Chapter 4:
What we see…Infinity.

We all try to hypothesize it.
If the minds of geniuses have gone mad as they looked into the face of god , then what hope does the common man have as they seek the meaning of life and/or purpose of belonging?  Is it the mind of a genius that becomes a double edged sword slicing the rest of us wide open while it defines the thin line of knowing and insanity?

Will my social obsessions wreck my mind in the end? Will the jeep just run
out of gas?

Profound insights into life are at times transcendent, especially during driving moments of intoxication— The search for truth is quintessentially defined as moments of realizing clarity or certainty.  We all sit on this precipice of dangerous knowledge… great ideas that wield sharp teeth bite hard and leave septic saliva in a wound which infectiously manifests as irresolvable uncertainty.

The Proof Never Comes.

What is the word that explains wanting to understand your understanding of x, y, z?  Beyond Anomie, what word exists to describe losing your sense of context while systematically being enveloped by the contextual life that makes one who they are?  The only word that comes to mind is faith.  And well, fuck that notion.

We seek meaning; glory in truth.  But in reality (it seems) more and more the majority look to faith.  Not because they fear insanity as they look into the face of god but because people exist as a mere probability, not certainty.  You see, Probability undermines any clear unwavering notion of certainty.

I’m tired of speaking in sentences that end in negative probability.
Let’s talk change.



Happiness: The definition of happiness and its pursuit was ever-so gently framed in the constitution to let us know how precarious and fleeting it will perpetually be.  Happiness generally keeps me preoccupied and cheats me out of any free time to myself- like a child split between two homes.The word itself is juvenile-personified; continually changing and growing up.  Continually running away from its birth.

So I’m smart? Intellectual Admission on my part only constitutes a raw insult to those who are, to the nth degree genuinely deserving of such a title.
Intellectual musings have been  Making History more relevant to those who deny the forgotten. It  seems that logic gradually prevails over childhood’s emotional rearing-Ad Homonym. Was Mark Twain reveled in his time?-Shakespeare?- Poe?- Hitchens?…tbd. Colbert?…
Public intellectualism has only served  to entertain en masse at the expense of mind. All the while, we gather round the fool suffering from 10th grade chemical emotion. It’s unfortunate or tragic that at such uncertain, yet defining moments in life, are experienced with such remarkable clarity.—Then: as we mature, figure the meaning of varied purpose driven truths- logic is abraded  by the salty confidence from the likes of assholes like myself.
What’ll if all We witness is constant change.Social Entropy sir. “We’re in a play of slow decay orchestrated by Boltzmann”The shortcomings of others in life is too often blamed on the personal failing to adapt and change. Disappointment; lack of maturity is to blame. When you have matured past social expectations…to the point of being allowed to freely use the word nigger. Its expected of you to change the age of your heart.
I’ve watched so many people change. The amount of field notes I’ve taken has exhausted my will to change.  I want people to stay the same..Remember to learn to forget. All the success guaranteed to me at birth; once its realized, will lose the VERY ESSENTIAL notion of fantasy.  Existential Buyers remorse.  
All of ‘this’ -all these emotional stunts will still be waiting for me. All the money and popular demand in the entire world won’t ever change a chemical imbalance or depressive realism, nor the compounding  loss of control  in your life.  
The Intellectual quasars on the social periphery are forever expanding in pursuit if happiness.  
All the lies and transparencies aren’t withheld by the truthful pretenders, out of some kind of infinite spite.  It might very well be the only altruistic notion guarded by laughter and absurdity of knowing there is nothing to be afraid of anymore. –what ails you is what impales you—

