Another very short piece. I'm picking through the ruins now.
I like writing. I don't have an agenda. That means I can relax. I'm laid up here at home.
I made other friends on this site. (Plenty of Fish). I'm never going to meet them, not very likely.
They are still real to me. The net is a great thing really. I lived in isolation for much of my life. I'm accomplished at brooding and all that turning inward is the genesis of my intensity.
My dad writes also. Our styles are different. He is a wordsmith. He's erudite. He loves words. I want words to serve me. I'm not looking for aesthetics. I'm looking for power. I don't want pretty. I want beauty. My father's IQ is 152. I don't know what mine is. I don't really want to know. It's an anomaly. The way I look, the way I lived. The way I think.
One or the other is superimposed onto me. It just doesn't seem to fit.
If you take a child with my genetic endowment and cut him loose.
This thought comes to mind: the buildup to the first Gulf war. The elder Bush was in the white house. I was living in Vegas. After work, we went over to Lester's place. He had a junior one bedroom on Koval. We are doing the usual; drinking, smoking pot, getting lit. We all worked at the spa at Caesars. McGarg was there also.
We were feeling exhilarated. Good day. Everybody made money. The TV is on and showing the aircraft carriers deployed in the Gulf and the fighter jets are flying off in sequence. It is a sublime image; beautiful, a terrible beauty. Les is shouting, "Yeah! Kick ass!"
I was thinking of evolution, the technological evolution of humans; our oversized brains; awesome power – highly evolved killing machines.
If I was to decry the reality that humans are accomplished and supernaturally clever killers would that elevate my humanity? I don't think so.
When the Dali says, "We should all be kind to each other..." I'm thinking, "What else you got, you CIA stooge?"