The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 2

by Mimimus 7 / M7

grackle,

“I offer nothing but confusion.”–throwing muses

“Spank me!”–kafka

time after time we face a certain esprit d’etat when it comes to our illustrious holidays.  this state of being includes generous quantities of mysticism and cynicism and schism.  never forget that the surface is all there is to it.

“This world never gave me a chance, so I have become a chancre on this sorry world’s wilted penis.”–sartre

Today is the big holiday celebration at Goddard.  We call it a winter party or something equally innocuous so as not to offend anyone (most especially The Witness, who thinks we’re all pagans (I’m proud to be one)).  I hope I don’t get a double enema.  I gave out little bottles of lotion as gifts.  We were at Wal-Mart last night and at least 6 different types of massager (vibrator) were displayed prominently throughout the store as gift ideas.  By our check out line was a display of wet/dry massagers.  Fun in the tub, ladies!  Merry

Orgasmas!

“Winter Wonderland” is playing in our office.  I insert my own lyrics, of course.

mickey.

petard,

lark.

 

ex,

A and I were talking at lunch today about how T just doesn’t seem happy anymore.  I also asserted that Anne’s attempts to get attention simply drive her male friends farther away from her. We all emotionally screwed up joe. Wracked with guilt maybe joe? Lonely and afraid to admit joe? Merry Christmas joe? Dark cloud of dispair hang over group head joe? Maybe not happy till spring joe.

M+T situation explode soon joe.

None of us seem to have any major diseases.

We all have nice places to live.

We all have cars which are capable of taking us all over the Americas.

We are all well insured.

None of us have spouses that regularly send us to the ER.

None of us is likely to watch a child starve in front of us.

We can all read rather well.

We all have access to the miracles of technology.

We rarely seem to work more than forty hours per week.

I guess humans will just create anything to be unhappy about.  What a bunch of whining ingrates we seem to be.

More vapid entertainment so you can create new things to be un-happy about!

One of the main tenets of Western Zen practice is that one should assiduously eliminate all drama from one’s life.

I never wanted to live a thirtysomething episode.

nihlism is better than nothing, i guess,

pro.

 

frankensponge,

Today at work we had the mr. sun coloring contest.  Mine is best, of course, even though I did not draw the bunny of death on the surface of the sun.  No Enterprise neither.

My phrase for the day:  Maximally insignificant.

me cold yesterday, bundle up too much today, get hot

Another good phrase:  Miraculously unworthy.

For sol’s sake, e-mail or call A about your new car!  She wonders aloud every day why you haven’t let us know anything yet. We got our new car stereo yesterday.  It seems like a good deal. Nice sound, good price, etc.

We had our mr. sun coloring contest “to encourage the sun to come out.”  This is the basis for all religion.  All else is elaboration atop this concept.

Just think, so many people get unhappy or dead because of this silliness. If we had our coloring contest 3 or 4 times this year and the sun really did come out every time, a mythology would arise–the power of superstition would appear.  If some bastard came along and led the masses of us at just the right time…..that’s how it all begins.

Later, when the coloring contest failed to work, it would be because “mr. sun is angry.” Those who color best and seem to consistantly bring the sun (though they are probably just good weather forecasters, sitting down to color just before the fog clears) would form the priesthood.

Those who refused to color would be the heretics.  All of the true believers would bitch and moan that if only everyone would color mr. sun like the SUNBOOK says, the world would be just fine and mr. fog would be vanquished once and for all, sundammit! put it in your sung,

count buttula.

 

fir,

This morning I rolled out of bed and said “buh” with such force that car alarms were set off four miles away.

“I will let you down”–sugar ray, from LE JOUVENCEL–the exploits of Jean de Bueil, comrade of Joan d’Arc:

“Those who are not noble by descent are noble by the profession of arms they follow, which is noble in itself.  I tell you that as soon as a man-at-arms has a helmet on his head, he is noble, noble enough to fight a king.  Arms ennoble a man, whoever he may be.”

This was all before guns, of course.

Are guns ennobling?

Is ANY weapon ennobling?