My spoken word schtick:Amphetamines and opiates: an idiot guided by dopamine. I can’t explain the world until I understood existence and again existence isn’t understood until procreation. Procreation can be understood with out sex. And what is sex without exploration. Exploration leads to travel;travel leads to discovery of many new accents accenting the only real difference between people across the world.  Travel is only glamorous in retrospect and retrospect only digs up the past. Of Which no one can agree upon. is it dead? is it repeated death or Perhaps i should just tell you how My life began.
If you dare to search any person  deep enough or just past their vail; you might discover the ‘impersonification’ of what it takes to abort the hardened morally, driven connection of innocence that we have been protecting for so long.  A one of a kind soiled view of our common souls skirting the social bottom line via altruistic pretension.  Or rather;  what it takes to skirt the emotional, moral and/or intellectual core of  the “tell tale” glimpse of  our desperate need to share a common sense to identify. There is the most masterfully  crafted sentiment, in that there is a perceived proportional division of Struggle and outrageous fortune that we all take part in.  success became our common identities because of how good it sounds with everyone banging the drum.
The  line starts around the social networked virtual corner.  in order to continue to prove to everyone that was absentabsent tether of belonging to a group of like minded people wanting to belong.  It’s indoctrinated across cultural party lines.
It is such a sick notion that it has become self-fulfilled prophecy…
I mean fuck, right?  Sociologists placate the culturally absorbed fluffy feeling of the human element.   We reify it by studying groups of people and their interactions with other groups and or  the Shame  of shared  fate.


I finally did it. I took the next step to recover from my illness. Thank Christ for antidepressants; without, I might have never realized what real suicidal ideation was really all about.

I’ll give you a hint… It involves a joke without a punch line. It is a clever memory with a stunted storyline that is as socially affective as your aunts Christmas toast to dementia or simply put: the need to laugh quelled by the complete lack of a diaphragm… … If your diaphragm was actually responsible for giving you a social orgasm.

Dr Chow sliced my ear open and let my sorrow bleed out. Then bruised me with needles to distract me from the blood loss.
If my sociology degree serves me right and in the parlance of Chinese culture…
“Depression better; 10 minute.”

And it’s ok… Because making fun of the Chinese is still as socially acceptable as the pills and alcohol that brought me to this juncture.

Dr Chow. A quiet man with a Buddhist rat tail; so easily mistaken for a fishy, soulless chinaman.
He sat near me. Not like a Frenchman… Not like a fishy, soulless psychiatrist either. He touched my shin… Raising an eyebrow at my level of dehydration or retention… I don’t know… I was just hopeful based on the sincerity of his human contact… Marked by a severe jack of digital expression.

FUCK! Of course, water!

I began to spit anecdotal metaphors out at him with a punch-line accuracy that made me feel my eyes roll like dice.— every new doctor feels like I’m gambling.
And with every game, the psychological debt mounts.

With one last sigh…

I told him how tired my mind was and then…
…He told me how tired my mind was.
I stopped playing games and looked up to see that Chow was waiting for me to make eye contact….
…son of a bitch was speaking my language… And I was becoming more and more socio-embarrassed. I had no idea the Chinese were real people.

But then he suppressed my live action panicking thoughts… Responding to my racist white demeanor….” What were you expecting,.. Some kind of half assed Japanese Buddhist philosophy. No sir”!
He continued:
He had lost his mother 10 years ago.
It seems He “came from Greece and had a thirst for knowledge.”*1.

And in 30 years and 30 seconds time ; the cure resonated inside my head. Oh and was chased by the literal fact We had been chatting for almost 50 minutes and That my mother (whom was in the adjacent room) needed the needles treating her cancer pulled out…
It was my selfish 50 minute conversation keeping her in a state us both in different states of self inflicted pain.


Ever since I have had a taste for beef jerky, I have been aware of the AGE-LESS-OXYGEN-ABSORBER.  First it was high school…  well it was always high school and will always be high school.  I showed up to my 10 year reunion dressed in a $5,000 rented suit and driving a Cadillac.  This was who I chose to be, among-st everyone else: unaware that their make-a-choice-persona every other sentence.  “To display or not to display; to tell or not to tell; to let on or not to let on; to lie or not to lie; and in each case, to whom, and how, when and where”… and for the first time, high on cocaine as I casually take a bump…It wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it might be…I ended up alone…again.  The 10 year reunion seems to be a continuation of an eternal popularity contest, versus your 20 year reunion which must be more like an exercise in mortality.  The thing is, is that every aspect of high school definitely reeks of our vane human condition; a popularity contest with a crisp 10 year old receipt.

