Where we are in the world:
--Israel and Palestine are still playing the game of Last Man Standing;
--Religious Nuts of all stripes are still playing the game of Last Man Standing;
--Jingoistic Politicians are still playing the game of Last Man Standing on top of your grave.
Let us climb from our graves, shake the dirt from our hair, and wake up to a new year.
Sunrise, 8 a.m.
...So I watched the news today. Newscaster mentioned the American Dream. I gagged.
We constantly have dreams pushed down our throats, but what is a dream but a thing enjoyed while unconscious? The American Dream. Dr. King’s “I have a” dream. No you don’t. You don’t have it. You don’t own it. It is not a part of you, you just view it.
You’re a slave, you puppety-fuck you.
Wake up from the American Dream. Which, as greed is the official currency of the world now, I guess we can call the Worldwide Dream. Somnambulism is not life, so I say this with as much love as possible: wake the bleeping-hell up, people. You are alive right now. There are no ephemeral dreams. There is only YOU and what YOU do, and you can see the steps because your eyes are wide open, and you can see where you’re going because you are not asleep. Live the Now, not the Dream, and right now if you’re sitting on your butt with some future glory in your nebulous mind it’s my duty to say wait for the breeze to waft it away.
The Worldwide Dream is not about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. It’s not about “if you can make it there you can make it anywhere.” It’s not about hard work for the sake of the work, or sacrifice as needed. It is about reward. The Worldwide Dream is the carrot on the stick in front of a billion horses, blinders included. The Worldwide Dream is being whispered into your sleeping ears by clever people who have no intention of ever letting you whisper too.
The Worldwide Dream is a lottery ticket.
Newsguy mentioned the American Dream. Is there a French Dream? Is there an Italian Ideal? Have you forgotten that you are alive right now? In West Mobutu Land, do you think their news programs devote time to the enduring strength of the Mobutu Dream? We’re weird in this country ‘tis of thee. Jingoistic or stupid with tiny spaces between both. Our politicians wear flag lapels like communicator uniforms at a geek convention. The Fifth Estate (that’s the so-called news outlets to you) presents little more than Hollywood movie theatre previews in the guise of journalism: In a world of storms and rain, Doppler 7000 is on the move! The American Dream is a caustic, festering thing with a sash around its waist and a tiara on its head, doing fake hand waves for the indiscriminate cameras.
The American Real is where you should be. The Worldwide Real. The Universal Real. Do what you wanna do but be who you are. Thugs, fornicators, thieves, politicians—-they’re not born, they’re manufactured, and are complicit in the manufacture. Barring mental wiring going haywire, that’s not who they are. Bereft of doofus trappings they’re folks who want a simple life. That’s the true American Dream, a simple life. No need for beer commercials, stupid sex or news designed to reinforce strife. No need to harm others in any way, shape or form. A simple life is you, who you love, and what you love to do. Mix, match and alter as necessary.
For the simplistic, these musings will come off as anti-American, which is practically just short of going down on the devil, but here’s the thing: a cool neighborhood can be messed up by one idiot family. A few idiot corporations insinuating themselves far and wide mess up a nation. America is a cool place. When America’s not being Idol or trying to prove it Can Dance, or creating a string of pop star girls to run through the Soft Porn Machine (Lohan-Miley-Britney: Hey,Disney, leave those kids alone; all in all they’re just another brick in your wall—- Pink Floyd reference for those mired in High School Musical Hell)—-but when America is not being stupid America quietly produces genius. Sheryl Underwood. Neil DeGrasse Tyson. Christopher Moore. Prince when he’s not being “Prince”. Josh Ritter. Percival Everett. A million intelligent women you’ve never met, every one of them sexy as a lovely day. Hell, we’ve got Stephen my-brain-kicks-your-brain’s-ass Hawking, delving deeply into the mysterious strata of existence (yes, he’s not American but I claim him anyway under the banner of World Peace). Life on the surface of things is just that: surface. Meaningless baubles dropped where they’re easily seen. The American Worldwide Dream is an excellent marketing tool, but when it comes to treasure, well, you have to dig for treasure. You have to go below the surface. That, my friends, is called keeping it real, nothing to do with the idiot notion that rots the brains of those who find it difficult to maintain pants above ass cracks. Keeping it real means eschewing (look it up) the ready-made, prepackaged lives available for sale at your local Fuckmart, for viewing on your local cable station, for replication in your local neighborhood. America is a wonderful country to live in when it’s not trying to engage the masses in pimps up, hoes down. When living in an America (world) that is awake and alive it’s like running through the most magnificent library not knowing what precious information you’ll find next. You just might find a book of relentless beauty. You just might find an idea personally never noticed before. You just might find music that is subliminally God. You just might find the most beautiful girl in the world. You just might find precisely what you’ve always looked for, and I say looked, not dreamt, because aren’t we talking about life lived eyes open?
The world stands behind me. And it is eager to see you. This isn’t an argument in semantics. The American Dream purports to be about getting an education so you can (fill in the blank), but when’s the last time you actually talked to somebody educated? Who transfixed and fascinated you with the nearly visible wheels and gears turning in their minds? Not a rhetorical question, folks. We’re a nation (world again) of doofs. High-paid, upper echelon doofs and bottom-feeding, self-defeating doofs; I place us between them because, dear Revolutionary, you and I have a connection now, don’t we? At some point during the dream a few of us are supposed to shout “I’m awake, I made it! The dream is over!” Education is supposed (read that while making finger quotes) to take us to a place where trials and tribulations, heartaches and pains are no longer a part of our everyday, but didn’t even Moses get barred from the Promised Land? And rumor has it he had a hell of a teacher. Education is nothing if all it does is fawn after dreams.
I dream about a Rosario sandwich and she's the meat. I dream about outracing the Flash. I dream about finding a fun, deserted island to live out the rest of my days with the ever-lovin' wife. I see with eyes open me writing till I’m old and content, not famous, not rich, but comfortable in having made a difference. I see younger family members outgrowing the need for me as they assume paths of greatness. That is not my American Dream, that is my goal. Mine. Not by committee, not by proxy. It is what is within me. It is mine. Shakespeare wrote “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state… yadda yadda yadda” he meant that there's no sympathy for those without dreams. Don’t beweep in it. Exult in it. The dream is supposed to mean freedom. The only freedom there is exists within the mind, unfettered by notions of the good life just out of reach. The dream never existed. It’s ok to wake up.
Once you’re awake, we’ll start the day.