If so, then nobility is quite cheap nowadays.

In de Bueil’s time, a broadsword and helmet would cost the equivalent of $12,000 in today’s currency.  So, Billy Bob de Chacon wasn’t going to le Wal Mart and buying a weapon for the equivalent of a week’s pay, as he does today.

Broadswords don’t kill people, people kill people.

At least in that time, it wasn’t so easy.  First, you had to catch them, then you had to hack them down.  So maybe it was a bit ennobling.  Probably, to kill somebody with a broadsword you had to be relatively sober, unlike today where guns and booze/drugs are a very deadly combination.

When I was 12, I had loaded weapons pointed at me twice.  I was lucky to survive.  I didn’t see the wielder as noble. Peasant in shit fields looks up just in time to see member of the King’s Constabulary run his wife through with a hand and a half sword.  Peasant’s last thought as sword turns on him:  “How noble he is!”

I guess the perception on nobility has everything to do with which side of the blade you are facing.

imipramine,

hollyhock.

 

rim,

File along the facade of the beach.  Propagate facile misunderstandings and hurtful dalliances.  Push it all down in some sort of horrid backhanded fashion.

Quickly now!  Bring this drama to its crashing end!

The accusations, the tears, the dust of the future swept outside.

Of course, it couldn’t end with a bang.  It only gets fretfully whittled away by whimper after whimper after whimper.  A house divided by whimpers and by grunts of stolen ecstasy cannot stand.

Another shard of hell on earth–when lovers decide to destroy each other.

Adultress and Cuckold sittin’ in a tree, H-I-S-S-I-N-G.

As I’ve said before, I never wanted to live an episode of thirtysomething….nor do I want to watch anyone else live that episode.

sadbuttrue,

lip.

 

mimetic,

almost maroon, really….

Some days, I feel as if I might pass out from the sheer exuberance of our (b)anal celebrations, little celebrations each day poking up through the mesh our higher dream downtrodden, forbidden, taboo out of the mud, came a great shout it became louder as mire was cleared from the shouter’s mouth a sputter… then, clearly “Pick me up!”

I eagerly waded into the filth to rescue my forgotten hero.  Across the slog I flew. Soon, I came upon that familiar face his mailman’s uniform was barely recognizable under the mud but, yes, it was Charlie, my imaginary friend, who I had not seen for 25 years

“Get me outta here!” he cried.

I pulled his hollow body out of the sucking filth; he was lighter than ever…. I threw him over my shoulder and worked my way to the nearest dry patch

I murmured “my treasure” as I hosed him off. Soon, he was sparkling–as mud clings only loosely to imagination.

“Let’s get to work, kid!” he said as he donned his postman’s hat.

The above was Canto #53 from Miminus Seven’s masterwork,

"I want it, I want it, I want it, I want it (you can't have it)"
“I want it, I want it, I want it, I want it (you can’t have it)”

SHARDS OF HELL.

In M7’s poem, Charlie the imaginary friend simultaneously represents the inner child and the superego.  M7 finds both concepts to be savage and deplorable. How can one person have all of these complexes or personalities within them?  It smacks of demonic posession!  M7 lumps Freud and

Jung in with the “witch doctors” of Sierra Leone.  Both groups, psychoanalysts and witch doctors, have their useless talismans.

One gets the feeling that by rescuing the imaginary friend from the muck, one has actually disinterred Satan. SHARDS OF HELL has stylistic similarities to Tom Waits’ brilliant BONE MACHINE, which could easily be entitled SHARDS OF HELL itself.

Vignettes from BONE MACHINE include a man who everybody fears, a man who attempts suicide, the murderous cover-ups of a rural town, a parolee who drives out west to star in movies, a drunk who proclaims, “Jesus gonna be here soon”, a man who swears he’ll leave his hometown but he never does, and an affair with a wanton woman.

Thus, every track is about someone’s personal hell.

Satan…..as if.

Knowledge is a pitfall, bring your grappling hook.

hell, hell, i hate that smell, everyone there has something to sell

hell, hell, downward i fell, forevermore i have this story to tell

hell, hell, i can hear the bell…as i fall farther i begin to yell

Even the tiniest speck of dust can make a big man sneeze.

