it." I pointed out, logically, that groundhogs would still exist without February, and sought the Baron of the Church's acquiescence to that point. He seemed to consider it an inscrutable question.

I was then surprised when each baron spoke against February.

The Baron of Banking said that a short month makes their bookwork more complicated, especially with the occasional Leap Year. "That one damned day every four years makes Y2K seem like a godsend." The Baron of the Church nodded in silent affirmation, and said, "The Lord likes balance and is put-off when it's missing. Plus the Church could use more Sundays in the year, not fewer. But with February, I don't know if there's two or three Sundays at the most. It's something to pray about."

The Baron of Business, always more brusque, took the side of the businessman. "Let the Church fend for itself. It has a Higher Power. We've got the bottom line. For us February cuts both ways. Yes, if we had more days to work with, we'd make more money, a huge plus. But factor in this, that if we don't meet our goals, February is our biggest excuse: 'We ran out of time.' See? We put the goods out and we open the doors, but we're not in charge of time itself!" I pointed out, rightly, that he should work more closely with the Baron of Politics.

The Baron of Politics, seizing my opening, cleared his throat and took the floor. "Baron," he said, addressing Business, "I do have the power over time, as in the principle of Daylight Savings Time. If you're willing to get up a few days earlier, I could make it January again right now, February be damned! We just need to work more closely together. You put your hand in mine." At this point Church shifted uneasily before admonishing, "No sir! Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters!" Politics, knowing he'd overstepped, smoothed troubled waters, saying through clenched teeth, "Point well taken."

The Baron of Industry, a man of action and few words, gave his opinion another way. He took his jacket off and flexed the bicep on his right arm. We watched amazed as a brief tattoo video showed raw materials being delivered to a factory. He shook his arm and the second video showed the factory manufacturing goods, all so harmonious. The final time he shook his arm it showed a fleet of trucks taking goods away for delivery. I interpreted his point for the group: "Destroying February, if that is our goal, is a step by step process." 

Concluding then, as host, I gave the summation: "Gentle Barons -- Banking, Politics, Business, Industry, and Church, as the Baron of Blogging I am a man of letters. In my work, I must know the great rhetoric and logic, the prose and poetry, that have graced mankind's history. For example, of the five of us, none quotes Shakespeare more than I. Who said, "A rose by a totally different moniker would waft out a scent as pure and sweet." Proving one truth, "Yes, February is a month, the other months are months, but it is entirely inferior, yielding a noxious stench. Simply put, it must be destroyed here and now or this conference will have been a failure!"

The meeting went quiet and I was embarrassed. But the merciful Baron of the Church took the gavel from my limp hand and dismissed us to a time of coffee and sharing how our wives are doing. Since I'm unmarried I could only listen with interest and envy.

Eating Steak, The Energy I Get

I strained to keep my eyes open. I was seriously so tired and weak I could've just dropped right there. This is horrible, I told myself, fighting to keep my vigor, alertness, and faculties. All because I was eating a cold salad ... waiting, waiting, wasting precious minutes till my steak would finally be done...

This is my oldest problem, becoming extremely lethargic while eating, unless it's steak. Then I feel the energy of Life Itself race through my being, giving me potency like a new man. I believe it's somehow related to the original energy of the original bull, the father of cattle.

Then at last it came, a big old perfectly cooked Kansas City Strip. I looked at it hungrily, feeling my potency remount as on angel wings, my hand quivering as I reached for the A1 and slathered that beautiful piece of meat with the sauce. The good stuff.

I dug in, tentatively, eating the first bite, and that was good enough by itself to be a prisoner's last meal. Speaking of angels, they rejoiced over the reddish middle. I was able to successfully add a couple of great stanzas to Handel's Messiah that they'll be singing at community sings this Christmas. Though an old man, I felt my oats again like a spry 14-year-old.

I seriously looked at the waitress, and she at me. I felt my cheeks flush, both from the perfect steak and the closeness we shared, and it was a contest to see which of us would ultimately have the willpower to pull away first. Which got much harder the closer we came to totally losing it, inch by inch. I could feel her hot breath, and surely she could feel mine; at that moment, when it was virtually too late, I pulled back and asked for another Coke.

I love a steak like this, although they make me go wild. If you ever want to take advantage of me, steak's the way to do it. Perfectly formed, perfectly cooked, nicely colored, a certain thickness, gnarly looking but still neat, just like the one she gave me.  The appearance alone would've technically been enough for me to lose it. I forget myself fast. Day to day I have terrific willpower, but with steak something triggers in my brain, and I'm in my danger zone. The steak's on the plate, the plate's in her hand, and what a beautiful hand, etc.

It's just the opposite with salad. I'm not a salad guy. A salad's cold and leaves me cold and lethargic. When it comes to salad I want it small, if at all, and the one I had was big. That meant I'd never be able to eat it. Salad's boring. And yet I hate to see anything go to waste, so it about wore me out. She asked me how the salad was and I said, "Boring," which made her perk up. "Good God, what am I dealing with?" I imagined her asking. Is this Undercover Boss? She didn't know if she was in for a scholarship or the chewing out of her life.

