MdM

THE "I-GOTTA-BE-ME," THING
^{THE EVER-EVOLVING WEB THING}

^{PURPOSEFUL CRINGE 2023} 

rraycroft7@gmail.com

MUST BE ME

^{BUT IT MIGHT BE YOU}

It might be you too, or you two.. It might be these two, or those too

and it might just be me

AND I UNDERSTAND AT LEAST that the website states something at the bottom to the effect, "all rights reserved," (by me), but I don't really consider any "intellectual knowledge," to be a thing, much less "mine," to hoard... (idiocy either)... I'd like to think the heart of the child is inherently "good," but maybe the mind convinces itself that's not a smart way to conduct every affair... for example, hunting, it would be a little foolish for the lion to shout out, "HEY!  I'm a lion over here in the tall grass," to every passing zebra, out of kindness, and we could go into the whole idea some people are "snakes," or "sheep," and therefore "of-a-different-kind," in which case kindness is unnecessary; the point we need to make is, no, none of this blah blah belongs to me, and even if it did I'd take it out back and set it on fire.. if it was a thing.  And though it might be considered "foolish," to simply "give away," all my best stuff, I'd like to make it known I'm open to receiving gifts, and if people need to make that experience, "in-return-for," that's entirely up to them, even if that qualification makes it not a gift anymore... as far as "making a living," goes, I am receiving public funds enough to feed and shelter my self... I'd rather not get involved in that issue as a political matter mainly because I can see both sides of pretty much any issue equally and to engage in that debate with my self would take up time I could be making stuff to give away; I couldn't hope to "pay back," the sustenance given me all along... I can't lie to the point I'd say I was, "grateful," since, as it stands, somebody took money away from somebody else and gave it to me... which is pretty fucked up, so, I couldn't claim to be "righteous," enough to starve myself to death either.  And while we're on the topic, the question of my suffering a personally debilitating "mental illness," (warranting assistance from the wider "American" public), I think things like that are better decided by others, as I cannot decide; if "successful treatment," is evidence of a genuine "illness," (we've given up on the idea of finding an actual "cure"), even that is up to them that come to know me; I think as much as we'd all like to "help," or direct or influence or motivate or inspire ourselves or others to get where we want them to be... there's not a lot of evidence to support the notion that that is what happens very much.    

^{GONE FOREVER
ink and oil paint on plywood}

SEEMS LIKE ME TO BEGIN WITH something that cannot be retrieved from the heap.. as Art goes.. because we've decided to pretty much devote our self to creating Art, (here on out); we figure putting our hands to use in an effort to make the walls a bit prettier, more tolerable, and less hateful would be pretty okay.  Along the theme of "beauty no one will ever see," GONE FOREVER is literally gone forever because we cut it up and used it to make a rolling cart for a friend.  Beauty no one will ever see is quite important to us.  Of course, no "artist," is at all equipped to "critique," his own Art, and for that we can only say "critique shmittique;" critique our balls.  Life was too consumed already with excuses and qualifiers... time is short.

Thank you science, but people prefer much more to still believe they are going to live forever, if only a cloud or puff of smoke, or random atoms; we pretty much figure "eternity," (outside of the immediate "now"), is only ever going to exist in somebody else's memory, (that "personal," eternal existence we all can't seem to live without), as a concept we would very much like to drive from our own.  Thanks to science we know pretty much everything is bullcrap and we might as well go back to believing the uterus gets stuck in the cranium as an explanation for madness...  and we might as well laugh about that.  The extinction of man most of all.  Because we gotta figure on some level we'll all be going by the way of most every other creature ever made to walk on this earth.. (maybe some other "earth," will send some little green men here someday to pick through our piles of plastic and scratch their green heads.  We hope they find our little buried "time capsule," with our first condom... maybe they can extract some DNA... and start the whole mess all over again... or cure cancer for us... or just plain go, "ew.. that's gross.").

We stand behind our assertion that sex is gross for everybody and we'd all pretty much be glad to be done with it; we are making the assertion that all creation is concerned with sex and little else, beyond a good sandwich.  Rather, how anyone could be at all down on sex is a mystery to us, but if there is a genuinely "universal," thing, culture wise, being down on sex is that thing.   In our own culture, we're not sure at all how connecting or restricting sex to marriage could ever have appeared to be a good idea.  How many more generations of losers do we have to look at to wake up?  Can somebody please point out one person in whom sexuality is a success?  I don't think anybody can.  And I don't blame anyone for pursuing vigorously some asinine agenda to put everything sexual back in a box.  I went with a jail counselor once who was telling me about a kid that got arrested for masturbating in his front yard... she agreed with his philosophy while I stopped listening, or was suffering some nervous system thing during the conversation.. I think he made a political persecution event of the arrest.  I mean, we gotta hope the authorities reached him in time, at least!

