Jeremiad From The Source.
Time to vent some bile and get it into the datastream. Inform the people. Prepare the masses. Share with you the pathos that vexes and condemns me. Because we are in the apocalypse. Until such a time as we see an end to the destruction and disease, our upward momentum is just grasping at sand in the landslide. Fooling ourselves into believing our phones will save us from the famine. The world is ending a little everyday. When you drive to work. When you buy your food. When you drink your alcohol. We are one day closer to the end of it all. The collapse of all things known. Ignorance and fear are rampant and fierce in this doomed nation, and when the hammer drops red vs. blue is going to make the civil war seem just that.
I thought about writing to you about my dreams. It would be set in the distant but foreseeable future. It would go a little something like this;
Jeremiah gazed out the window of his state room in the USAS Victorious at the North Pole. Once the largest aircraft in the world, The Victorious had been commissioned as the first solar dirigible by President Obama. Approved unanimously by congress, the craft was built both to unseat the nazis as the builders of the largest aircraft, and to bolster and unify American spirit at a time when they needed it most. Beyond that it was a prototype for the Green Revolution. What started as a goodwill offering to the environment turned into a Second Industrial Revolution. Solar dirigible factories cropped up all across America, serving as both a means of constructing the craft and providing jobs to tens of thousands of desperate and unemployed citizens.
Jeremiah marveled at just how difficult it had been to sell people on the idea of clean flight. He had attempted to contact Al Franken regarding the USAS Wellstone, a much more conservative solar dirigible meant to fly as a living, flying memorial to the great senator Paul Wellstone. It would be the first Green Air Bus, and would ferry passengers to and fro Minnesota in comfort and warmth. Far below the rolling fields and sprawling forests would pass in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Al Franken never got back to him though. No one ever got back to him in those early years, when he was regarded as merely a lunatic and not an entrepreneur.
Poor people make poor entrepreneurs, but fantastic dreamers. Poverty breeds escape my necessity. The Lottery Religion had created a class of working poor. Their possessions and health were owned and controlled by myriad banks bartering interest rates with the government. The sick were left to suffer and die in those dark times. Homes were taken by banks who claimed to be American. America itself was divided as to how to solve the problem, or even if the problem existed at all. America had been poisoned by 9/11. Divided against itself as a house doomed to fall. But from these dark times arose the dream of a single man. To take the reigns away from the cynics and the fanatics and drive into the bright new tomorrow. That man was Jeremiah Liend, and his plan was to save the planet from destruction.
End dream. It is good to dream. To be aloft it all in the Victorious. It is a simple dream, really. Nothing beyond our ability. America could turn everything around if it wanted to. Actually drive business by saving ourselves. But it is not in the cards, I fear. Everything I see in the future points to the collapse. To crash in the Largest Aircraft ever built would be a fine dream as well. The media was just starting out when the Hindenburg went down. Not a live broadcast, but the chaos was brought to the people in motion pictures. Narrated by a witness to the catastrophe. And that is what we strive for. Where we are headed. Riding it all into the ground.
I was told today that the poet laureate was paid $60,000 to visit my home. I didn’t get to see him because I am busy moving out of the home that is about to be foreclosed on. My initial desire was for him to see if he enjoyed one of my poems. Because that’s what poets do. Maybe? An interview with him mentioned that, as an art form, it can’t take itself too seriously. And I agree with that. I enjoy nothing more than writing bad poetry. That I could one day be paid $60,000 to go to a town and talk about my poems is as surreal a dream as any. I did not make that much working three years at The Wal. What the hell does it all mean?
I am trying to build a 1,000 swordsman army. It’s difficult, because our nation has been turned into cowards. Law mostly. Culture as well. The idea that physical confrontation is a last resort. That we live in a civilized society where fisticuffs are a thing of the past, or reserved for the deathsports of MMA. Everyone howls for blood, but is unwilling to shed any of their own. I would gladly shed it all to build just one hero. To fight with one person who would stand and fight in the face of tyranny and chaos. To fight one person who would stand as my brother or sister amid these forces and protect those they love from those who seek to harm. How I long to save the world with such an army of warrior monks.
The Equinox Duello is upon us. Soon I shall dance the dance of death for those who care to see how adventurers act. For you see, I am the Last Swashbuckler. Compelled by my previous lives to resurrect the duel before the entire works collapses. Compelled by Jesus to arm my fraternity in preparation for persecution. How I long to show the world that in my home there are still those who would adventure for the sake of adventure. Without pretense or fear. How I long to complete my great work in the 12 Apocryphal Disciplines of Pacifist Aggression. How I long to duel while there is still fire in my veins and a smattering of hope in my heart. Before age and cowardice rob me of my panache.
