Mexico's Peculiar Institution:
An Overview of Mexico's Cartel Culture and a
Call for Those More Knowledgeable to Tell Me What You Know
Part I
I assume that everyone has at least some limited or vague awareness of the Drug Industry and how it relates to Mexico and our America. Being American's, we give this Mexican plight polite lip service by acknowledging the intensity and increasing brutality of it all, but if most are like me, we are (even while sharing a border, in Texas) disassociated and really haven't begun to care. I think that is a problem.
Do you remember how it feels like only those who were responsible enough to stay abreast of geopolitical issues and had the luxury and capacity of understanding and engaging in discussions of the world's topics (and I don't mean pissants like me who read The Economist on booze-filled road trips and knew the name but nothing else) knew who Osama bin Laden was before September 11, 2001?
I hope we all remember how engaged, civic-minded people were utterly powerless (and even more ignorant) to the whims and inner workings of Wall-Street and Big Banks before the shoe fell in 2008? Only a small sliver of our population with strong to very strong economic and high finance backgrounds and experience could understand and interpret it for us groundlings, and even then it was rough translation fraught with bias and agenda (no Sushi-homo)
It is my gut feeling that the meth lab of a country and the volatile chemicals that comprise the illegal drug trade, lead by its head chef, El Chapo, is going to blow up in our face and we are going to be "caught", like the aforementioned and as only we American’s can be, unawares.
Currently it seems that America's (and specifically us Texans) official stance is one of irresponsible content that the manufacturing, violence, corruption and destruction is, for the most part, contained to the Mexican mainland and American border towns. Our party line is often real, but most of the time fake, disgust followed by an inaudible truth, like a man who feigns sympathy but really is only grateful that he is not the recipient of bad luck or tragic circumstances. We read a headline, skip the bulk of the story and completely dismiss any effect or consequence it might have for us and before moving on with our day to day lives we think,
"Ohhh that really sucks to be them and have those issues, bless their hearts”
or
“They really need to control their state and people because if shit starts inconveniencing me, I am going to be pissed.”Or
“Fucking Mexicans. They are primitive and worse than barbarians, those manual labor motherfuckers,"
All of which underlines a clear lack of understanding to the depth and severity of the problem(s).
So with that said, I would like those in the know to chime in and make people (those who read this thread) aware of what is actually going on in Mexico. I think a lot of the problem is, much like the Mafia and Advanced Mathematics, it is hard to understand and follow once one moves past the basic principals and principles (he-he-he) and variables are added in an already illusive and faster evolving black market.
Part II
Let me back up for a moment and explain a bit of my motive and incentive. I am a man with little regard for “tradition” and “universal morality”. As such, I have considerably more freedom and space with which to exist and things outside of the lanes of normalcy and the status quo, while not always enjoyable, are very fascinating and intriguing to me.
Like the Pirates of Somalia, the dilapidation of a republic to that of a “Narco” state run by outlaws is so amazingly brazen that one would think it can only be the stuff of great literature and action movies. The fact that there are men who are so brutally powerful, rich and industrious and that these men risk their lives every day and share certain qualities of men we deem heroes- fearlessness, intelligence, and courage- I find their story compelling. Add to this a background of our modern era technology and weaponry and it’s downright absurd (and I am a sucker for the capital “A”, Absurd)!
Further, perhaps with a full and robust understanding of this complicated dynamic, we can get to the point where we can make educated assumptions and logical predictions on what will happen, how markets will react and what future opportunities, if any, are- like those handful of opportunistic, brilliant profiteers found themselves in (presumably, at least) when the banks started falling.
Part III
So this is what I know (and correct me where I am wrong or underdeveloped):
Currently, the Cartels that historically wreaked the most havoc are the Sinaloan Cartel, The Gulf Cartel, Los Zetas, Beltran Levya Cartel, and Tijuana Cartel.
Table of Contents
The Tijuana Cartel- is basically defunct with the caputure/deaths of the Arrelleno Felix brothers (the family members of "The Godfather", the founder of Mexican drug trade "El Padrino"). This Cartel has a lot of cache and the name is prestigious, but those in the know say they are pussies and they fail to register as a big player these days.
Beltran Levya Cartel- The Beltran Levya brothers, while historically big time players and the pioneers who took the political corruption game to the next level, also represent a lame duck Cartel. Their better days are behind them and they are now only influential in being a minority member of a coalition.
Sinaloan Cartel- This is El Chapo's baby and the big dog on the block. They are the most ruthless and resilient. They have increasingly gone global and El Chapo has been consistently listed on Forbes list of top businessman or some shit.
Los Zetas- This Cartel started as a paramilitary/executioner wing of the Gulf Cartel (think La Costra Nostra's Murder, Inc). They splintered off and became a Cartel in their own right and are now lined up against their former parent, Gulf Cartel. These guys are the most likely will be an issue for Texas and her citizens.
Gulf Cartel- This is the one that most directly affects us as Texans. With the capture of the leader in 2008 (Osiel Cardanas, I think), there has been a power vacuum that has instigated a lot of the violence and brutality that we in Texas have heard about it. Because the area the Gulf Cartel ruled, Brownsville/Matamoros and the rest of "The Valley" is weak, it is volatile and a very real battleground for Chapo's Sinaloa Cartel, Los Zetas and Gulf Cartel all trying to gain an upper hand. If you have ever played Risk, think of Kamchatka, the country that is a weak gatekeeper that keeps getting defeated by a different army every turn.
The Mexican Government, Police, and Army- These people comprise the most corrupt "democratic" political system in the Modern Era. At every turn, there is some, if not a shit-ton, of involvement with any three of these entities that have helped cultivate and grow Mexico's Global Drug Cartel Corporation. Though sworn to serve nobly and serve the law and the people, because of abject poverty and destitution (and for some, a very human emotion of greed and desire for sensory pleasures), the more attractive and viable option for imperfect humans is to work, indirectly and sometimes directly, with the Narco's. There are dozens of examples of this, ranging from the high profile arrests of ranking officers to the the Boss of all Bosses, El Chapo's, inside job of an escape from prison.
Part IV
Some facts to help spur our discussion:
El Chapo and the Sinaloan Cartel is much more advanced and entrenched than any rebel guerilla government, republic or organization we have ever seen. In fact, El Chapo has basically gone global corporation on us; you can call it Sinaloa, Inc.
Consider these facts:
Uncovered recently in Canada was a “Super Meth Lab” (20 tons of meth, $700 Million street value) and a lab that produced 12,000 ecstasy pills an hour.
Chapo’s organization operates in every nation in Central America, from Guatamala to Panama.
In the key cocaine-producing countries of Peru and Bolivia, Chapo has already moved in on what had formerly been Colombian and Medellin turf. In fact, even in Colombia itself, Chapo is operating deep in Colombian territory.