If there's a point to the eggs and sperm thing this morning... we've "identified," what science is calling, "blocker sperm," or "soldier sperm," and that's pretty far out.. "seek-and-destroy," sperm.. and anybody unwilling to surmise anything from that implication... is a coward.  Yeah, we saw a great piece on the chimpanzees of someplace, north someplace.. and Jane Goodall.. (we think).. about how "peaceably," the chimps lived in real harmony.. then Jane went home.. but it turns out she went home a bit early in the study.. and missed the whole "splitting-into-groups," thing; it seems the hoard of chimpanzees got too big for the berry trees to support and became two groups.. and further filming captured the "war parties," and marching to the "perimeter," the "border," and luring some unsuspecting chap to his slaughter.. (and rotisserie spike).. oh wait, chimps haven't mastered fire.. yeah.. one by one... (we posted it on facebook).

It's because my own mom died the most obscure death in the most anonymous of circumstances.. beauty no one saw but me.  Not even in my traitorous fucking family, who had her right there for a moment, for all moments and all time.. (might as well have been).. she wasn't going anywhere.. until the shock treatments.. after that she was never coming back.  But I remember.  I remember the school year of 1963 because it was just me and her those few months, all day together, no siblings, no dad, no rotisserie spikes.  She laughed, you cunts.. you lousy silly cunts.. she smiled and laughed and you weren't there to see or hear.

I WILL ADMIT TO HAVING HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH of that, "you're-going-to-hell," thing, and I will give it to those guys, (the "artists"), willing to really put themselves out there.. (in today's vocabulary); it's rather difficult to grasp on to the whole "selfie," thing.. (even with clothes on).. 

Well, anyway, this piece began as "MUST BE ME," and we should probably go with our first instinct, but who can really bear the "unedited," (unperfected), piece of Art?  Not me.  I mean, God love children's Art.. but... maybe about five pages into anyone's diary.. (and I always think of the "isn't-it-ironic-song," girl when I want to kill myself).. I think one of my favorite jokes I've ever heard was, "hey, Allistonisharialoastasha... listen... not every page in your diary would make a good song."  

But we hate being mean.. unless it inspires someone to burn about 99% of everything they think is good Art.  I can't help thinking of my first love... 

Narcissism is popular.  (times have changed again).  We were going to tie this in but the mind goes "poof," more often now than ever before.  Something about Jesus.. and the "wait-'til-your-father-gets-home," thing.  Although I sincerely can't remember my mother ever saying that.  My brother and sister yes, (the older ones), but not my mother, and certainly not my little brother... so the whole "hierarchy," thing remains ever on the back burner.. and "defying God," (that was it!).  Waiting around for Jesus/God/Father/Son.. (and "Holy Spirit").. to get home.  Must be me... the only one feeling a bit stupid around here.

"MUST DIE ME," is little too heavy for the whole "must-be-me," thing.. except that like love and marriage you can't feel good for a minute without wrecking it.. because defying "marriage," (at least as it's trickled down to the U.S. understanding), is still to defy "God," which can be boiled down to that married couple that spawned you and me.. if we should say, "thank God for science," (even "psychology"), it's good to know, (you'd think anyway), that the small child feels this way toward his parent when he's too little to identify "feelings," in any conscious way.. (to analyze anything).. or maybe I'm wrong.. maybe the infant is way ahead of us; maybe the infant "processes," and "configures," input data, (the parent), at such lightening speed, (the whole east and west light up at once), and knows exactly which power play to call... without ever having to think about any of it.  This would make the whole "must-make-the-boy-question-his-reality," thing necessary and good for the baby.. otherwise he's not going to fit in.

All that's left to do really is "go with it," in answer to that "publish-yes-or-no," question.. do we make the diary wholly and completely and perfectly public?  Because it isn't fair to bash perfectionism on any level.  It is not fair to anyone involved.  

Especially when we can't write a decent essay anymore.  

-to be continued

THE CRIPPLE

THE CRIPPLE HAS BEEN BOUNCING AROUND in my head for about forty years.  It began as a piece of comedy, (1985-1986), written without "plot," (as the writing of fiction should demand), beyond "mishap," or continual mishap, with no underlying "meaning," or purpose, as that more or less defined my experience with life to that point.  Over the years we've, (the ghosts and I have), revisited the story, made new attempts to create a piece of literature worth the time it might take to read, and, (as per usual), gotten discouraged, distracted, etc. etc., so as to forget the whole thing.  It is quite likely the main purpose of the "work," was to put out in the world, (and into my being), justification, or soothing.. an excuse or explanation that was brilliant enough to complete the job of dismissing any evidence of my being a useless "fuck up."  Of course, with any piece of Art, the "artist," runs the risk of finding out he's not that good at it... that little added piece of experience never stops begging to be avoided... and then the years pass and he hears so much talking about the years passing that he wants to rip his ears out... he thinks about that for a minute or two more... imagines a man literally ripping his ears off his head... it might be funny; it might not be funny.

