Again and again, I'm haunted by the injustices I see, feel, and even participate in. Most people are insecure in one way or another and the media doesn't help things. Financed by the rich who want to get richer, they want us to believe the propaganda they tout. Like the "in crowd" when you were in high school, they tell you what to wear, eat, say, live, do and not do. And because you want acceptance, you bow down to their beliefs thinking you're on the trail to becoming a mirror of success.
"Why does the caterpillar and the ant
have to be enemies? One eats leaves,
and the other eats caterpillars. Oh, I
I'm thinking of the words of the song by Carole King, You've Got A Friend:
"They'll hurt you,
and desert you
And take your soul
if you let them
Oh, but don't you
Is this what you want for yourself, your family, your children, and friends? Soulless, selfish, sociopathic, liars, and egomaniacs controlling your thoughts,
via the media? In the Philippines you'd never think an American could ever be poor because the media portrays an America they want non-Americans to believe in. Kanos as they are called here (I live in the Philippines) are thought to be rich, and beautiful 18 year old girls will marry an obese, non-mannered, illy dressed man, two to three times older than them in two seconds hoping to escape the poverty here. I am made to feel like a movie star everywhere I go. Thank God I have a wife who won't prostitute herself for a better life in America. For eight years, I had a wife from the Philippines who said and did everything I wanted, to get to America, and once she got what she wanted, she became a monster. She turned out to be a complete nightmare, a chameleon, who gave me a nervous breakdown not once but twice.
On Filipino television, the actors and actresses in the sit coms and movies are light skinned and live in homes, eat food, and wear clothing far different from that of the masses. Again, the media opiates Filipinos into thinking they
have a good life but need to work harder. A laborer building a house is paid two to three hundred pesos a day ($4 to $6). How hard does one have to work in a country where 5% control most of the wealth, and political corruption is the norm, as if America is any less corrupt. Do the children of wealthy politicians and business people fight in wars, give a damn about the poor, and do their part to better education and medical health in any country, save for a few? Is the high school prom king and queen mentality alive and well, thanks to wealth, plastic surgeons, and financial influence in most countries?
And me, helping everyone but myself and shaping like clay a karma I have trouble controlling, living in Alice's Wonderland, pretending it's the real thing and not something lifted from an old Walter Cronkite newscast or "You Are There" television segment, that's now recorded and packaged as DVDs for old farts like myself who can't accept that we aren't young anymore riding a horse bareback through the center of Richard Nixon's hometown with long hair and no shirt, like an adonis borrowed from an anteater's dream. Everywhere I look, a dream gone bad, a destiny that laughs at me, karma attached to a tight spring that pops out of a cartoon colored box whenever the hell it wants to, and I do the passive aggressive waltz I did as a child living at home when my father's temper took the wrong turn, but did the opposite until after I remarried a second time, a third time, and now a forth time . . . hating blank walls; my plans and dreams caught in a circus mirror, courting me like a blank eyed mound of sugar free tasteless jello, and guess what? I'm beginning to wonder what's what and whether or not I will ever again have the courage to face the dragon without blinking and telling him it's over, I'll do whatever I want to, and if you try to stop me I'll fight you. and this time, win, win, win, and to hell with jack-in-the-boxes and past memories tied tightly around my braining squeezing every last drop of tea from the Mad Hatter's tea cup. But little old me, talking big, dreaming as usual, at the keyboard, my sanctuary, my opiate, stillness in the womb, staring at blank walls that say nothing, while the clay I manipulate takes a shape and life of its own . . . the media, cultural memories, home teaching, experiences, education, the effects of drugs I started taking in the Navy as a bad as nothing, a dash of this and that, an old man pretending he's something he's not or maybe he still is, but won't leave the White Rabbit's warren, caught up in an hallucination that has me by the tail and refuses to let me go. GO TO HELL, DRAGON! Go to fucking hell!
Welcome to the Wonderland Amusement Park, ladies, gentlemen, or whoever the hell you call yourselves these days. Nothing here's what it seems to be, including your mind if you will accept the fact, a canvas without numbers. And I'm not a prom king telling you what to do or receiving a fat check from the media to opiate your mind to make them richer: The truth, folks, the truth; whatever it is today when Dali gets out his brush and does his thing on the canvas you and I call our souls.