destination politics

i feel sorry for anyone who says you are going to hell or heaven awaits us. Where is this far distant place? to locate oneself at some point in the future? I call this destination politics, and I copyright it NOW. I live here, now. My world I create as I go along. So does anybody. Go back and look at your life. The choices you had. Anywhere on the timeline. You will see you created your life as it stands. You will see how you could not predict your own future. Except in terms of your attitude toward life. I predict my future, in terms of my effort. And my effort exists only right now, as I type.

Attempted novelist.

Attempted social worker.

Attempted empath.

Attempted poet.

Heaven or hell? These culturally impoverished symbols stand out to me, moment to moment. Am i in pain? To what extent? Do I feel good about myself. How so? What I am finding is it all correlates to my efforts. My efforts to be sincere, and think outside of my self. My efforts to exercise and share my talents, without fear of reprisal, without demanding any return on my investment of time and energy. Having faith that all will be provided me. When I live there, I guess you could call this heaven. The way I see it, this is never a place to go, this is a place to be

When I am so self-consumed or in fear or inaction, living in patterned recollections of situations which did not go my way, living in expectation of what’s to come, playing destination politics with other people and myself… when I demand and control my way around the place… This is some hell. 

And religion has nothing to do with it. 

And religion has nothing to do with it.

And religion has nothing to do with it. Image

 

 

 

residue of the insecure

Some hoped to conveniently write off all the past, of wrongdoings. Forgiving themselves. Writing checks off their taxes. They tried to whiteout the black, with new grinds and new axes. Well, someone would remember, for history’s sake. How they tried and tried, to discourage our creations.  To overshadow our humble beginnings. To damage our reputations. Out of fear for the same. Discouraged, the more they saw us encouraged. Shrinking back, as they watched us rise. Terrified of being left in the dust.

Insecurity is a motherfucker. 

We tried to include them and smile and be friends. But they had lost sight of the journey and got trapped at the end of the line they had drawn for themselves and surpassed. Their demise was a prophesy, self-fulfilled, coming fast.  Their self-perpetuating machinery, would never take flight. Unless picked up by bouncer, and tossed out in the night.

Postmortem

Sanity went on vacation. Everyone could enjoy a fine primal scream. Finally! Windows were jacked open at any hour for the purpose. It was awesome. Really awesome. Like painstaking creations tagged harmlessly on brick walls, by parking lots and railroad tracks. Adding some light where there was none. For passer-bys to enjoy… meanwhile, at 4:20pm, greenwich mean time, all the breast pockets of all the starched shirts in the financial centers of all the cities of all the world, simultaneously blossomed black-and-blue inkstains.