Chapo has a huge interest in Argentina now as well, but not for Cocaine, for Meth. Ephedrine imports rose from 5 tons in 2006 to 28.5 tons in 2010 and recent raids in Buenos Aires revealed 23 of his Sinaloan “Super Meth Labs”.
Chapo has long ties to Asian nations, like China, India, Thailand and Vietnam where they obtained chemicals need to make methamphetamine. (Chapo allegedly imported heroin directly from Thailand, at one time, in order to distribute to the US which suggests that Mexico alone couldn’t keep up with the US demand. I think it is hilarious we are a bunch of junkies.)
Recently the new frontier for Chapo is West African nations and Europe’s mainland. Chapo has known dealings in Portugal, Spain, Germany, Italy, Poland, Slovakia and the Czech Republic. And one can see why- Africa is attractive because it is a bad lands much like Mexico. Failed governments and rebel movements have made it easy for Chapo to gain a stronghold, get passports, and transport guns and drugs to Europe. The danger is evident, if Chapo can create a stronghold in shitty, bottom of the barrel third world countries, he could easily service a growing European demand for illicit drugs. He can easily replicate a Mexico: U.S. model with West Africa: Europe.
A Former DEA chief of Operations Michael Braun implied it the best: “Think of it this way: what the Caribbean and Mexico are to the US, West Africa is to Europe.” and he ominously warned after reports that Chapo had men training in Iran, “They’re staying in the same shady bars, sharing the same prostitutes, developing relationships today that will soon evolve from personal to strategic. In the foreseeable future corporate al-Qaeda will be able to pick up the phone and call corporate Sinaloa…”
Part V
Is America to blame? I added this part because invariably there are Mexican apologists who will allow that “Yes, Mexico is largely to blame But But But, what about America and her love of drugs? She deserves some of the blame too, that slut!”
America, indeed, loves its drugs.
The DEA estimates we spend $65 Billion dollars on illegal drugs, annually. The facts are:
$36 Billion on cocaine
$11 Billion on heroin
$10 Billion on marijuana
$5.8 Billion on methamphetamine
$2.6 Billion on all other drugs combined
(Anybody else find this surprising? I figured Marijuana and Ice would be higher than Heroin)
While this is a very real and true addiction that we harbor, to say that we, the consumer, are to blame for the provider’s free willed, and illegal, production and delivery of outlawed drugs is to rebuke reason and logic and to vouchsafe irresponsibility. The reality is, the problem is with Mexico. Mexico as a country has failed its people and everyone except the highest, most ceremonial and out of touch layers, like the President, is in on the business.
Because Mexicans, much like American’s, are feeling the sting of a failed Drug War, they are calling for an end to it and the PRI party, the party which largely created this Narco-culture, is a favorite to take back the presidency in 2012.
I will share with you some personal insight:
I grew up in a suburb with a lot of minorities. I saw (and participated in, I might add) my fair share of griminess and drugs. There are opportunities to be a part of movements like these and I’ve seen some of it live in a limited scope- the small time dealers who mostly work with friends to middle level players that deal in kilos. There is a very real opportunity to make a lot of money that otherwise would not be possible without a life time of experience, knowledge and hard work.
In my experience and opinion, what America has done a GREAT job of is in creating a disincentive and deterrence to drug dealing on medium to large scales. The consequences of the crimes, in most opinions, are far more severe than the gravity of the crimes and that instills a sense of fear and a general “fuck that” attitude.
After doing a cost/benefit ration analysis, I myself came to the conclusion that it would probably never be worth the potential consequences for me to engage in this activity and, as our society intended, I moved on to try and monetize what little value (skills and abilities) I can contribute legally. Luckily, I will always make, or have the opportunity, to make a decent living (at least, I think) so I will never feel the need to gamble with my life.
And this is where Mexico has failed its people and this is why, I argue, Mexico is a failed state. Mexico, through corruption and greed, has allowed for this to escalate to where it is now out of control. Mexican’s in a lot of areas have very little opportunity for comfort and happiness and, recently, no reasonable expectation to civil rights. It is basically one big New Orleans with a few exceptions and pockets of wealth and international sophistication. Mexico has broken its social contract with their people and we American’s wonder why they kill their countryman for $35?
Part VI
What am I missing?
What are the opportunities for an average to above average American, if any?
Do you think Chapo uses his own products?
Monday, May 16, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
An Attempted Love Poem
An Attempted Love Poem
By Jonathan Gonnet
A father sat down to write to his wife and his child, to catalog his extreme care
With a pompous gait
And a feverish rate
He planned to pen his love affair
He looked all around
And the absence of sound
Lent a smug sense of self congratulation
He built this home,
And now seated in his throne,
He deigned to bestow, upon his wife, his validation
So he thought ‘what to write?’ and he conjured up times, both of struggle and jubilation
As head of the house
With all the credit he'd douse
Until, suddenly, he had a realization
He undertook this task
As he often did in the past
In selfish error and with the wrong seed of thought
His idea, born in a self-righteous fit
Where he marveled at his wit
What good is sharing his love and the emotion with which he is fraught?
Like the uncomfortable light that shines brightest at dawn
He understood and he awoke clear
Before them both there was fear and nothing but beer (ha!)
Without them, on this earth, he'd be gone
But, I had it all wrong
As if I could buy happiness for a song
I am not some hero, some bastion of love or even (yet) a great man of importance
I am short with my patience,
My temper and stations
But in her I enjoy this, and more, in abundance
Basically everything I have is because of my two special people
We overcome strife
My son and his mother -together- my life
A visual reminder of faith like a church steeple
It's a Mother's devotion
Not some magic potion
Who keeps us tacked from feet to sole (soul) like the cobbler’s
Her ungrateful and daily obligations
Thankless hard work and frustrations
Overlooked both by her 2 and 28 year old toddlers
Her great capacity to love, evidenced all around by what we earlier saw
There's no sound; she changes my son when he's wet
The home I live in is clean, because of her sweat
I can blabber and slobber, and bluster but I won’t hem and haw:
You see, I have to come clean
I was the father attempting to write how much Brex and You mean
I could write a thousand pages for each individual thank.
But, because all that you do with the love you give to us two,
Compared to you, my paper is blank.
By Jonathan Gonnet
A father sat down to write to his wife and his child, to catalog his extreme care
With a pompous gait
And a feverish rate
He planned to pen his love affair
He looked all around
And the absence of sound
Lent a smug sense of self congratulation
He built this home,
And now seated in his throne,
He deigned to bestow, upon his wife, his validation
So he thought ‘what to write?’ and he conjured up times, both of struggle and jubilation
As head of the house
With all the credit he'd douse
Until, suddenly, he had a realization
He undertook this task
As he often did in the past
In selfish error and with the wrong seed of thought
His idea, born in a self-righteous fit
Where he marveled at his wit
What good is sharing his love and the emotion with which he is fraught?