I went for a walk through the old right-angle-deficient hallways.  Perhaps the rounded corners were meant to ease student traffic, or perhaps it was engineered that way with prison like scrutiny, preventing blind spots to hide in.  I mean…how dare they rob the next generation of children of running into your first finger banged date around those sharp detailed corners…

AGE-LESS-OXYGEN-ABSORBER, say it out loud.  Who knew there was a poet in the souls of everyone’s brand new shoes?…  In Saint Louis,  souls and shoes are not required.  No one travels or philosophizes far enough away from their ego to need such funny foreign things.  I grew up in St. Louis, and have periodically returned here to haunt my ghosts.  There is something about this city that refuses to let go of the people who live here.  I am not exactly happy when stagnating here but miss it dearly simultaneously.  A statement with the kind of truth that can only be reached after you have left home and traveled.  It is so amazing what you realize about yourself and the space one occupies in the world when you travel.  And, as far as I can tell, it is the only possible way to achieve that insight outside the Ozarks and a little spot in Destin.  I find myself suspicious of people who have never left their own town.  How can they be a finished person? 

With regards to Saint Louis: while traveling the world I have come to describe it as a great place to be from.  I have never been fond of people in general but I reserve a special type of criticism for Saint. Louisans.  These people: don’t understand that St. Louis is not the world; an easy notion to believe.  These people:  I am not much upset about the way they commercially define themselves but for the unquantifiable dark-aged manner by which they posture and define social situation.

St. Louis-Misery:  an Ageless-Oxygen-Absorber… guaranteed to stay preserved.

These people: use the word nigger without recompense.  If there is one thing I’ve become intolerant of its ignorance.  And don’t get me wrong, I think “nigger” is an incredible word but if you don’t understand the words you use, you shouldn’t be using them.

I stopped to take a hard shit for the 4th time tonight…As I started to wipe I noticed the clean toilet paper.  A dot of blood from a PLUCKY long hair.  I need to shave my crack again.  There is nothing to examine.  … just now realizing that not a soul noticed my errant drug use, let alone my $5,000 suit.  I have to wonder if I am the only one out there that examines his shit.  I think I’ll head back to the party.  After all, what would everyone do if there was absolutely no one there to pay attention?

6 years at 6 different Universities, 6 different women.  A student of the world, surprised to learn actual words and theories to match my thoughts from age 3.


At the age of 30, I have been waiting for my socially mis-prescribed emotions to go away. And then I will make my move to mingle properly with other ‘grown up’adults who are ironically pretending. I’ve always meant to get real coked up and run a Fortune 500 company the way it ought to be.
We all have many roles in life; impossible to deny their absurd necessity of it all. But, I have come to differentiate between the role play and the increasing absurdity of life behind veils. Role is to duty, as: Veil is to obligatory. We cower behind an equal distribution of positive and negative attributes — to avoid certain mirrors which no doubt tend to obscure the storyline.

I was never young. I was never accepted. I was never successful. I was never satisfied. I was never sure. I was never brave. I was never charming. I was never well read. I was never wrong.
But that’s not what I remember nor does it matter when it comes to explaining the truth in what really happened. A truthful pretender socially deified as a storyteller. Even statistics naturally draws me to the mathematic politik, linearly set in motion to the numerical storyline.

You see, I was always able to pretend.

A 83 year old 30 year old child in the grip of death recounts his reinvention of the english language reinterpreted over and over through a scattered attention defiant mind. Seeking to remember a lifetime of experiences to explain humor as sociologically pure and unrefined . A story of self medication through philosophy, amphetamine, opiods and checked alcoholism. conveniently patching up anxiety and piecing together his forgotten life lost to years of mental illness.

A man that suffers from from an acute form of dualistic and polarized nostalgia. There is a duality between marveling at owning a keen sense of memory. But there is a strong mistrust that would prefer to deny the existence of any memory. How cognitively-ill-ergonomic thAt the bleakest moments of an idealistic memory can haunt you.

Imagine being able to connect the history of everyone and everything that touched your life. And then compile it, and let it weigh your sanity down as you begin to scientifically doubt your life due to an inability to fit a memory to the storyline—
-Living in a fantasy only reified and preserved by sensitive and spoken metaphor; One might be Unable to see then longview and along the way, becoming incapable of remembering to learn to forget.