Someday, my words will get out into the world and trash the whole immune system.  When anyone asks “What is your writing style?”  I will say, “RETROVIRUS!”

Burn!

“Satan always likes to have some turds laying around.”–bahthed

eidos.

 

stabber,

the naked butt of doctor 13 is broken     it has a crack in it

I would like to get a business license from the plutocratical bureaucracy and open a shoppe which is designed from the beginning to fail.  The store would be called  UNFILTERED MONKEY EXCREMENT and I would practice truth in advertising.

New grocery store product sticker:  NOW ASBESTOS FREE!! I also want to get stickers which say FAT FREE and put them exclusively on non-food items like bug spray and diapers.

“The contemporary economy must be stopped.  We must push this anti-christ into space before it devours every decent one of us.” -Trillian Drood, address to Rotarian Club of Overland Park, Kansas.

“Every product or service that is the result of your influence is a petal in the great sunflower of our eventual destruction.  Death, as it were, is created by each one of us, every day, by our busy little monkey hands and our busy little monkey minds.” -Trillian Drood,  ON THE CUSP OF DERANGEMENT, pg 842.

“The problem, you see, boils down to money.  Until you recognize that, you are all a bunch of fucking idiots.” -Trillian Drood, Letter to UN Security Council.

“I know of no scholar of religion that has made this point before, but have you ever considered that every major religious movement since the time of Rama has insisted that the adept remove himself or herself from the clutches of the local economy?  Buddhist monks still travel with no possessions nor pockets in which to store possessions. The Hindu devotee feels compelled to burn herself upon a pyre if she comes into physical contact with money.  When you hear the word “monk” does wealth come to mind?  The early Christians were encouraged to give all of their possessions to the poor.  They wanted to travel as lightly as possible so that their ascent would be all the more rapid.  Now, two thousand years later, money IS God.  We are all inexorably tied to the production of wealth and we are all committed to dragging the few innocents who are left down with us.” -Trillian Drood, PAINFUL SYMMETRY:  THE AGONY OF WEALTH, pg. 1207.

“In my previous work, I had decried the human qualities of greed, fear, and insecurity as they relate to our modern world economy.  I have blamed us for every heresy from the destruction of the rainforests to the inescapable ennui of modern urban existence.

These evils still exist, but I have now reformed my thinking.  The problem is not within humanity itself, but in the evil reality of money.  I have stumbled upon a truth that is so pervasive as to be transparent as air.  THE TRUTH:  Money itself is the evil and we are but its servants.  Humanity is but the vector for money/wealth/economy which is a SPECIES UNTO ITSELF.  Money is as alive as you or me.  Money is evil.  We are but its all-too-grateful pawns.  We have been duped and it is high time we rise up and slay the dragon.”–Trillian Drood, THE ELIMINATRIX, from the introduction.

“Junk meets trash in a chemical kiss, TV poison tastes like this.” -Jesus and Mary Chain.

nipper.

 

debris,

“He worships god with acid.”–dad can dance {“Dead” Can Dance}

Many questions come to mind recently.

Can a technology or an idea be inherently evil?

        examples:  guns, communism, computers, TV

Are we being systematically numbed and dumbed by the extant media?

Are symbol and reality equivalent?

Are idea and execution equivalent?

What is the relevance of art?

Does the term “reality” have any inherent dialogical value?

Is anything not subjective?

Do the answers to questions matter more than the honest process of developing answers?

Is life bad for us? in the best tradition of a grandiose corpse,

rubble.

 

blither,

There is no cause for a snit.

We were forewarned, but we simply don’t remember it once we are born.

Lately my life has been one depressing theater of mucous transport.

I’m thick…I mean sick.

“I wanna die just like JFK.  I wanna die on a sunny day.” -jesus/mary/chain

My coworker has been playing her radio lately.  I don’t know what station she plays, but that Bette Midler “Hero” song is on about once every two hours.  They have lots and lots of Chicago as well.  suck.