Like the uncomfortable light that shines brightest at dawn
He understood and he awoke clear
Before them both there was fear and nothing but beer (ha!)
Without them, on this earth, he'd be gone
But, I had it all wrong
As if I could buy happiness for a song
I am not some hero, some bastion of love or even (yet) a great man of importance
I am short with my patience,
My temper and stations
But in her I enjoy this, and more, in abundance
Basically everything I have is because of my two special people
We overcome strife
My son and his mother -together- my life
A visual reminder of faith like a church steeple
It's a Mother's devotion
Not some magic potion
Who keeps us tacked from feet to sole (soul) like the cobbler’s
Her ungrateful and daily obligations
Thankless hard work and frustrations
Overlooked both by her 2 and 28 year old toddlers
Her great capacity to love, evidenced all around by what we earlier saw
There's no sound; she changes my son when he's wet
The home I live in is clean, because of her sweat
I can blabber and slobber, and bluster but I won’t hem and haw:
You see, I have to come clean
I was the father attempting to write how much Brex and You mean
I could write a thousand pages for each individual thank.
But, because all that you do with the love you give to us two,
Compared to you, my paper is blank.
Friday, April 8, 2011
On Crime and Punishment
On Crime and Punishment
by Boil the Water, Walter aka Cut That Work, Jack
Part I
I recently had the luxury, and extreme pleasure, of re-reading the most meaningful, which also happens to be my favorite (an indication of just how sensitive to the human condition and of how important I am, no doubt) novel of Modern times; Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment.
Before you enlightened literary experts (FCHorn, I'm looking at you) and empty, faux-intellectual shills (Grendel, my glance moves to you) chime in together and turn hipster on me, I'm well aware that The Brothers Karamazov is a lesser read, more polished and overall “better” novel as well as being the darling of literary critics. Not only do I lack the time and energy to digest a large volume of dense reading, but Crime and Punishment can still, to this day, give me butterflies, as it was my first love and it shall be my last.
Let me preface that my re-reading of C&P was very difficult for me to undertake. This book was a very formative narrative for me and tapped within me the wellspring of existential living, of which I adhere, and sprung from the deep the driving questions that move my life:
Mainly: What is the meaning of my living? For what am I living for?
And
Supplementary: Why do I do the things I do? Why do I want the things I want? What are my passions and goals? What do I strive for? Why even live?
I realized that, because of C&P’s strong influence, the reason I’ve been slow to revisit this book and why I’ve been weary of lowering myself down into the depths of my soul was because of the sheer amount of time and energy it takes to clear an earthly schedule to allow for the proper spelunking and mining needed to find and polish all the new, funky jewels that have collected and gummed up, like sticky plaque, in the dark abscesses since my last reading.
Putting off reading this book again, even as I devoured every other Dostoevsky novel(la), short story, and essay, along with anything I could get my hands on of Nietzsche (who commented that “…Dostoevsky is one of the few psychologists from whom I have learned something.") and Camus, (whose The Stranger is counted as my second favorite and most read resource, owing a lot to its diminutive size and readability (and that is NOT to say it doesn’t pack a punch, my dearies!)), I knew that one day I would have to read this book again and I would be forced to reevaluate the story, the message, the writing, the style, and what C&P means to me.
Would I still feel the severe and personal rousing this rudimentary tome of existentialism stirred in me through the expert conveyance of the decay and dejectedness a self-aware man feels, caught between the unfeeling and unworthy masses, the weak, “material that only exists in order by some effort by means of crossing races and stocks, to bring into the world at last one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence” and the said ‘one in a million’ flash of genius?
Would I, an evolved and astute man, above the station of most but achingly aware of impotently existing on a rung below the elite class of the ruling and powerful, still appreciate the struggle of the self aware adult male or would I have grown fat and lazy, like a Christmas ham, on the contentment of an average, middling, and all together base life- one of mediocre (by my, perhaps lofty, standards) standing full of irrelevant trifles and minimal material gains?
Will the follies of youth show me to be a silly and idealistic boy or would my resolve be reaffirmed and would these hitherto lifelong values and source of hope follow me into my (arguably, by most of my friends and family) manhood?
Ultimately, I didn't want this book to have any less of an impact or lose even one glint off the constellation of brilliance and luster it once held for me, but, because I have stalled with a personal project and have “gone through every house on the block” as the addicts and derelicts say, I had no other choice but to go to the heart and home of my muse, timidly and anxiously rap on that hard and unyielding door, and see who was home.
That is to say, a week ago I deigned to pick up C&P and allow my cold heart to love again.
So with the anxiety of a 14 year old girl, I exhaled a nervous breath, spread my chaste rib cage and allowed Dostoevsky to again insert his cold, stiff two fingers an inch and a half in my heart (a thoroughly feminine organ, after all) and perform, once again, a come-hither motion.
Part II
The latest reading of Crime and Punishment was a very inspiring undertaking for me and left me with very different, but equally enthralling, inspired takeaways.
Before, as a 22 year old, I fancied myself not unlike the protagonist, Raskolnikov. A budding sprig with many of the unavoidable foibles of youth, I thought myself a man of considerable intellect and introspection, and one of the few (oh how I hated the average dullard- I still am not altogether cured and pique when people like Slorch or Rocko begin to opine) with absolute capability to “utter a new word”, as is said, by creating a theory for which to live by (and I did succeed in creating a philosophy, rules to govern my behavior, which I took great pains to establish).
In Raskolnikov I found my hero- a man who, not unlike your author’s beleaguered and youthful soul- mired in frustration with outward circumstances and environments and who found it difficult to exist in the Absolutes and Universals decreed by the juvenile and intellectually cheap understanding of our world. (Note the folly of my youthful logic; a young man who fancies himself bestowed with ‘absolute’ capability but lashes out when ‘absolutes’ are spoken! I still, however, reject the premise of absolutes outside of mathematics on the charge that it is ignorant and irresponsible to do so. I begin to digress…)
But, unlike Raskolnikov who could only wade in egoism and who mostly remained on shore, marooned by his miscalculated weakness, emotions, and nerves, I was a young but seasoned mariner, ready and willing to “spit on my hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats”.
Beyond all the good, those strong down winds that helped me sail successfully through life, I harbored all the shortcomings, that short sighted, myopic worldview enabled by living fully in the self and ego and was thoroughly disgusted when Raskolnikov would not power through his flawed human condition, take his dick out of his heart, and dismiss the notion he was a Great Man, “a Napoleon”, and resist turning himself in. I couldn’t- and most importantly, I wouldn’t- understand.