After a while, then, it became obvious I wasn't Undercover Boss, because I returned to the steak with my eyes rolled back in my head. I'm only halfway through and about to have kittens. I want it to go on and on. So I'm taking smaller bites and savoring them more and more. With the savoring, it's triggering key enzymes in my brain and my many glands. My full strength returns. My eyes are getting that Valentino look. In my mind's eye, she and I are working on it from opposite ends, with Valentino and Valentinette about to meet in the middle. It's so totally hot.

She's off, though, quickly, helping other customers. I'm only encouraged because she's checking on me multiple times, and the others at my table, who know we're clicking and yet how impossible it'll be for us to get together. She tells me she lives in the country, and I start thinking two things: 1) Country, such a vast term; and, 2) Animals live in the country. Crazy, natural animals going at it half the night, then curled up on a lazy morning by the stream.

I'm looking at the remains of my salad and the weakness returns; I'm about to doze off. I'm wishing I could crash. Forget the meal, let me sleep, perchance to dream and drift into fantasy land. The Coke's a Coke to die for, but I'm dying. And I have access to all the hot buns I might want, but I'm exhausted. Everything's a waste, except for the remainder of the steak, that beautiful steak! My strength returns.

This late in the meal, is it still as good as it was? Yes, the last bit is as good as the first. You'd think the spell would wear off, but I'm loving it. Just to key me up more, I put salt and pepper on the last bit. Then I slice it in thirds and dip it straight in the A1. It's dripping wet, the A1 soon rolling down my chin.

She comes around to get my debit card and sees me looking up at her, the A1 glistening, adding to the sensuous ambiance already in the allure of my burning eyes. With the very last piece of steak, I can easily picture us mouth-clamped to each of its little ends. "I'm working my way back to you, babe, with a burning love inside!" But she suddenly moves back, as if torn. A bus has arrived, she says, and they're bringing in 48 senior citizens, most of whom won't be able to stand in the lobby and wait. Meaning the rest of us have to clear out and let the bastards in.

But oh baby. That was a steak! The steak that brought us ... so very close, that close to losing it.   

Super Brain

I've mentioned a few times over the years that one of my pet names for myself is Super Brain. It's done wonders for my self-image but has been a detriment to my love life ("Super Brain knows you're in it for the free meals.") Be all that as it may, the name's stuck. And for good reason, thanks to my super brain, silly. The following is an account born in my meditations just this morning:

Super Brain is alone with his thoughts. At this moment he's monitoring the various energies as they go deep, seeing how they generally bypass actual information of a practical nature, inventions that might help mankind in some way, and veer off into fantasy realms, often tripping over themselves.

It's something like "Journey to the Center of the Earth," that story. I'll note it's a lot easier to make the descent than it may be, looking ahead, to get back out. I can't depend on a rock basin atop a volcano ready to blow. Super Brain calculates the odds. The rock basin and volcano being there, pretty good. Blowing at that precise second, less so. Survival with the heat and the difficulties of landing once blown free and clear, also not good. If that happens Super Brain calculates nothing but pain, discomfort, and a terrible death.

But we're far from that point. Super Brain continues to descend to the depths of himself. I see channels of light, synapses larger than most people's. I'm seeing these are synapses that don't mess around. For a lot of people, they're always shorting out, barely making a connection, but these are ones that receive from the previous synapse and add motive power before sending it to the next. Meaning -- ye gods! -- when a thought starts to occur it's already huge and powerful, but by the time it's fully considered, it's Everest! The fact that I can simultaneously shrink it down and make it presentable to others, as in this report, is itself a seismic miracle. Of tectonic proportions. Super Brain double backs on himself with amazement.

That's something to consider, although it threatens to put Super Brain into many simultaneous massive loops. Still, "Know thyself / Physician, heal thyself," -- if Super Brain wants to consider its own mighty workings, vis-a-vis the relation he has to himself -- although this is where a monumental conscious split might happen -- there's great danger in telling Super Brain to settle down. I must be careful not to become multiple Super Brains, as that would crowd out others from their rightful place in sharing the thoughts of the world. It would be immoral to swallow up all consciousness. But Super Brain is like the proverbial 5000 pound gorilla, demanding free reign, meaning we have to stand back and clean up the damage later.

Thinking on Super Brain's thoughts on himself -- how majestic the peaks -- how awesome and unsearchable the terrible depths, with all the power it takes to make it work -- a mighty surge overpowering all other insurgents! Super Brain doesn't fight the same war twice. Super Brain is a dynamic thinking entity of no observable limits. Although Super Brain obviously could observe them if he wanted. Super Brain's cranial habitation does not truly hold it. Another obvious miracle. Super Brain thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks on itself and remains healthy, ever strengthening and doubling in thinking might.

Now I'm going to perform an utterly magnificent feat, to cast Super Brain's thoughts on terrain and realms very far from it. My first stop: Out by the Tastee Freeze. What do I behold in that far off locale, at least 60 blocks from here? They're still closed. They've been closed for decades. You'd think someone would buy the run-down property, tear down the old place, and put something else there. A Taco John or something.