If only the drunk old hermit by the lake would remain a hermit, then everything would be OK.

It was a store much like any other.  Fritz was constantly glazing his donut in the back room.  The dinging often interrupted him.

Lately…many visions of pulling pins and casually tossing grenades through open car windows.

Shrapnel only hurts if you are convinced of your own concreteness.

spyook!

grimble.

 

glom,

Ingrates, one and all.  They tussle with the gristle.  While they chew away, they have their eyes closed so that they don’t get grease in the eye.  Because their eyes are closed, they are blind and stupid.  Because they have gristle clasped in their teeth, their words come out twisted and unintelligible.

They try me.

Never pontificate for real, OK?  It should always just be a big joke.

You know about photography, but I never hear you go on and on about it.  For the amateurish or the dilettante, they live to talk about a bunch of stuff that they have never REALLY experienced.  But, a guy like you, who has done it, who KNOWS the perfect shutter speed for shooting horrible accidents on an overcast January morning…you have done it, no need to ramble on.  As Lao Tsu  states again and again in Tao Te Ching, those who can’t DO, speak about it and those who DO keep their fucking mouths shut.

Chattering away like a squirrel monkey,

accrete.

 

amazulu,

“Ashes to ashes, funk to funky, Vyv is now a video head and Neil’s wearing a dress because some really serious negative vibe merchant boarded up his bedroom.  Only pop music can save them now.” –The Young Ones

My, my, but every single episode of The Young Ones was totally brilliant.  Even just reading the scripts on the internet is a riot. I am constantly at war with non-team players.  Fuck them.  From an evolutionary standpoint, the non-team player gets run down by the pack of wolves.  The alpha male gets to do the non-team player up the ass as the alpha female rips the ntp’s throat out.

Wolves are just like that sometimes.

More bad music all day.  Much Kenny G.  Much Chicago.  Much Air Supply.  Every single fucking song off of Dirty Dancing.  Every day, the same 40 or 50 songs.  How can my cute little co-worker be so shallow?  Perhaps it’s time for Loudass Martin’s Memorial Nine Inch Nails Marathon Blow-Out.  My god, the music on this station is horrible.  How can such bad art propagate?  Shouldn’t the weak fall by the wayside?

The bad thing about money is that it allows the shallow and the weak to influence the course of evolution.  Wealth does not equal fitness!

I’ve been in a kick-ass mood lately.  I’ve just been hoping for some buttwipe to mouth off to me.  I want to throw consequences to the wind and cause some damage.

Many people think that the martial arts-especially aikido-foster a peaceful attitude.  It is true that good training will actually reduce the aggressiveness of most people.  This is simply because we recognize that the taunts of nebbishes are small kimchi and small kimchi is not worth sweating over (unless it has been buried in the back yard for too long).

But, few of us are pacifists.  I can’t imagine many of the high- ranking practitioners I know backing down from a fight.  They don’t pick fights, but when pushed, they will wreck the buttwipe and his ugly dog, too.

The REAL deal is that we learn to ethically maim and slaughter and then return to a semblance of normal life without any PTSD or Vietnam Vet syndrome, etc.

Did I tell you that my Dad got a DUI after pulling onto hwy. 99 even though another person’s vehicle was occupying the space he was trying to pull in to?  He might be jailed for a while.  What a hack.  Just like that fucking Möbius.

When I bitch and moan about drunks and alcoholism and driving, etc., if someone complains that I don’t understand, or that I should be more compassionate,…..well….fuck them too.

umpteen and broomshankar, comrade,

the damned.

 

prynne,

Are our cycles not maddening?  Should our struggle be to escape these cycles, or to decorate them and shore them up as one would an old house? Is the function of art to pry us loose from the everydayness or to wallpaper over the rougher spots in our old drafty house?

Will people still buy blank paper journals 50 years from now? I think that much of art in the last few decades has been focused on prying humans loose from the everydayness….of expanding boundaries, etc.  Unfortunately, much of this has devolved into whining a la Andy Worhol, Robert Smith, Anne Rice, Trent Reznor.