It wasn’t until this most recent reading that I now understand. Because Raskolnikov was not a Great Man- not a leader of terminal men- once he crossed the threshold and transgressed law, he lacked the ability to maintain his head and was subsequently left with three choices;
Madness (of which he flirted with and led on as if she were his betrothed)
Suicide (of which the true Hero, I humbly submit, Svidrigailov would eventually submit to*)
and Repentance (which Dostoevsky seems to argue is, ultimately, redemption) with the knowledge moving forward that one, as a man of limited capabilities, is to stay in one’s lane and stay out of the way of grown men’s (the parlance of my day) travels and travails.
By turning himself in and opting for redemption Raskolnikov effectively opted, through truncating the theory of his being a Great man unburdened to the arbitrary rules and laws created by flawed and imperfect men in a world we can’t fully understand, for a mediocre, albeit easy and comfortable, life with close friends and family who love him at his bosom. He admitted to himself his true worth, that he a meaningless existence.
As a delusional, 22 year old student (again, not much unlike dear Rodion- especially in my gripping good looks, he-he-he), who fancied himself a “remarkable” and “great” young man, I could not follow my, up until then, Sherpa on that weak, flat, easy and well paved path.
I would rather have died.
And, still, as pride grips me and I retain enough of that youthful vigor (at the ripe old age of 28) to continue to hold out hope- a hope to redeem what I consider to be god given, innate strengths and excellence in abilities and attributes- and I still stand in defiance.
I understand, this time around, why Raskolnikov must do what he did, but I reject Raskolnikov’s decision and, still, would “break a sword over my head and kiss the pieces” before capitulating.**
Part III
Come with me as I turn my full and current attention to the technical details; the craft, the literary merit and the actual writing contained in C&P.
After my first reading, never had I been so moved by a literary creation and my body was rendered weak because of it. I dropped the book, completely fatigued from the reading, and rolled over exhausted and in need of a drink or a cigarette, as if Dostoevsky had just fucked the shit out of me.
But, just as it is after great sex, my memory was given to short term and immediately after reading I had forgotten exactly how all the pieces and devices had been engineered together to create such a dynamic machine. All I remembered, in fact, was the end result and I was content to remain ignorant as long as I had that product and, owing to that, after this current reading, I was surprised at the actual writing, character development, character arcs and story line, and how Dostoevsky employed his unique abilities.
I don’t want to lurch into the dry and technical details of writing and bore the remaining five Mensch’s who have come with me this far, so I will speak to a few brief, but meaningful, points.
The most glaring aspect of Dostoevsky's writing that immediately jumped out at me, and what I completely missed the first go around, was the generous use of tension to move the story forward. Dostoevsky constantly and expertly built tension to keep fluid what could have easily been, because of the emphasis on psychology and the cerebral, a plodding and heavy-footed plot and this adroit use of conflict made for a smooth ride.
At times, though, Dostoevsky was almost vulgar in his excessiveness (examples of this were the constant cliff hangers at the end of chapters where someone was always showing up or something was revealed- a kitschy technique honed by the good people at Days of Our Lives and General Hospital) and there were times when it felt aged and archaic.
Next, something I noticed was that the shock and awe of a few scenes were tempered the second time around. The prevalent use (and some would argue, abuse) of ‘stream of consciousness writing’, while very much a Dostoevsky staple, seems to have been muted by the last few years of reading contemporary writers who make their bones with overt and, increasingly, obscene and anything-goes-streams of illogical, shocking, and random musings from writers like Chuck Palahniuk, B. Easton Ellis, and Hunter S. Thompson
And lastly, an unaccredited major influence on my own personal writing style and "voice" that I must have subconsciously picked up from Dostoevsky, I really enjoyed his elaborate and garrulous descriptions- the sing-songy, melodious rhythm- and, especially the postulations and suppositions handed out in Socratic dialogue's, and I was reminded numerous turns of phrase, tonal direction, or word choice and realized the reason why everything I write, no matter the intention or genre, seems to err on the side of meta-fiction.
Epilogue
New and delicious tastes, accompanied with the staple flavors digested from my first read, satisfied a few of the nutrients my being was starved of and I left this book content, that still, there is a lot of intellectual bread I have yet to sniff because of how quickly I’ve filled up on these first two courses.
But for now I am full again. And from the belly of a fat man, I say to you:
To the well-read and learned man- Do not feel unworthy and unqualified to critically critique. Share with me your thoughts and opinions!
To the budding novelist- Do not let the weight of the great literature already published encumber and shackle you but, instead, hoist these works high and, like a flag of independence, give honor to creative freedom and the existence of creation as an option for humanity.
To you Great Men, you “Napoleon’s” among us- Let the hug and embrace of this work motivate and inspire. As rejuvenated men emboldened with the reminder that we can, and must if we are, in fact, worthy of it, create our own meaning in this savage jungle.
Notes (from the Underground? He-he-he)
*Another essay entirely is required to expound and explain the question and topic of why Svidrigailov is the tragic hero and should be the celebrated and revered man in Crime and Punishment
**One must always take into consideration the possibility that perhaps the author is already showing the signs of age and the pussification that a dwindling of opportunity and the loss of grains of sand creates, because while he maintains that to die would be a more noble and honest ending, the reader must note that he has taken measures to “hedge his bets” so to speak, by having a kid for, if nothing else, a biological success and further chance to “spark genius” as was said.
by Boil the Water, Walter aka Cut That Work, Jack
Part I
I recently had the luxury, and extreme pleasure, of re-reading the most meaningful, which also happens to be my favorite (an indication of just how sensitive to the human condition and of how important I am, no doubt) novel of Modern times; Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment.
Before you enlightened literary experts (FCHorn, I'm looking at you) and empty, faux-intellectual shills (Grendel, my glance moves to you) chime in together and turn hipster on me, I'm well aware that The Brothers Karamazov is a lesser read, more polished and overall “better” novel as well as being the darling of literary critics. Not only do I lack the time and energy to digest a large volume of dense reading, but Crime and Punishment can still, to this day, give me butterflies, as it was my first love and it shall be my last.
Let me preface that my re-reading of C&P was very difficult for me to undertake. This book was a very formative narrative for me and tapped within me the wellspring of existential living, of which I adhere, and sprung from the deep the driving questions that move my life:
Mainly: What is the meaning of my living? For what am I living for?
And
Supplementary: Why do I do the things I do? Why do I want the things I want? What are my passions and goals? What do I strive for? Why even live?