A young man with 83 years of memories and emotions bound up in all 5 senses. A journey to seek out answers and experiences from both friends and foe.

1-2: Cultural Capital

There I was culturally capitalizing, banging my fist on a cocaine -treated wooden bar…”jack n coke, now! –chopchop.”  If my mastery of Missouri Mumble serves me right, everyone stumbling in seems to be misreading signs: Cultural Capital: Not Welcome, roughly transmuting me into a nigger in the most unconventional and quite possibly offensive way…and by the way.  The Ten Mile House cured my racist thoughts by desensitizing me to the word.  All apologies to an incredibly palatable word clearly outside my own socio-racially educated vocabulary.  How unfair it is that the word nigger is owned by the ignorant.  Racial biases aside, these fucking people all failed middle school English.  These fucking people; intellectually bankrupt and educationally in debt all seem nigger rich to me; when these fucking people let ignorance define  a Gray Race.  I wish I knew how the English hung on to Fag.  I have had to overstep what’s left of simple social arrangements and order a drink at the Ten Mile House.  My sliver striped tie, chosen to highlight my bleach blond hair; is often mistaken for a silver spoon… I’ve always been different since I was 3 years old my shit eating grins set me apart and simultaneously set me adrift.  At the age of 29, I want nothing more than to fit in after spending a childhood aimlessly…

Imagine the smell of Alcohol becoming vividly reminiscent, while drinking to forget.  I am have become living competition with Budweiser however- It will never remind me anything fulfilling nor will it ever be reminiscent of the its perverse drunken relationship the person consuming its horse piss blandishments.  Reeks of some salty 17 year old kids’ vomit.  Where as, a jack n’ coke poured hastily inside a dank bar tastes of furry 19 year old trimmed cunt… Pussy dew and Jack Daniels on my breath…

I have to gently remind the bartender,  “Steph, I too can be just as ignorant as a bud light soaked biker tipping over you’re tits, but I think you may have the most sexy armpits I have ever seen.”

Have you ever bar tended with brass knuckles in your back pocket, knowing that if you ever were to use them, someone’s life would brutally end…So you don’t.  I’ve never been in a fight; and I’ve never hit another human like I should have.  Perhaps it’s the brass knuckles that have weighed my fist down…unable to connect; cracking ribs and jaws. Or perhaps its because I am a coward.
“Wait back up” my story doesn’t begin here.  It all began with a girl named Marla.  Marla, my last barmaid wouldn’t stand for such rudeness.

Crooks and Thieves

“People are not good to each other”
Crooks and thieves:
I’ve fallen off the wagon yet again. Not the narcotic gravy train, but the amenable social wagon. My negative disposition in life keeps me sober when it comes to keeping on the social straight n narrow.

Friendships, relations, cohorts etc. etc. etc. keep us all socially drunk with yet another purpose. It is healthy to remind oneself every so often that social affects more often than not, are fleeting. I’ve wasted too much time on cheaper women and cheaper wine.
Again I call upon my negative mental disposition or what I have come fond of referring to ‘as just being a dick’ ‘.

I have worked diligently at cultivating friendship be because having a friend is a rarer occurrence than a normal man might admit. “People are not good to each other. ” Friends some times treat each other lower than people. I’ve managed to hate with the most general and confusingly accurate dispersal. I’ve cockishly or consciously allowed only a few to my premiere party at the center of the universe, where respect is learned and you can’t get through the front door without acknowledging the definition if the situation, my first name and formal introductions.
Trust is a word with less social value than race.

Trust is after all, just another complex belief system.
There is a universal understanding of this very scary and lonely distrust of others. In our most socially drunken moments; think age 17, your first love or marriage, bringing a child into the world, or when god is in your side at any given sporting event or positively tragic life event. We get drunk on the good times. But the age of knowing becomes unfaithful, as does Many first loves. People divorce, children grow up and drift away into the madness, and even god loses track of us at the end of our sporting lives. We spend our lives entrusting our idiosyncrasies and exposing insecurities in an attempt at mutual disclosure or friendship. Alas, in an instant personal relations sour and the thoughts, hopes, dreams and burning self disclosure is used to maim.