And then there is Footloose and the hope for Kevin Bacon. Surely Kevin Bacon would come to Bemidji for a sum lesser than $60,000? He strikes me as a man who gets out of bed for less than $60,000. Not because he has to, but because it’s who he is. A straight shooting cultural phenomena to whom all celebrities are judged in degrees from. We all long to be 0 degrees from Kevin Bacon. But will he come at the request of one lunatic? When the students are too busy with so very many things to come to rehearsal. Save me Kevin Bacon, from the apathy of Generation Z. Show them that Hollywood still cares about the poor and downtrodden. Let me bring home the Bacon just this once, and I will leave you alone knowing I am 1 degree from greatness.
And then there is UpStream TV. Public access television would seem something of a red herring in the age of the internet. What can we put on public access that we can’t put on Youtube? It is a legitimate question, but belies both the ignorance and apathy that has left our community and globe in shambles. Why not build a community around sharing our stories? Why not place into the hands of the people the tools with which to create art? Why is it so hard for beaurocrats to free the finance to provide their people with such an opportunity? Why can’t we just have the Digital Revolution and then televise it?
And then there is Hamlet. And then there is Warhamlet. And then there is English Nonsense. And then there is Elysium. And then there is 30 Minutes. And then there is VCI. And then there is Family. And then there is Friends. And then there is figuring out how to keep gas in the tank to get to the places. How to keep anger and sadness at bay and shove the hand of creation into the blender of society? How to keep a level head in this, the craziest of all possible worlds? How to win the game and save the princess and pay the bills and get the education and get the job and get the agent and get the swords and get the armor and get the cameras and get the footage and get the attention and get the plan and get it all or maybe just a little of it before we are too old and jaded.
Before the urge to leap from the plane is curbed by the hope of recognition. Before the urge to lay down the sword and pick up the gun becomes too strong to resist. Before the data is corrupted by age and virus and every story you’ve ever told vanishes from the datastream. Before it’s all for naught because the whole system collapses under your feet like it did that day so long ago. Before those we love and who love us in return die. Before you break a limb between insurance and have to beg from the government. Before the final denial letter convinces us that the creation is not worth the rejection and special is something we’re taught in grade school to keep us memorizing. Before someone else pirates it all and makes a billion dollars before being killed and eaten by some lunatic swashbuckler from the sticks.
This is not all of the bile. This is not all of the Jeremiad. This is just enough to take the edge off. Something for posterity. Something so that I can remember. Past the years and the fears and the failure and the denial I hope to look back at it and laugh. Laugh for ever thinking it would not come together. Laugh at how the grand design played out like the Greatest Story Ever Told. Laugh at the people who said it couldn’t be done. Laugh at the lunacy of the commonplace and the apathy of small-minded plebeians. This is not all the bile, but it is enough that I can begin dismantling my life in this borrowed home. Enough that I can rest tonight knowing someone may care enough to hear the tale and believe in The Dream. Knowing that I can stand amidst the collapse and defy the entropy for one more night as a chronicler of our doomed generation.
I thought about writing to you about my dreams. It would be set in the distant but foreseeable future. It would go a little something like this;
Jeremiah gazed out the window of his state room in the USAS Victorious at the North Pole. Once the largest aircraft in the world, The Victorious had been commissioned as the first solar dirigible by President Obama. Approved unanimously by congress, the craft was built both to unseat the nazis as the builders of the largest aircraft, and to bolster and unify American spirit at a time when they needed it most. Beyond that it was a prototype for the Green Revolution. What started as a goodwill offering to the environment turned into a Second Industrial Revolution. Solar dirigible factories cropped up all across America, serving as both a means of constructing the craft and providing jobs to tens of thousands of desperate and unemployed citizens.
Jeremiah marveled at just how difficult it had been to sell people on the idea of clean flight. He had attempted to contact Al Franken regarding the USAS Wellstone, a much more conservative solar dirigible meant to fly as a living, flying memorial to the great senator Paul Wellstone. It would be the first Green Air Bus, and would ferry passengers to and fro Minnesota in comfort and warmth. Far below the rolling fields and sprawling forests would pass in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Al Franken never got back to him though. No one ever got back to him in those early years, when he was regarded as merely a lunatic and not an entrepreneur.
Poor people make poor entrepreneurs, but fantastic dreamers. Poverty breeds escape my necessity. The Lottery Religion had created a class of working poor. Their possessions and health were owned and controlled by myriad banks bartering interest rates with the government. The sick were left to suffer and die in those dark times. Homes were taken by banks who claimed to be American. America itself was divided as to how to solve the problem, or even if the problem existed at all. America had been poisoned by 9/11. Divided against itself as a house doomed to fall. But from these dark times arose the dream of a single man. To take the reigns away from the cynics and the fanatics and drive into the bright new tomorrow. That man was Jeremiah Liend, and his plan was to save the planet from destruction.
End dream. It is good to dream. To be aloft it all in the Victorious. It is a simple dream, really. Nothing beyond our ability. America could turn everything around if it wanted to. Actually drive business by saving ourselves. But it is not in the cards, I fear. Everything I see in the future points to the collapse. To crash in the Largest Aircraft ever built would be a fine dream as well. The media was just starting out when the Hindenburg went down. Not a live broadcast, but the chaos was brought to the people in motion pictures. Narrated by a witness to the catastrophe. And that is what we strive for. Where we are headed. Riding it all into the ground.