I believe that we need to stop trying to find ourselves!  Here we are!  It doesn’t take decades to figure this out.  I am tired of art–pop or otherwise–which is nothing but a snapshot of the inside of the artist’s mind.  Of course I realize that it can be no other way.

All art must be subjective…the artist can only produce from his or her OWN viewpoint.

But, art has devolved to the point where the artist puts inner thoughts and feelings into the medium and then DARES the audience or the consumer to try and figure it out.  It seems that the modern artist is the equivalent of the teenager who sits sobbing in her room, crying “You just don’t understand me!”

Perhaps there are many who are expressive about a larger section of humanity or of the universe but these artists are simply not popular–not seen, not heard, not considered, dying unknown, only to be discovered a century later and declared a clarion call of the new order which will also eventually become twisted, stale, and annoying.

In modern architecture, edifices are built to be appreciated while driving on the freeway at 70 mph.  Of course, on a human scale, close up, these buildings are supremely ugly.  I contend that almost everything else in our society is built to be enjoyed in the car or from the car at 70 mph.

2 things:

“Specialization is for insects.”–Robert Heinlein (sp?)

I just read in the book you bought me about a gas station in Iowa that has a tiny corn patch between the gas pumps.  They grow corn there every year, on a space the size of an ironing board.  People come from miles around to see it.  A grillion acres of corn all around and people are attracted to this *representation* of an Iowa corn field in an odd location.  This is certainly high art.

I think that we have seriously underestimated the importance of lifeSTYLE.

“The more the technique of painting improves, the weaker our eyes get.  The instrument damages the organs.”–Kafka, by janouch

huey.

 

spung,

            PERMANENT LUNCH

Found in a bog down by my new home

    a source

It may be slimy, but I think

    that the micronutrients make

    all of the

    retching worthwhile

Best of all,

    it’s Cruelty Free!

(Except for the consumer

who is treated

rather cruelly indeed)

#########**************)))))))))(((((((((((@@@@@@@@@@###########

“It wasn’t designed to cut human flesh.”–a thought I had about 10 minutes ago as I gazed at an X-acto knife in that art supply shop next to Misal of India.

Perhaps if we typed up all the junk that spews out of our heads and hands, photocopied it, and sent it to random addresses around the world, a greater good would be served.

The world is my scapegoat.  I shall not flaunt.

The problem is that most people want money for what they produce.

Whatever happened to creating for the greater glory of god\s?

A grand exposition of what the power of the ego is woefully incapable of accomplishing.  (my current definition of modern culture)

Grand ideas are rarely fueled by full stomachs.  This is why the most powerful and relevant work arises from the second and third world, or the backwaters and ghettos of the industrialized West.  Also, the immigrant/outsider living within the belly of a country like the US can do great things because he or she is hungry and at a skewed angle from the flow of the herd.

K. didn’t “belong” in Praha.

N. didn’t “belong” in Switzerland.

Adams didn’t “belong” in New Mexico.

Conrad didn’t “belong” in Africa or W. Europe.

London didn’t “belong” in Alaska.

Hemingway didn’t “belong” in Spain.

Burroughs didn’t “belong” in New York or Tangiers or….Interzone.

Jews will often become great because they don’t “belong” more often than any other people.

I have often found it strange that, as a whole, Vietnam vets didn’t fare better as artists, poets, philosophers, prognosticators, priests.  Perhaps we concentrated too much on the Americanization of Vietnam and too little on the Vietnamization of GI JOE.  Of course, the average vet probably saw no reason to learn a damn thing from the natives.  One would think that a significant number of them would have integrated some portion of the experience into a creative venue. But, they have been encouraged so much to forget.

A sparkle of faith. If one thinks that one’s output if bad because nobody seems to like it, then it is time to withdraw. If one does not care who likes, who hates it is time to forge ahead.

apply pressure,

glint.

