So many people that I know from L.J. are going through financial crap these days. I guess it would be creepy to list who has beeing going through what which has resonated with my own struggles, but there are those who, with perfectly good resumes, can't get a decent job, others who are valiently striving to live by their art, who are being swatted down by the Mundane Machine, others who just can't get a toehold on that first rung out of economic chaos. All of these folks are intelligent, talented people. None can catch a break. Why? Because the machine is made that way. The mundane world is a huge web of snares and limits (like those dystopian visions where the bright are dulled, the fleet are hobbled, the strong are drained) created by the sleeping mass for the explicit purpose of smothering the bright, the creative, the Gurdjieffian awake. We are anathema unto it, and it to us. A conversation has been floating over in ana's site about the possibility of getting some communal thing going somewhere ... but as somebody already has pointed out, you can't get far enough away from The World to be able to avoid it bitch-slapping you because it can. Bleh. Well, here's a poem sort of on this subject ... taste the bile!
SICK POOL OF DECEIT
so deep the descent, so relentless the pace, we can not stand against the blast, we can not survive this vile surprise attack; all our resources frozen, all our options dropped
nothing remains for us to exist, all pathways are blasted, all shelters destroyed; they scorch the earth and poison the well, igniting the air so we burn with our screams
damned race, damned world, cowardly bastards, sick pool of deceit, your hatred for us is without any bound so threatened by those who'd uncover the lies and open your eyes
I am so battered, so bloodied, so torn from decades of battle, ages of strife, how could I know you were lying in wait with a doomsday attack to eradicate me?
nothing is left except for my death; you sleeping monstrosity, I hope that you reap full course of my anger, full force of my rage, be they physically sent or from beyond the grave