At
first I had the idea to write this column about the so-called Iraqi War, the
“Operation Iraqi Freedom”, the nullification of the “Beast
of Baghdad”, Gulf War 2, Showdown with Saddam,
but as you can probably tell that type of bullshit is done, kaput, spent.
The whole thing is such a magnificent lie and any shred of logic is on spin
cycle. Observe - your television is not that at all, it is actually a washing
machine; thus your brain on this subject amounts to little more than shitty
underwear.
I
haven’t started clocking time officially yet in the court, but I figure
I will tell you what I know, what I feel, what I predict. We can see later how
super damn wrong I was. Nowhere more does the mold grow thicker than at the
Judicial
Complex of Providence. Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason could be figured
out in a year and Wittgenstein’s Tractatus
in a month while waiting there alone. I must submit as a disclaimer that my
feelings on crime are strictly synonymous with those of Clarence Darrows; I
couldn’t say it better than he. Read “The Story of My Life” by
Darrow to know what I mean, and bite an avocado, tomato, sprouts with mayonnaise
on wheat sandwich while you’re at it. So that is that, the Defender is
a noble thing in my naive opinion. It means protecting the goal from attack,
lying on one’s back to not get hit; Yin/Yang, Royce
Gracie, and the moon ad infinitum - everybody should know that the best
defense wins. If an asshole attacks you, you must have best defense to win.
Fight or Flight, it is the defensive expert who wins.
The
lingering wait makes all clients sick; it keeps them sick, and tortures them
to the point of mental famish. Those who were nutty on the way in get better
for a spell, those SSI needing folk whose self-imposed denial of reality boosts
their psychotic notions of grandeur (a symptom as we know). The lingering wait
cures all of these symptoms. Of course, they feel like they have a case!
A
universe is formed and work begins on Monday. If there is any meaning to our
idiotic existence it is found here, Soul is in the bowl, World in the water,
Self no more than what churns around the porcelain. An Exodus flush… Don’t
get me wrong, read your Zinn, your Chomsky
(please do!), your Nader,
Fisk, Ehrenreich,
your Dickens even… they knew something about the mold so eat it up. It
is a good struggle and one can always learn, gain comfort, survive, and be “good”
if one knows what their problem is. But that has little to do with why it is,
or what power one has to work with in dealing with it at all. These are the
type of questions that aren’t factored into the pissing contest. One does
not prove that there is no God simply by defeating every single argument for
God. These folks (even if they did refute all arguments) don’t even begin
to support their own argument: they don’t even engage it with their long
range squirting. None of this matters, but I can tell you about something that
does.
The
Orwellian cleansing has left us American idiots (in the raw meaning of the term,
i.e. non-civic citizens) sitting in the washer, never getting to the dryer.
Therefore mold grows, with the deepest musk of valerian root, the stench of
grandpa-fart, like a toilet left shut for a two-week vacation away from home.
Yes, the mold grows in the toilet, all around the rim it grows from apparently
nowhere correct?
The actual place I am referring to is located in downtown Providence, RI near
Capriccio’s but its presence is almost everywhere, and in everything to
some degree in my opinion. If you stumble out of the Keg
Room, if that is what you do, you will cross the street and be at the mercy
of this gargantuan building’s shadow. Like the Registry there are the typical
clientele, the poor, the corn rowed, the corroded, the weak, the construction
booted with sweatpants cutoff shorts wearers, the handicapped, the rebels, the
people who smoke and run their cigarettes through the metal detectors hoping
the aluminum in the packaging won’t reveal the drugs still flowing in their
bloodstreams from the night before, the K-mart odorous, the mold of the bureaucracy
growing like hair-unstoppable even after death strikes. It smells awful and
you stink after you are there for a while, that Lynyrd
Skynyrd smell is all around and it rubs off on you. Madness, screaming,
terror, wailing, arguing, justice, and clarity all would be taking up this space
if it weren’t for the lingering wait.
These
poor souls are so convinced that they are right, they don’t know that they
are crazy or that they are standing in the biggest bughouse of all, the final
destination that they came to see, a mechanical hajj for the ill machine. It
is laughable, but much better in there, since these same folks (some I have
known personally even and have helped from time to time with other aspects of
this same system such as getting on welfare or standing for them in DUI cases)
endure this same lingering wait; they felt like they had a case too. Lying to
themselves they come, dreaming that they are basketball stars in their jerseys
or lawyers themselves, dreaming that they are like Darrow or worse that they
are writers. I never had the heart to tell them they are not writers or stars
but sad creatures whose whole life has been abnormal from very early on, and
I see no reason why that will ever change unfortunately. These types have no
path, and never did, and never will. These types are normal in the Judicial
Complex of Providence and are normal during the lingering wait.
