Since my transcendental elevation from cynical bottoms to the existential plane of universal mazda—the light bulb, symbol of the Idea, I am seeing clearly NOW almost to forever. Only NOW, because about the past I am confused and about the future I know as much NOTHING as the most vaunted soothsayer or scientist. With NOTHING visible in front of me and NOTHING truly remembered in back of me, I am left with the NOW.
In the NOW, what matters?
For many years I was a professional editor in New York City working in several areas of editing, first as a copyeditor, then as an editor, then a senior editor, then an editorial director, and finally as a pharmaceutical ad editor. I started in editing as a freelancer peddling my wares in whatever back-office temp job I could land—and I temped at some of the hottest publishing houses, magazines, ad agencies in NYC—and I worked so hard and was so easily accessible night or day I impressed directors and senior editors and soon I began to get more work than I could handle. I was on my own. I loved freelancing. And during the seventies, one could freelance one’s way into steady enough workloads, most of which you worked on at home (I had a brand-new downtown loft I worked out of, though most of the time my official office was a special table in a window they had set up for me around the corner at a local watering hole). I edited everything from cookbooks to horribly bad poetry manuscripts to the pompous asinine trumpetings of an old upstate New York rich man and ex-U.S. senator and WWII general rambling out his memoirs before the approaching Alzheimer’s took him under and left him more goony bird than important homo sapien. In my best freelancing years, I made easily $500 a week, always getting a check every Friday, taking it right to the check cashing place where I had an account, cashing it, and heading straight back to my watering hole office for a little successful celebration that lasted until Sunday afternoon when I once again had to come to my senses and start editing on the pile of another week’s worth of work, buckling down until the eagle flew on the next Friday. I swore I would never again work for anybody except ME, MYSELF, and I. Do I hear a drumroll and a salute?
It was all me. My being the important being; my individuality my freedom. And I believed in NOTHING then. I had learned in college as a student of sociology that all was darkness and that only in light did we progress—nights were given over to shivering in fear and alarm and days were given over to being creative, to thinking, to getting ideas, light bulbs over heads symbolizing a light for the coming darkness. Bringing light to darkness is God’s first creation in all the holy books of the world. The more light bulbs you have, the more light you have. Eventually, the light bulb eliminates DARKNESS—and or NOTHINGNESS. Our individual space is our place in the sun. We protect ourselves from the darkness; in the light we are so aggressively idealistic we have to be controlled. “Stiffled,” as Archie Bunker used to put it.When I was finally tossed out of my profession on my ear, a part of my dismissal had to do with me being out of the modern mode, the new work world that insists we're all members of TEAMS, which, of course, is bullshit, except TEAMS keep workers in line--TEAMS following the B.S. adage that two heads are better than one. What, though, if there's only one light bulb over just one of those heads? That's usually the case when it comes to TEAMS in the corporate structure. They are there to take the individuality out of the worker. I don't like that. I'm an individual; I work better left alone. My line of work demands separation. TEAMS handicap a guy like me.
The irony here is that as a man I love being alone but as a wolf I need my fellow wolves for certain advantages in hunting, which is the main occupation of a wolf.
This is becoming a nice writer's puzzle for me. I've got a lone-wolf-contrarian versus a member of a tribe or wolfpack; one the shepherd the other the lamb. Besides, I haven't really gotten deep in this existential atheism yet; I love the sound of that. It means a believer in NOTHING doesn't believe in any SUPERNOTHING either, only the darkness of pure NOTHING. So when I turn on all my light bulbs what I see is me and all my shadows, the "I's" that behold me through my self--the Id, the Ego, the Superego; those that are NOW.
I said I am writing poetry again.
Coming: the Great I AM.
To be continued as everything is continued until it is discontinued.
for The Daily Growler
The Word From Baghdad--The Idiots Were Meeting in Jordan While in Iraq
From the Washington Post:
But Iraqis on both sides of their nation's sectarian divide report worrisome signs that the conflict will soon evolve into pitched battles between large armed groups.
One secular Shi'ite speaking on the telephone from Baghdad said Shi'ite militias were massing in preparation for a large offensive against Sunnis in the capital.
"They had a big militarylike ceremony today for the Mahdi militia, to show their force. They are making themselves ready for something big -- protests, fighting, killing," said the Shi'ite.
A secular Sunni in close contact with one insurgent faction, said rebel Sunnis were also trying to form alliances among militias for a big push in the city against the Shi'ites, including more raids on government buildings.
Our truly dumbass, phony "president" says we're staying the course in Iraq until "the mission is accomplished," his words in Jordan where today the phony "president" of Iraq got pissed at his master and tried to bite him back. In the meantime, Unka Dick was summoned to Saudi Arabia where the Bin Ladens are getting pissed off at Bush Baby is letting the filthy dog Shi'ites take over the country and the only Shi'ites close by are the Iranians--the Saudis are Sunnis--oh boy, what fun we have created overthere. Unka Dick's nose is deep up the asshole of the ruling Saud. We are owned by Saudi Arabia, if perhaps you didn't already know that.
Pappy Bush is now stepping in to solve the Iraq situation with his own study group paid for by, guess who? We the People. Pappy's picking up a staff and a few million bucks to help on his retirement--how old that old F anyway?
Be Glad You Don't Live in Baghdad, Unless You Do...
for The Daily Growler