I realized that, because of C&P’s strong influence, the reason I’ve been slow to revisit this book and why I’ve been weary of lowering myself down into the depths of my soul was because of the sheer amount of time and energy it takes to clear an earthly schedule to allow for the proper spelunking and mining needed to find and polish all the new, funky jewels that have collected and gummed up, like sticky plaque, in the dark abscesses since my last reading.
Putting off reading this book again, even as I devoured every other Dostoevsky novel(la), short story, and essay, along with anything I could get my hands on of Nietzsche (who commented that “…Dostoevsky is one of the few psychologists from whom I have learned something.") and Camus, (whose The Stranger is counted as my second favorite and most read resource, owing a lot to its diminutive size and readability (and that is NOT to say it doesn’t pack a punch, my dearies!)), I knew that one day I would have to read this book again and I would be forced to reevaluate the story, the message, the writing, the style, and what C&P means to me.
Would I still feel the severe and personal rousing this rudimentary tome of existentialism stirred in me through the expert conveyance of the decay and dejectedness a self-aware man feels, caught between the unfeeling and unworthy masses, the weak, “material that only exists in order by some effort by means of crossing races and stocks, to bring into the world at last one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence” and the said ‘one in a million’ flash of genius?
Would I, an evolved and astute man, above the station of most but achingly aware of impotently existing on a rung below the elite class of the ruling and powerful, still appreciate the struggle of the self aware adult male or would I have grown fat and lazy, like a Christmas ham, on the contentment of an average, middling, and all together base life- one of mediocre (by my, perhaps lofty, standards) standing full of irrelevant trifles and minimal material gains?
Will the follies of youth show me to be a silly and idealistic boy or would my resolve be reaffirmed and would these hitherto lifelong values and source of hope follow me into my (arguably, by most of my friends and family) manhood?
Ultimately, I didn't want this book to have any less of an impact or lose even one glint off the constellation of brilliance and luster it once held for me, but, because I have stalled with a personal project and have “gone through every house on the block” as the addicts and derelicts say, I had no other choice but to go to the heart and home of my muse, timidly and anxiously rap on that hard and unyielding door, and see who was home.
That is to say, a week ago I deigned to pick up C&P and allow my cold heart to love again.
So with the anxiety of a 14 year old girl, I exhaled a nervous breath, spread my chaste rib cage and allowed Dostoevsky to again insert his cold, stiff two fingers an inch and a half in my heart (a thoroughly feminine organ, after all) and perform, once again, a come-hither motion.
Part II
The latest reading of Crime and Punishment was a very inspiring undertaking for me and left me with very different, but equally enthralling, inspired takeaways.
Before, as a 22 year old, I fancied myself not unlike the protagonist, Raskolnikov. A budding sprig with many of the unavoidable foibles of youth, I thought myself a man of considerable intellect and introspection, and one of the few (oh how I hated the average dullard- I still am not altogether cured and pique when people like Slorch or Rocko begin to opine) with absolute capability to “utter a new word”, as is said, by creating a theory for which to live by (and I did succeed in creating a philosophy, rules to govern my behavior, which I took great pains to establish).
In Raskolnikov I found my hero- a man who, not unlike your author’s beleaguered and youthful soul- mired in frustration with outward circumstances and environments and who found it difficult to exist in the Absolutes and Universals decreed by the juvenile and intellectually cheap understanding of our world. (Note the folly of my youthful logic; a young man who fancies himself bestowed with ‘absolute’ capability but lashes out when ‘absolutes’ are spoken! I still, however, reject the premise of absolutes outside of mathematics on the charge that it is ignorant and irresponsible to do so. I begin to digress…)
But, unlike Raskolnikov who could only wade in egoism and who mostly remained on shore, marooned by his miscalculated weakness, emotions, and nerves, I was a young but seasoned mariner, ready and willing to “spit on my hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats”.
Beyond all the good, those strong down winds that helped me sail successfully through life, I harbored all the shortcomings, that short sighted, myopic worldview enabled by living fully in the self and ego and was thoroughly disgusted when Raskolnikov would not power through his flawed human condition, take his dick out of his heart, and dismiss the notion he was a Great Man, “a Napoleon”, and resist turning himself in. I couldn’t- and most importantly, I wouldn’t- understand.
It wasn’t until this most recent reading that I now understand. Because Raskolnikov was not a Great Man- not a leader of terminal men- once he crossed the threshold and transgressed law, he lacked the ability to maintain his head and was subsequently left with three choices;
Madness (of which he flirted with and led on as if she were his betrothed)
Suicide (of which the true Hero, I humbly submit, Svidrigailov would eventually submit to*)
and Repentance (which Dostoevsky seems to argue is, ultimately, redemption) with the knowledge moving forward that one, as a man of limited capabilities, is to stay in one’s lane and stay out of the way of grown men’s (the parlance of my day) travels and travails.
By turning himself in and opting for redemption Raskolnikov effectively opted, through truncating the theory of his being a Great man unburdened to the arbitrary rules and laws created by flawed and imperfect men in a world we can’t fully understand, for a mediocre, albeit easy and comfortable, life with close friends and family who love him at his bosom. He admitted to himself his true worth, that he a meaningless existence.
As a delusional, 22 year old student (again, not much unlike dear Rodion- especially in my gripping good looks, he-he-he), who fancied himself a “remarkable” and “great” young man, I could not follow my, up until then, Sherpa on that weak, flat, easy and well paved path.
I would rather have died.
And, still, as pride grips me and I retain enough of that youthful vigor (at the ripe old age of 28) to continue to hold out hope- a hope to redeem what I consider to be god given, innate strengths and excellence in abilities and attributes- and I still stand in defiance.
I understand, this time around, why Raskolnikov must do what he did, but I reject Raskolnikov’s decision and, still, would “break a sword over my head and kiss the pieces” before capitulating.**
Part III
Come with me as I turn my full and current attention to the technical details; the craft, the literary merit and the actual writing contained in C&P.
After my first reading, never had I been so moved by a literary creation and my body was rendered weak because of it. I dropped the book, completely fatigued from the reading, and rolled over exhausted and in need of a drink or a cigarette, as if Dostoevsky had just fucked the shit out of me.
But, just as it is after great sex, my memory was given to short term and immediately after reading I had forgotten exactly how all the pieces and devices had been engineered together to create such a dynamic machine. All I remembered, in fact, was the end result and I was content to remain ignorant as long as I had that product and, owing to that, after this current reading, I was surprised at the actual writing, character development, character arcs and story line, and how Dostoevsky employed his unique abilities.
I don’t want to lurch into the dry and technical details of writing and bore the remaining five Mensch’s who have come with me this far, so I will speak to a few brief, but meaningful, points.
The most glaring aspect of Dostoevsky's writing that immediately jumped out at me, and what I completely missed the first go around, was the generous use of tension to move the story forward. Dostoevsky constantly and expertly built tension to keep fluid what could have easily been, because of the emphasis on psychology and the cerebral, a plodding and heavy-footed plot and this adroit use of conflict made for a smooth ride.