And there are more such stories, (in here); we tend to tell ourselves that when we become bedridden we'll really sit down, (lie there), and get all these things on paper, and then a couple minutes later we are certain that if we ever lost our legs that would be it... we would have to wheel ourself out into the woods and have that be it in a real way for once.  We've renamed the story of course, many times, ("THE BIG IT," comes to mind; we've recently noticed someone owns THEBIGIT-dot-com), but it is always the same story, or different chapters in the same book.  Luckily, that "self-deprecation," sort of humor grows less appealing over time, (as there is no real excuse for "failure," beyond never trying to do anything too much... I think as a group we deny and cower from the notion we only ever learn anything of value through personal failure and disappointment; we still want to get life out of a book somehow... so it's on and on then; we just got the impulse to say a few things about our ever "hero," ("Murry Althausen" - pronounced "alt-ae-zn")... so what the hell?  We might as well.  We will warn the reader, however, before continuing, there is still no plot... there's a "hero," of course and some antagonism... lot's of that... conflict... we hope to avoid "static," (if that's a real element), we're not sure of the elements anymore... (the elements necessary to the construction of proper "drama;" pretty much anybody with a gun can create some excitement now).

^{MURRY WASN'T EXPECTING HIS PAINTING TO GO ANYWHERE
209mm x 288mm - ink and watercolor on "rehabilitation program folder cover"}

IT WAS JUST FEBRUARY when our story began, or really began; "JUST," like when a guy is waiting for a piece of mail or a package that is expected to arrive in June, practically four months away... or again, "JUST," as in "every-day," ordinary, run-of-the-mill time, and not the absolute coldest or mildest February ever recorded in all of history... or possibly, "JUST," the way we as people might hope a lot of things are not what they are and every day we are faced with insurmountable evidence they just are... we could say in was, "JUST," with a capital "J," meaning something along the lines of "deserved," or "karmically influenced;" a JUST "denouement," (this February), to the just preceding ragged winter, really righteous for real, and not at all "lax," or unequal, like the lesser, morally-deficient months... like May or August, (a real zinger of an ending)... we could speculate that it being just February, among all the other things it could have been, like an andiron, or a pot of clams... it was February... and then, in the end, we can wonder if it's not all these things at once, as it was for the hero of the story, Murry Althausen.

Murry was experiencing a rather dismal set of circumstances toward the end of winter that year, worse circumstances, Murry imagined, could not be imagined.  He was lost.  And if it does not seem too impertinently clever to say that he found himself lost, we'll say that, but must clarify immediately that it was not "lost," or "confused," in the "moral," or ethical sense, he was accustomed to that; no, Murry Althausen was lost geographically, a thing he found wholly intolerable and completely unacceptable to himself.

"Fools!"

^{A.N.  -   We, (the author), should say we got the story from Murry's own mouth, and, furthermore, have been writing those two paragraphs for about 25 years.. meaning that's the end of our hoping or trying to be an interesting story teller; we'll be lucky to relate the important parts.   And we realize we might be accused of trying to adopt an old "folksy," wise-man voice along the lines of Mark Twain... yeah.. no.. I don't think we ever finished a Mark Twain story.   We're not suggesting there is going to be a plot, or that anyone should be hoping for relatable experience.. much less insight into life.. (ha!).. or do much mental gymnastics on the whole "hero/antihero" field of play.. no.. we got the story from Murry Althausen's own mouth and it made us laugh, and that's that.}

He was looking around for something familiar but finding it difficult to focus.

"My eyeballs were actually pulsating with rage," is how Murry described it.  "Plus they were beginning to freeze.  And don't let anybody tell you salty tears won't turn into icicles on your face.. but I don't know if saltwater freezes.. maybe just not as fast."

Murry had been out walking since early morning and it was then late afternoon.  Nothing was familiar. 

"Why why why do I listen?"

He had been studying the people walking just ahead of him and trying to enjoy it.  This was the main piece of the piece of advice he was hoping would not turn into another "fools' errand;" it had been suggested he take a walk for no reason except to notice.. well.. the earth, (we guess), to hear Murry say exactly why he was out there to begin with, walking, in February, was not always a concise piece of listening, but you got the gist."

"Morons."

He was taking in the "winter fashions," (he said).. and not liking it at all.

"The only discernable flannel was a piece of plastic flannel at the top of the girl's boots.. and the rest of the whole thing was like some variation on a shade of black that made black not want to be black anymore."