I was told today that the poet laureate was paid $60,000 to visit my home. I didn’t get to see him because I am busy moving out of the home that is about to be foreclosed on. My initial desire was for him to see if he enjoyed one of my poems. Because that’s what poets do. Maybe? An interview with him mentioned that, as an art form, it can’t take itself too seriously. And I agree with that. I enjoy nothing more than writing bad poetry. That I could one day be paid $60,000 to go to a town and talk about my poems is as surreal a dream as any. I did not make that much working three years at The Wal. What the hell does it all mean?
I am trying to build a 1,000 swordsman army. It’s difficult, because our nation has been turned into cowards. Law mostly. Culture as well. The idea that physical confrontation is a last resort. That we live in a civilized society where fisticuffs are a thing of the past, or reserved for the deathsports of MMA. Everyone howls for blood, but is unwilling to shed any of their own. I would gladly shed it all to build just one hero. To fight with one person who would stand and fight in the face of tyranny and chaos. To fight one person who would stand as my brother or sister amid these forces and protect those they love from those who seek to harm. How I long to save the world with such an army of warrior monks.
The Equinox Duello is upon us. Soon I shall dance the dance of death for those who care to see how adventurers act. For you see, I am the Last Swashbuckler. Compelled by my previous lives to resurrect the duel before the entire works collapses. Compelled by Jesus to arm my fraternity in preparation for persecution. How I long to show the world that in my home there are still those who would adventure for the sake of adventure. Without pretense or fear. How I long to complete my great work in the 12 Apocryphal Disciplines of Pacifist Aggression. How I long to duel while there is still fire in my veins and a smattering of hope in my heart. Before age and cowardice rob me of my panache.
And then there is Footloose and the hope for Kevin Bacon. Surely Kevin Bacon would come to Bemidji for a sum lesser than $60,000? He strikes me as a man who gets out of bed for less than $60,000. Not because he has to, but because it’s who he is. A straight shooting cultural phenomena to whom all celebrities are judged in degrees from. We all long to be 0 degrees from Kevin Bacon. But will he come at the request of one lunatic? When the students are too busy with so very many things to come to rehearsal. Save me Kevin Bacon, from the apathy of Generation Z. Show them that Hollywood still cares about the poor and downtrodden. Let me bring home the Bacon just this once, and I will leave you alone knowing I am 1 degree from greatness.
And then there is UpStream TV. Public access television would seem something of a red herring in the age of the internet. What can we put on public access that we can’t put on Youtube? It is a legitimate question, but belies both the ignorance and apathy that has left our community and globe in shambles. Why not build a community around sharing our stories? Why not place into the hands of the people the tools with which to create art? Why is it so hard for beaurocrats to free the finance to provide their people with such an opportunity? Why can’t we just have the Digital Revolution and then televise it?
And then there is Hamlet. And then there is Warhamlet. And then there is English Nonsense. And then there is Elysium. And then there is 30 Minutes. And then there is VCI. And then there is Family. And then there is Friends. And then there is figuring out how to keep gas in the tank to get to the places. How to keep anger and sadness at bay and shove the hand of creation into the blender of society? How to keep a level head in this, the craziest of all possible worlds? How to win the game and save the princess and pay the bills and get the education and get the job and get the agent and get the swords and get the armor and get the cameras and get the footage and get the attention and get the plan and get it all or maybe just a little of it before we are too old and jaded.
Before the urge to leap from the plane is curbed by the hope of recognition. Before the urge to lay down the sword and pick up the gun becomes too strong to resist. Before the data is corrupted by age and virus and every story you’ve ever told vanishes from the datastream. Before it’s all for naught because the whole system collapses under your feet like it did that day so long ago. Before those we love and who love us in return die. Before you break a limb between insurance and have to beg from the government. Before the final denial letter convinces us that the creation is not worth the rejection and special is something we’re taught in grade school to keep us memorizing. Before someone else pirates it all and makes a billion dollars before being killed and eaten by some lunatic swashbuckler from the sticks.
This is not all of the bile. This is not all of the Jeremiad. This is just enough to take the edge off. Something for posterity. Something so that I can remember. Past the years and the fears and the failure and the denial I hope to look back at it and laugh. Laugh for ever thinking it would not come together. Laugh at how the grand design played out like the Greatest Story Ever Told. Laugh at the people who said it couldn’t be done. Laugh at the lunacy of the commonplace and the apathy of small-minded plebeians. This is not all the bile, but it is enough that I can begin dismantling my life in this borrowed home. Enough that I can rest tonight knowing someone may care enough to hear the tale and believe in The Dream. Knowing that I can stand amidst the collapse and defy the entropy for one more night as a chronicler of our doomed generation.
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