At times, though, Dostoevsky was almost vulgar in his excessiveness (examples of this were the constant cliff hangers at the end of chapters where someone was always showing up or something was revealed- a kitschy technique honed by the good people at Days of Our Lives and General Hospital) and there were times when it felt aged and archaic.
Next, something I noticed was that the shock and awe of a few scenes were tempered the second time around. The prevalent use (and some would argue, abuse) of ‘stream of consciousness writing’, while very much a Dostoevsky staple, seems to have been muted by the last few years of reading contemporary writers who make their bones with overt and, increasingly, obscene and anything-goes-streams of illogical, shocking, and random musings from writers like Chuck Palahniuk, B. Easton Ellis, and Hunter S. Thompson
And lastly, an unaccredited major influence on my own personal writing style and "voice" that I must have subconsciously picked up from Dostoevsky, I really enjoyed his elaborate and garrulous descriptions- the sing-songy, melodious rhythm- and, especially the postulations and suppositions handed out in Socratic dialogue's, and I was reminded numerous turns of phrase, tonal direction, or word choice and realized the reason why everything I write, no matter the intention or genre, seems to err on the side of meta-fiction.
Epilogue
New and delicious tastes, accompanied with the staple flavors digested from my first read, satisfied a few of the nutrients my being was starved of and I left this book content, that still, there is a lot of intellectual bread I have yet to sniff because of how quickly I’ve filled up on these first two courses.
But for now I am full again. And from the belly of a fat man, I say to you:
To the well-read and learned man- Do not feel unworthy and unqualified to critically critique. Share with me your thoughts and opinions!
To the budding novelist- Do not let the weight of the great literature already published encumber and shackle you but, instead, hoist these works high and, like a flag of independence, give honor to creative freedom and the existence of creation as an option for humanity.
To you Great Men, you “Napoleon’s” among us- Let the hug and embrace of this work motivate and inspire. As rejuvenated men emboldened with the reminder that we can, and must if we are, in fact, worthy of it, create our own meaning in this savage jungle.
Notes (from the Underground? He-he-he)
*Another essay entirely is required to expound and explain the question and topic of why Svidrigailov is the tragic hero and should be the celebrated and revered man in Crime and Punishment
**One must always take into consideration the possibility that perhaps the author is already showing the signs of age and the pussification that a dwindling of opportunity and the loss of grains of sand creates, because while he maintains that to die would be a more noble and honest ending, the reader must note that he has taken measures to “hedge his bets” so to speak, by having a kid for, if nothing else, a biological success and further chance to “spark genius” as was said.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Mi Amor
With his jailors enjoying their midday nap, he continued to search for a Great Escape.
The sleet slapped his dirty glass door and began another barrage of attacks.
ugh
Larry hadn't foreseen this disastrous turn of events and his heart dropped at the realization of the message those stinging welts left; his baked in excuse to go out and booze with his buddies was dashed.
He turned on a sore rump and stared at his dirty, phlegm dried computer screen. He clicked to his Augean stable of "favorites" and thought about perusing a free tube site. For an instant a sore member throbbed and he caught a whiff of dried spit, like bad breath, and thought better of it. Winter weather made him amorous.
He wanted to booze. Football was about to be on and he had spent entirely too much time with his family. Don't get it wrong, Larry loved his family. His family consisted of his beautiful, blonde wife who somehow disputed time and motherhood to keep her tight, firm body of youth and his precious son. Brexton: The manifestation of all that is love and peace and innocence and beauty. On the good days. Other times it was the other side of that psychedelic coin- ignorance, maelstroms, and uncommunicated misery, a regular bad trip.
Larry did a pretty decent job at heading a household. Like the leader of a company, Larry was well versed in the expectations that his shareholders (and the general public that consisted of corporate raiding mother in laws) shouldered upon him. His job requirements left for his own trappings a lot of stress and a little time. Between a full time job that required vigor, alacrity and a pinch of passion and a family that consisted of a female and a baby, he was left to legislate the little shit that his committee of said woman and child could not seem to formulate or agree upon when he returned home. Everyday his son would wake, don his most comfortable jammies, and proceed to filibuster his mother for the eight hours Larry was at work so that when he came home it was up to Larry to execute the needs of the house. After laundry, dishes, and cooking, Larry had no desire to delve into his real life's work and passion and instead gave in to the loving embrace of resistance. That sultry bitch.
During this ice storm, though, our life-weary patriarch was especially downtrodden. He wasn't afforded the luxury his work release program usually gave him and instead spent the entire spell in his apartment cell. He turned his heat on in the hopes of recreating a comfortable, cozy environment, like those of which he remembered fondly from network television shows of his youth, in order to relax the time away but, instead, he induced upon his person, which is to say prisoner, the condition of claustrophobia. Dirty clothes soaked his apartment and rose from the floor, ankle deep, and the inappropriately hot environment compounded the stagnant feeling. He smelled his dried spit hand again.
Ew, Mildew. He thought. Ugh. I need to go out.
A rustle from inside Brexton’s room closed this window of opportunity and Larry cleared his history tabs and silently replaced her Jergen’s lotion, lest he be caught with any contraband.
It was 4:00 pm and Larry’s day was effectively over. Lock down. Chicken pot pie at 5:00 pm. TV at 6 pm. TV until 9pm and then ‘Lights Out’. He would then be lucky for the whipping of ice crops against his walls then, for if it weren’t for that distraction to break the dark silence, he might have to confront a harsh reality; he was on a voluntary death row with his Resistance his Executioner.
Jonathan Gonnet
The sleet slapped his dirty glass door and began another barrage of attacks.
ugh
Larry hadn't foreseen this disastrous turn of events and his heart dropped at the realization of the message those stinging welts left; his baked in excuse to go out and booze with his buddies was dashed.
He turned on a sore rump and stared at his dirty, phlegm dried computer screen. He clicked to his Augean stable of "favorites" and thought about perusing a free tube site. For an instant a sore member throbbed and he caught a whiff of dried spit, like bad breath, and thought better of it. Winter weather made him amorous.
He wanted to booze. Football was about to be on and he had spent entirely too much time with his family. Don't get it wrong, Larry loved his family. His family consisted of his beautiful, blonde wife who somehow disputed time and motherhood to keep her tight, firm body of youth and his precious son. Brexton: The manifestation of all that is love and peace and innocence and beauty. On the good days. Other times it was the other side of that psychedelic coin- ignorance, maelstroms, and uncommunicated misery, a regular bad trip.