 

nuthatch,

…on the other hand, those arts which are indigenous or home grown are often considered as well.  Even though the “rooted” artist may not have travelled to exotic lands, this does not mean that the artist in his or her own gravity well is not a wanderer.  When we move beyond the level of clan culture (where everyone is an artist) to civilization (where artists are separated), we find that the artist undertakes certain vices or disciplines to enact a separation between the artist and the society at large.

Thus, we have the birth of subculture.  Artistic subculture feeds upon the energy, the funds, and the leftovers of the culture at large.  In the 19th and 20th centuries, artistic subcultures are aligned against, yet dependant upon, the bourgeoisie.

In the more “primitive” culture, the artist will undergo certain disciplines or rites which will allow him or her to enter the artistic mindset.  In the more “advanced” culture, within the bosom of modern civilization, the artist will undergo sexual practices and patterns of drug and alcohol use which will forever separate him or her from society at large.  All of this can be done without ever leaving home.

HA!

In fact, everything that we undertake is for the purpose of furthering our illusions.

So why DO anything?

I suppose that illusion is just our birthright.

Well, it’s Jesus Awareness Week, and boy are my arms tired!

it’s a free concert now

Perhaps TV is the equivalent of dropping one’s trousers, bending over at the waist, and spreading one’s cheeks apart.

herbert,

warbler.

 

nleek,

frottage:  rubbing up against somebody (usually in a crowd) as a means of obtaining sexual pleasure.  A person displaying this sexual deviation is called a frotteur. proctalgia:  pain in the rectum or anus.  In proctalgia fugax severe pain suddenly affects the rectum and may last for minutes or hours; attacks may be days or months apart.  There is no structural disease and the pain is probably due to muscle spasm.  Relief is sometimes obtained from a bowel movement, inserting a finger into the rectum, or from a hot bath. logorrhea:  a rapid flow of voluble speech, often with incoherence, such as encountered in mania.

so much can go wrong,

phlenn.

 

flatucles,

A brand new DAWN….another spin on the axis.

Frozen Hippie Man slowly eases out of his Microbus.

I am infatuated by F.H.M. now.  I can’t stop thinking about him, picturing him, piercing the density of hash-addled consciousness, fingering his hemp sandals, tuning his guitar, combing his beard…..

Frozen Hippie Man has created a very tasty cannabis granola for breakfast.

Frozen Hippie Man owns a bong made from the hollowed-out skull of an 18th century Tibetan Lama.

Frozen Hippie Man owns an original script of THE TRIP signed by Peter Fonda.

Frozen Hippie Man calls everyone “man” whether they are male or female, human or not.

Frozen Hippie Man spent the Reagan years in Copenhagen.

“Jimi Hendrix pissed on that.”–Neil, The Young Ones

pootius rex.

 

pletsch,

Frozen Hippie Man wasn’t at Woodstock, but he thinks he was.

Frozen Hippie Man was in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic Convention.  He doesn’t remember being clubbed in the head by a mounted policeman, but he does remember the exact taste and smell of the weed he scored off of a Black Panther trying to raise enough bread for bus fare back to Pittsburgh, MAN.

Frozen Hippie Man was a roadie for BTO.

When Frozen Hippie Man was a film student at Cal Berkeley, he did a paper on the differences in perception between watching THE BICYCLE THIEF while stoned on hash versus watching it while tripping on LSD.

Frozen Hippie Man tried cocaine, once.  He found it “way too, like, un-mellow, man.”

Frozen Hippie Man is this nation’s most important repository of cannabis brownie recipes.

Frozen Hippie Man remembers every detail of each of the 8,497 places he has ever stashed his weed.

Frozen Hippie Man is a lactose-intolerant vegetarian.

Frozen Hippie Man has gotten his ass kicked many times in his life, but he makes up for it by screwing a lot of skanks who would do nearly anything for a joint.

Frozen Hippie Man never wears a condom.

In a certain light, Frozen Hippie Man bears a striking resemblance to Jesus Christ.

Frozen Hippie Man was the lighting director for the 1977 production of HAIR staged in Bozeman, Montana.

—-You know, this is getting depressing.  I’m making up this character who is a complete loser but he’s had a more interesting life than I have!

schtupp.

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