Surround yourself with positive people
who will encourage you.


Sun 1.8.12


It was a choice between pictures of scenes from different regions of France, Frank Lloyd Wright homes or elephants as wall calendar for my bedroom. I chose the elephants. The January picture is of a mother and baby. Did you know that the whole troup of elephants whoops and hollers at the birth of a new member? I read a few years ago that African elephants had declared war on humans, not only did they attack villages that had attacked them, but any village, seeking to destroy all ivory hunters; they, who will kill a humongous pachyderm for its tusks; the idiots who think its powder will give them sexual potency. There, you motherfuckers, Don't mess with us! I was delighted to read about it.

Speaking of sex, I am rereading Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn. Henry, one of the world's great fornicators, did not like or respect women. He wasn't too fond of men either, (although more respectful,) or the human race in particular. Throughout the book he refers to women as cunts. This cunt, that cunt, the Jewess cunt, the black cunt, this was in the twenties when such language was not allowed. Needless to say his books, both the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn were banned in this country.

In many other ways, I identify with Henry because, like me he was an anomaly. His views on the world, society, human beings, was at odds with everyone. A brilliant man who saw through the sham we call reality, ethics, morality. As a little kid I could see that what we were being told about Russia was a crock. The people were mistreated and unhappy. They didn't have consumer goods like we had. I knew happiness was not to be found in consumer goods. It was all a lie. And then God up in heaven, this sissy of a man whose picture was plastered in books, whose statues were to be found in churches. And hell, something invented by a sadistic moron. Reality was a paradigm created to give us a sense of stability; it wasn't real.

But I digress, getting back to the topic of sex, Henry's descriptive sex scenes are always hilarious and/or bizarre. The book was his finger in the eye of prudish America. He wouldn't write that book today because it lacks shock value; everything is permitted now, and nothing meaningful happens.

Everything is permitted, but the people are completely ignorant of sex. As in Henry Miller's epoch, sex is still controlled by the government. We are bombarded from morning till night, at work, at play, at prayer, there is titillation; we are being titillated to death. In posters, movies, magazines, TV, from the pulpit, the dais, the schoolroom, people walk around exposing as much as is legally possible of their erogenous zones in desperate pleas to convince us they are sexually powerful. It's a lie; they are powerless.

They have sold their sexual power to their rulers who command that only those who own a Camaro are sexy, those who buy Lay's potato chips, Downy Fabric Softener, eat at Batali's Italian Restaurant, shop at Bloomingdale's work in technology, buy S.O.S. Soap Pads, own Apple computers, I Pads, I Pods, Kindles, Swindles, the list is endless and the stakes get higher and higher, caviar, champagne, stretch limousine, the villa in the South of France. They will work all of their lives accomplishing the most mind numbing, repetitive drudgery, to produce and acquire these iconic goods, giving away their precious sexual power for the privilege of being anointed, Hot! Sexy!

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Current favorite this past month has been Wake Up II