My path is “where the city sleeps.”
I’ve concluded that our long running philosophical connection may be over. I ask each year what it takes to tell the difference between thieves and crooks. When any crook or thief worth their salt knows good-n-well that whether or not they are mutually exclusive; most of them are both. As they rely on chumps, not unlike myself, to define the absurd, they have already taken advantage of your inattention and stolen a small part of your dignity along with your wallet.

I am a crook. I am a thief. I don’t care which definition is more accurate. For starters, I’ve hijacked the English language. Traditional definitions read more like rhetorical guidelines that give way to new and exciting verbal applications.

I stole your sunshine. I stole your confidence.

No one enters a social relationship altruistically. What do your friends offer you?-What’s your social worth?
Does it amount to trust?

It amounts to a laugh.

My laugh is composed of Every laugh I’ve stealthfully induced. How clever ..taking bits and pieces of your soul without your consent. How many times have I unveiled an identity and held a up a mirror to reveal life’s pockmarks. I can predict the reaction with my statistical imagination. I’m not immune to emotional manipulation at this or any level because at our weakest or most insecure moments we Rely on laughter to make sense of it all. looking into the mirror, after avoiding it for so long has a steep learning curve.
My laugh is disarming because it is familiar. My laugh is familiar because its was taken from you. I use to be proud if my collection. Denoted by different races and national prowess.

Blue Collar Crisis:

Chapter 1:
Blue Collar Crisis

Fuck Fame.  You just had to get paid.  I was born deaf, blind and dumb, ignorant to the world; only to lose my senses again at 28. I had to walk Ten Miles to rename the game.  At the end of the Tenth, on the last steps, I met men whom have witnessed days when I didn’t exist.  They fail to see that it doesn’t matter because in their hands and mine, the drink persists.  Its influence reeks like “salty confidence” in the air and on our collective breath.

All at once, my collar beams royal blue, until I offer up a glass of wine and a plate of meat and cheese.  My mere attempt to show my brothers a taste of what proverbially keeps them down (cultural capital): a socioeconomic farce, a satire written by drunken shadows, who try to measure a man’s worth by the fruit content of the drink in their hand.  To the contrary and my chagrin: Wine glasses shatter when smashed against the bar and don’t nearly make as loud a statement as the way a beer bottle breaks and becomes a pretty nifty weapon.
My blue collar is stained, but not tattered or faded from the sun and it tends to show my age…or lack thereof.  My blue collar was not earned through the traditional routes denoted by battlefield commissioned scars and heroic altruism.  I am a tourist passing through a tight nit community of common people.  Through my own doing, I have become a manipulative force to be reckoned with.  I never claimed to be any one person due to the fact that I am a shill whose purpose is to be ever-aware of the Definition of the Situation.  I have been shilled into the role of the truthful pretender who speaks in metaphor and thrives on the sublime notion of fantasy.  My identity is locked in my mind and is neighbors with hidden inspiration few will ever find.

This inspiration manifests all around me in the silly altruistic persons who will never seek to understand the full context behind their actions.  Those who say that it is easy to criticize, especially such heroics, might fail to recognize the speech pattern behind what can only be called “The Loyal Opposition.”—the voice of inspiration.  The true identity and nature of “beer bottle breaking” is never quite edified.  A spilled glass of wine and shattered glass speaks sorrowful circles around a beer bottle that is futilely broken in a display of wasted energy and anger.  Fuck Fame twice over. – I’ve wasted too much time, on cheaper women and cheaper wine.  These moments that make me crawl fail to understand that I fall down; and then I fall.

Please color my collar gray.  These fascinating moments that have delighted me along the colored collar spectrum have exhausted me emotionally and intellectually.  Like a good waiter in a fine dining restaurant, I’m tired of changing costumes in between each and every table, changing venues in between each and every restaurant. I am tired of changing accents and I am tired of getting fired.  I will cling to youth but close the door on the people I know.   A compromise leaving me perpetually….
culturally capitalizing.