Larry did a pretty decent job at heading a household. Like the leader of a company, Larry was well versed in the expectations that his shareholders (and the general public that consisted of corporate raiding mother in laws) shouldered upon him. His job requirements left for his own trappings a lot of stress and a little time. Between a full time job that required vigor, alacrity and a pinch of passion and a family that consisted of a female and a baby, he was left to legislate the little shit that his committee of said woman and child could not seem to formulate or agree upon when he returned home. Everyday his son would wake, don his most comfortable jammies, and proceed to filibuster his mother for the eight hours Larry was at work so that when he came home it was up to Larry to execute the needs of the house. After laundry, dishes, and cooking, Larry had no desire to delve into his real life's work and passion and instead gave in to the loving embrace of resistance. That sultry bitch.
During this ice storm, though, our life-weary patriarch was especially downtrodden. He wasn't afforded the luxury his work release program usually gave him and instead spent the entire spell in his apartment cell. He turned his heat on in the hopes of recreating a comfortable, cozy environment, like those of which he remembered fondly from network television shows of his youth, in order to relax the time away but, instead, he induced upon his person, which is to say prisoner, the condition of claustrophobia. Dirty clothes soaked his apartment and rose from the floor, ankle deep, and the inappropriately hot environment compounded the stagnant feeling. He smelled his dried spit hand again.
Ew, Mildew. He thought. Ugh. I need to go out.
A rustle from inside Brexton’s room closed this window of opportunity and Larry cleared his history tabs and silently replaced her Jergen’s lotion, lest he be caught with any contraband.
It was 4:00 pm and Larry’s day was effectively over. Lock down. Chicken pot pie at 5:00 pm. TV at 6 pm. TV until 9pm and then ‘Lights Out’. He would then be lucky for the whipping of ice crops against his walls then, for if it weren’t for that distraction to break the dark silence, he might have to confront a harsh reality; he was on a voluntary death row with his Resistance his Executioner.
Jonathan Gonnet
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
A Walk-through of an American Garage Sale: Humanity's Trail of Tears
A Walk-through of an American Garage Sale:
Humanity’s Trail of Tears
Pre-Sale
I was tangentially part of a Garage Sale this past weekend.
Somewhere between my delusions; elaborate and detailed daydreams of a future life of luster weaved with an influx of 500 wind-fallen dollars and waking up at 6 A.M. on a Saturday to stock my inventory of chattel for the municipalities’ Mexicans, I found myself questioning the notion of this whole Garage Sale business.
The whole rigmarole is insulting. We scour our homes for items that we deem unfit for our households; us civilized and sophisticated square feet barons of urban sprawl. With the exaggerated promises of riches we recruit our family members into a hunting party to help us undergo the tiring expedition to locate, extract, and gather any and all of the out of date, unfashionable, ratty and tattered, blemished, broken, stained, abused, and otherwise neglected bullshit that we have been too lazy to artificially inflate the value of, and haul off to, Goodwill. That’s right; we would rather publish our home address and aim it towards the poor and criminally inclined (statistically speaking, of course) and commit a weekend to the practice of broken Spanish with strangers, in the heat, than to cheat on our taxes. You know, Civilized and sophisticated.
(After constructing our great pile, naturally, in the middle of our living room, the patriarch, like a worker ant carrying five times his body weight, loads up with broken electronics and hole-ridden-clothes, carrying the kill piecemeal to the garage. Since, inevitably, the actual sale will keep getting delayed, the hauled carcass’s will fester and (eye) sore from sitting stagnant and being too long in the way. But, that’s okay; we have a few extra inches of closet space and you really can’t buy that kind of real estate! I digress…)
Like a Jewish jeweler of the Upper West Side we scrutinize over each and every item in its entirety, all the while mentally calculating worth. We inspect everything that we ourselves don’t value to keep and, like an insurance claim adjuster, we arbitrarily set a price. We compare against fair market value (of which we are hopelessly unaware) and try and rack foggy memories for what was paid when purchased new (as if one could actually account and depreciate for the value of crap) and then we list the price- We are exceptionally proud of this part. Like kid’s playing dress up in Daddy’s clothes, we are participating in the American economic model and imagining ourselves profitable business men.
The Actual Sale
In the morning, invariably, the first two customers of any respectable garage sale will be black and they will not buy anything. That’s okay; we will see many people on the sale’s first day and will need the energy our first dark and bitter guest will provide us. After pouring a second cup of coffee we prepare to face our second patron; the depressing darkness of early morning that reminds of the precious and much needed sleep that has been nailed to a cross made of mismatched wood, sacrificed for a few extra bucks.
Then, like a biblical omen welcoming the holy morning, the sky opens up and glorious and optimistic light shines. We are committed, refocused and ready- We will have a great sale!
What we aren’t prepared for is that, en masse, people will come and treat our backyard’s like a Ross or a Marshall’s. The invited attendee’s will rifle through our things, disorienting the gypsy-like displays, shoplift and only want to buy the few things in the actual garage, within eyesight, that are not actually for sale. Who signed me up for this? Is that part of my probation?
For all of that, the actual interaction is the worst part. Believe it or not, great anxiety is caused by having someone rummage through your offerings. We immediately second guess our economic acumen and being reevaluating prices.
Is it too much?
What if they balk?
Are they putting that shirt back?
Motherfucker, you’re gross and your clothes suck, you better buy that tattered polo I ruined and no longer want!
I am a pretty fashionable and good looking man. Again, I digress…
Finally, when a customer has tired of wiping Cheetoh’s over the linens they will then send a diplomat, their 7-year old son, and lowball an offer in an attempt to open up negotiations (as cash-only race’s are want to do). We will stand proud.
“Prices are firm”.
Not only do we have the conceit to believe that our contemporaries, our neighbors and peers, will want to buy the hopeless junk that we do not want, but we are wholly insulted that they would have the gall to try and cheat us by countering with such predatory and cheap counter-offers!
At what point did the human principles of commerce and exchange become lined with such bulky arrogance?
I’m not sure how this backwards and unbecoming human behavior pattern came to be. I think with my newly minted $400, I am going to get a booth at TGI Fridays and really investigate these profound academic questions.
Humanity’s Trail of Tears
Pre-Sale
I was tangentially part of a Garage Sale this past weekend.
Somewhere between my delusions; elaborate and detailed daydreams of a future life of luster weaved with an influx of 500 wind-fallen dollars and waking up at 6 A.M. on a Saturday to stock my inventory of chattel for the municipalities’ Mexicans, I found myself questioning the notion of this whole Garage Sale business.