Super Brain sees -- wow! -- an investment opportunity. Super Brain actually truly sees the possibilities of entrepreneurship. All it'd take is a quick call to corporate, a plan that Super Brain might work out with lawyers -- himself able to guide the best legal minds in plush offices around the square. But is that really the direction Super Brain wants to go? It'd be good money. At first, though, his energies would be tied up in hiring teenagers to make tacos, and he can see -- thanks to the vast energies making these thoughts simply occur -- that would be so unrewarding.

Super Brain is not tiring, no. But Super Brain's vast energies are making the body tired. Must direct energies to recharge. Meaning, looking to the gigantic nucleus of pulsing light and dark right at the core of Super Brain, and sending forth power. Energy to the toes! Energy to the hands! Energy to the vital organs! Energy to the organs shriveling from lack of use. Super Brain must make the body more attractive to potential mates. (Troll nursing homes to find rich widows. Have to get them when they're new, before they've signed over the house.) Like spinach, Super Brain makes biceps anvils, hands hammers, dinghy tattoo on chest a battleship. Pipe is spinning, strident music playing, theme song. I'm a whirlwind of hitting objects with my fist and having them land in a more ordered arrangement. I'm strong to the finish.

Super Brain semi-drifts into a quiescent state, the body relaxes. Semi-drifts, because Super Brain continues forever his activity, now monitoring all things in a mighty way, crickets in the pantry, birds outside, and the air conditioner popping on again.

Must rouse myself and get on with my day.

Are the Butchers on My Side?

I'm the big man. I exercise a lot of control and throw around a lot of weight. With me, exercise and weight go together. As big man, I oversee this area, saying what goes and even what's true and false. It's from an abundance of grace that I stoop to say this much.

I was recently shaken ... upbraided by someone. My lieutenants told me about him, calling him a pipsqueak, someone who needed to be crushed. Of course, I said, "Crush him!" But the signs weren't good. As soon as I took him on, I felt resistance. The people had gone over...

My grace, it turned out, had to end. Instead, I needed to work the levers of supply and demand, and lack and demand. The big man, to keep his place, has that one last key. Too much grace, the people rise up. Too little, they're listless, drifting.

The latest problem was the greatest problem. I was that close to losing it all. I had given too much. The people were on the pipsqueak's side! "What he says, goes!" was their retort. I found myself in the command room, surrounded by the latest command gear, machetes and night goggles. And yet, seemingly, there was nothing I could do to turn the tide. Every threat was ignored.

Other signs were also bad. The sky was cloudy, it hadn't rained in two weeks, all my darling locusts were dropping dead left and right. Otherwise, I could've sent them on the fields and starved the people into submission. Which, actually, I guess I eventually did, except I did it in such a way as to keep the crops. Thanks to my all-knowing football...

"They're against you, Big Man," my chief lieutenant said. I trust him implicitly. He knows which side of the bread has Blue Bonnet on it. He listed the revolutionaries: The pipsqueak himself, the little old ladies, the little old men, the middleaged, the young, and the children. What about the divisions of labor? The farmers, the delivery men, the manufacturers, the newspapers, the copy desk, filmmakers, artists, educators, nursing home executioners, tadpole importers/frog exporters, morticians specializing in insect burial -- the list went on and on, including my chief listmakers.

So basically it was just me and a few lieutenants, suddenly a lonely reign. "What do you suggest, Lieu?"

"I've read mythology, Big Man, and you could offer yourself a sacrifice. Go sit in a lonely place, and when you feel the people and the pressure closing in, you will the energy that makes up your physical form into your spine. Then as it comes together, much like an atomic blast furnace, you channel it out the head, consuming this whole area, and leaving your form behind, like a charred locust husk."

As good as that sounded, I waved him off. "No, there has to be a better way. Bring me ... my things ..." My things include a football without the lacing. I love the challenge of turning it inside out, then back. It gives me time for intense thinking. So there I sat, hour after hour, internalizing like you wouldn't believe, turning that football over and over in my hands, inside and out, thereby thinking of every option.

Finally, I hit on the key: The Butchers. "Are the butchers on my side?" Short answer, they could be! Butchers are gregarious characters and solidly secure in every way. Only two occupations are like that, TV meteorologists and butchers. And I lost the meteorologists with all the cloudy weather. But not the butchers, surely not them. My meat was still showing up at every meal and was cooked to perfection. They were, however, hunkered down in fear of the people.

Long story short, we brought in the butchers, who liked my plan. We would deny the people meat until they fell back in line! I would get it all! Steaks, chops, fish, chicken, hamburgers. Everything but red slime, which is what they would get. That would hit them where it really hurt, in the gut. Even the vegetarians were upset, since it took away their status as contrarians. Submission was quick and complete.

As for the pipsqueak, he was brought in for chastisement. I punished him the best way I could, not with death or banishment, which would only martyr him, but by kicking him upstairs, making him my chief science officer. Now he is kept busy in the tower, figuring out how nature works and keeping it all to himself. I supply him $500 worth of chemistry sets a year and he's content in his curious vocation.