Missive the Sixty-Ninth
Meaninglessness in the
Electric Opium Bowl.
DATELINE: December 6, 2001, at 1212 hours CDT.
Conway, Arkansas, USA
By D. Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles
CornDancer & Company
Here in electric chaos, I find a suitable escape. I become essential. Idea, concept, and synthesis merge to create immediate meaning. My moment matters.
(All the same, I've got to tell you: The mainstream hacks and entrenched corporate editors are mean to me. Spiteful to the core.)
Over there. . . . In the hallway. . . . 'Neath a naked crystal halogen bulb stands Major D., last surviving veteran of the Boer War, a most worthy and trusted counselor. He shouts: "The very premise of this popular tale about Afghani military ineptitude is flawed: The Northern Alliance is another Eastern Establishment illusion. It exists, I swear by Buller's sword, only in the minds of certain blowhards of US newsrooms. I doubt if you've heard the Pentagon admirals, Secretary Rumsfeld, or the Commander-in-Chief refer to Afghani fighting forces as the Northern Alliance. It's a media term, a self-concocted fantasy. The straw man is raised on the low horizon, then picked apart by its cowardly creators to justify a private agenda."
Is this what we've come to? Has anyone the clue as to why the old warrior went there? Do you suspect the Major's been smoking from a Pashtun opium bowl?
Yes. Return to the premise and ask: Might we recover, brush off the dust, and climb back upon the stallion? The equine beast threw us off under the cruel hope of early spring. You wandered elsewhere, somewhere — I canna see you na more. Am I presumptuous to suppose there ever was such a wondrous entity as a we? Yes, it's difficult. Choppy like the cold waves of the sea.
"Hey, dumbass.... Your verbiage is impressive but meaningless," the racist professional caucasoid Tim Wise wrote from his apologist bedpost, which was wrought from cane by descendants of slaves and finished with the stain of leftist white-folk guilt.
Mr. Wise? Wethinks, surely, he must be one of de mainstream hacks. He must be ridin' on the Ship of Fools, an unsinkable tub in a private sea of racial delusion. The blushing blueswhore sings about it, the forlorn ship, between her infinite lines of illicit coke.
"Unlike you..." Mr. Wise continued, flinging his barb at Baldwin, "...whose lamentations about nothing are published on your very own website, I have real publishers for my work. Your missives 'number 1 thru whatever,' are some of the most truly pedantic strings of words I have ever seen in print. Hyperbole means obvious exaggeration... that seems to pretty well sum up your extremely wordy missives on your narcissistic website... (it means excessive self love)... and anyone who puts their own writings on a website and sends them to people who sign up for them, as if anyone would really care what he/she thought, pretty clearly is guilty of narcissism."
EDITOR'S NOTE: The ellipses belong to Mr. Wise. On behalf of our readers, we thank him for defining the more difficult terms. Now he can claim to have rubbed shoulders, however unwillingly, with unwashed wannabees in the realm of unreal publishing.
Well, I'll admit, I did bushwhack the unWise youngster. When he bounced-up off his ego and launched his counter assault, the rooster was downright spiteful 'n vulgar.
Meaningless? About nothing? Real publishers?
"I suspect the little sh*t took you seriously," saith Oksob, slyly, from his smooth walnut bench in the Opposite Loft.
Here in Unreal City, several leagues beyond the fences of Nod, meaninglessness abounds. Nothing matters so very much except the creeping desolation, the falling towers, the fits of coughing and outbreaks of rash and fever. A few Publishers have been known to wander through the gloom, but they are aimless and ashamed. I've seen them pause 'tween sighs to draw fervent conclusions on a mottled wailing wall.
I quote N. L. Glinka, 1958, Mir Publishers Moscow, 1. Matter and Its Motion: "Notwithstanding all the diverse ways in which various forms of motion can transform into other ones, a fundamental law of nature — that of the eternity of matter and its motion, is accurately observed. This law governs all kinds of matter and all forms of its motion; no kind of matter and no forms of motion can be obtained from nothing or converted into nothing."
Who is Tim Wise if not nothing, if not no big deal? "I knew John Galt," the Major said. "If I were to see him tonight, I'd say, Mr. Wise, I knew the great John Galt, and Sir, you're no John Galt."
I am thinking of the lady of the lowlands, pondering her imagined climax. I am thinking of unity, of wholeness. Not far from her quilted bed flows a tamed river.
I've blown three bridges behind me since falling off the stallion in early spring. It is trying, the blowing of bridges, but a remorseless necessity. The blasts destroy grey areas between a righteous man and the Quarrelers.
I swear: There is a black at Cricket Song, a black as pure as the vein of coal, the ink of the octopus, and the new moon midnight. There is a white at Cricket Song, the white of quartz and crystal, the white of the fluttering dove. Countless million shades of grey give rise to the smoke of relative illusion, which shrouds the colour of blood.
How many themes can one thinker muster to satiate her mission of urgency? How fast can he walk without going in a circle, without spinning back again on the path once travelled? Dare we repeat our secrets to one another?
WATCH FOR MISSIVE THE SEVENTIETH
sometime. Maybe.
Once I wrote according to an internal deadline.
It worked well enough.
Now I glide in presumptuous luxury,
awaiting communion with a Muse.
She has a name and I know it.
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| ©2001 by David Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles |
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