The whole rigmarole is insulting. We scour our homes for items that we deem unfit for our households; us civilized and sophisticated square feet barons of urban sprawl. With the exaggerated promises of riches we recruit our family members into a hunting party to help us undergo the tiring expedition to locate, extract, and gather any and all of the out of date, unfashionable, ratty and tattered, blemished, broken, stained, abused, and otherwise neglected bullshit that we have been too lazy to artificially inflate the value of, and haul off to, Goodwill. That’s right; we would rather publish our home address and aim it towards the poor and criminally inclined (statistically speaking, of course) and commit a weekend to the practice of broken Spanish with strangers, in the heat, than to cheat on our taxes. You know, Civilized and sophisticated.
(After constructing our great pile, naturally, in the middle of our living room, the patriarch, like a worker ant carrying five times his body weight, loads up with broken electronics and hole-ridden-clothes, carrying the kill piecemeal to the garage. Since, inevitably, the actual sale will keep getting delayed, the hauled carcass’s will fester and (eye) sore from sitting stagnant and being too long in the way. But, that’s okay; we have a few extra inches of closet space and you really can’t buy that kind of real estate! I digress…)
Like a Jewish jeweler of the Upper West Side we scrutinize over each and every item in its entirety, all the while mentally calculating worth. We inspect everything that we ourselves don’t value to keep and, like an insurance claim adjuster, we arbitrarily set a price. We compare against fair market value (of which we are hopelessly unaware) and try and rack foggy memories for what was paid when purchased new (as if one could actually account and depreciate for the value of crap) and then we list the price- We are exceptionally proud of this part. Like kid’s playing dress up in Daddy’s clothes, we are participating in the American economic model and imagining ourselves profitable business men.
The Actual Sale
In the morning, invariably, the first two customers of any respectable garage sale will be black and they will not buy anything. That’s okay; we will see many people on the sale’s first day and will need the energy our first dark and bitter guest will provide us. After pouring a second cup of coffee we prepare to face our second patron; the depressing darkness of early morning that reminds of the precious and much needed sleep that has been nailed to a cross made of mismatched wood, sacrificed for a few extra bucks.
Then, like a biblical omen welcoming the holy morning, the sky opens up and glorious and optimistic light shines. We are committed, refocused and ready- We will have a great sale!
What we aren’t prepared for is that, en masse, people will come and treat our backyard’s like a Ross or a Marshall’s. The invited attendee’s will rifle through our things, disorienting the gypsy-like displays, shoplift and only want to buy the few things in the actual garage, within eyesight, that are not actually for sale. Who signed me up for this? Is that part of my probation?
For all of that, the actual interaction is the worst part. Believe it or not, great anxiety is caused by having someone rummage through your offerings. We immediately second guess our economic acumen and being reevaluating prices.
Is it too much?
What if they balk?
Are they putting that shirt back?
Motherfucker, you’re gross and your clothes suck, you better buy that tattered polo I ruined and no longer want!
I am a pretty fashionable and good looking man. Again, I digress…
Finally, when a customer has tired of wiping Cheetoh’s over the linens they will then send a diplomat, their 7-year old son, and lowball an offer in an attempt to open up negotiations (as cash-only race’s are want to do). We will stand proud.
“Prices are firm”.
Not only do we have the conceit to believe that our contemporaries, our neighbors and peers, will want to buy the hopeless junk that we do not want, but we are wholly insulted that they would have the gall to try and cheat us by countering with such predatory and cheap counter-offers!
At what point did the human principles of commerce and exchange become lined with such bulky arrogance?
I’m not sure how this backwards and unbecoming human behavior pattern came to be. I think with my newly minted $400, I am going to get a booth at TGI Fridays and really investigate these profound academic questions.
by Jonathan Gonnet
Monday, October 11, 2010
You know how shit is.
He reached for the toothpaste and remembered he squeezed the last of days ago. He eeked the last of out of the cap and rubbed it on his teeth with his finger. Bar receipts and random shit from barely remembered nights littered the resting place of where a toothbrush used to lay. Hygiene had been disturbed.
A dream
I walked unobstructed from the entrance of the cave, low hung and rounded at the top like that of the typical door of a house, where it opened up like a bottle, refracting light impossibly (in my science’s mind eye) like a bottle too, to what I imagined had to be the earthen core. Bright white snow made up of the ground, beautiful white, undeterred in keeping its cherry no matter how many people walked on her.
“Why have I never seen anything like this!?” I thought to myself as I scanned the den from left to right and up in an effort to take all the sensory shrapnel in, it was like being at a 21st century rave party on ice (hosted by Disney, no doubt).
“Because you have never been invited to anything like this.” Came an audible answer from a beautiful woman clad in a bikini and gloves. She had the long flowing brunette characterized by the Italian Rennaisancial beauty with a body imagined by those perverted with lust for Mermaids, curvy and busty, with contoured, smooth legs in the place of scaly fishparts.
“I’m sorry, what?” my irrational and surprised reply at this psychic womans terse reply.
“Why, simply, because you have never been invited to anything like this.” Parroted the would be talking fish mermaid thing, with the sweet innocence and naaivety of the snow around us we inhabited.
“Well, I can’t imagine you are speaking to me, as you would have no reason to assume I have never been to a party such as this and I neither initated a conversation or look upon you in demand of a reply.”
“You can imagine, which is why you exist and why we are here. It is becoming clear to me why, exactly, you have never seen anything like this, hehehe”
“Be off, reprobate promotional booze woman and speak when spoken to!”
It was at this overture that I decided to take my leave and walk about the biosphere, explore where exactly I am and the consistency of that around me, hoping that a rapp upon the walls would not be answered with the thunk of hollow glass.
“Why have I never seen anything like this!?” I thought to myself as I scanned the den from left to right and up in an effort to take all the sensory shrapnel in, it was like being at a 21st century rave party on ice (hosted by Disney, no doubt).
“Because you have never been invited to anything like this.” Came an audible answer from a beautiful woman clad in a bikini and gloves. She had the long flowing brunette characterized by the Italian Rennaisancial beauty with a body imagined by those perverted with lust for Mermaids, curvy and busty, with contoured, smooth legs in the place of scaly fishparts.
“I’m sorry, what?” my irrational and surprised reply at this psychic womans terse reply.
“Why, simply, because you have never been invited to anything like this.” Parroted the would be talking fish mermaid thing, with the sweet innocence and naaivety of the snow around us we inhabited.
“Well, I can’t imagine you are speaking to me, as you would have no reason to assume I have never been to a party such as this and I neither initated a conversation or look upon you in demand of a reply.”
“You can imagine, which is why you exist and why we are here. It is becoming clear to me why, exactly, you have never seen anything like this, hehehe”
“Be off, reprobate promotional booze woman and speak when spoken to!”
It was at this overture that I decided to take my leave and walk about the biosphere, explore where exactly I am and the consistency of that around me, hoping that a rapp upon the walls would not be answered with the thunk of hollow glass.
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