A Logical Response to Despair

I've finally faced up to it. Political blogging is a wank. Hell, activism in general is sheer unadulterated wankery. I’ve blogged. I’ve called and written Congress, repeatedly, not only my “own representatives,” but most of them, including the morally bankrupt-jellyfish Nancy Pelosi, war-mongering Hillary Clinton, and habeus corpus-hatin' Gordon Smith. I protested the Iraq war, before it began, in Hyde Park in February, 2003, with a million-plus pissed off Brits. I protested in the states, multiple times. I’ve functioned as videographer and Legal Observer at protests on federal land and was meticulously filmed, from three feet away, by our “justice” department, you know, the one that can imprison you for no reason whatsoever and torture you to death without telling a soul, not even your mother (read the article; the WaPo headline is quite misleading)--

Needless to add, I filmed the DOJ guy filming me.

Not a fucking thing has changed. The occupations and torture and new wars and fixed elections and propaganda media and gutting of the middle class and the inexorable economic extermination of the lower classes continues at increasingly breakneck speed.

Trust me kids, though I’ve passed the Bar Exam in three states and drafted amici briefs to the U.S. Supreme Court, and billed thousands of hours at one to three hundred dollars for each--I’ve worked alongside ex-cons in ditches, legal and illegal aliens in the vineyards, and plain ol’ poor folk framing houses on a non-union job. I’ve seen it up close. The nonrich, that is, both the poor and the middle class, have been purposefully dealt a brutal series of blows in recent years.

They’re trying to kill us off, using some sort of Darwinian-eugenic phantasmagoria of twisted logic. The uber-wealthy have decided that the 7 -soon-to-be- 9 billion humans on the planet are simply too many, and the gears are being placed to grind that down to 2 billion or so, and probably by the end of the century. 

Abbie Hoffmann, before his final overdose, wrote simply: "It's too late. We can't win, they've gotten too powerful." But I was 26 when he committed suicide, kicking ass in law school and preparing to Dominate my Profession like some kool-aid drinking freak-yuppie protégé of the bond-trader/masters of the universe from The Bonfire of the Vanities. I thought Abbie was just ill, misguided and tired. But now I’m forced to consider that maybe the old Yippie was right at the end. Or even, all along.

Heh. Aren’t I just a little bundle of dew-washed joy? I could be wrong about the lot of this, of course, but that’s my call after taking a good look around these last few years.

So the burning question should be obvious:

How long before the hammer really comes down?

Time to live for the moment, folks. You can fight, you can flee, or you can continue to do fuck-all until the cuffs cinch ‘round your wrists and the noose about your neck. Time to wax orgiastic or at least philosophic on the meaning of life and celebrate, hard, in these last moments before Death, capital “D” Death, the Death of what makes us human. Time to Get It On, in every sense of the word, with the Man, with each other, and absolutely with the Lunatics in the Asylum. Time to reconnect with that vital essence that is everywhere at once, time and distance irrelevant, constant, alive, and reassuring. Time to heed my mystic, who threw two tarot arrangements, both of which indicated The Tower as the primary card.

The Tower, yeah. At the time, I had no idea what she was really getting at, but I was distracted. She sat on her bedroom floor and lay cards from the Aleister Crowley deck in a Celtic Cross between her spread bare legs, translucent lycra Danskin still damp from 90 minutes of hot yoga, glancing up as she turned each card, almost gasping when she ended a second time with what she called “the motherfucker of all cards”, The Tower. She lay back on a pillow, lips pouting over a fat spliff. She told me I had a Dresden-sized conflagration of change in my immediate future. She fired up, held the smoke, and extended it to me. "I sprinkled a bit of opium in this" she said, exhaling. "I hope you don't mind."

She was trying to seduce me, of course. And it was about bloody time.

That encounter aside, I don’t buy into mysticism, specifically. But I do believe some people have access, and tarot opens the window for some of them. This chick was plugged in. Somehow, her words rang true.

What the fuck am I babbling about? I’m not sure, exactly. But I am certain I seek a conflagration, one of apocalyptic proportion. Time to Burn It Up. Time to Burn It Down.

And from the ashes the Phoenix arises, or some such shit, right?

Perhaps I've made it too obvious where I'm headed with this. More, soon.