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(Reader: GK) Another Excerpt from Cold Blooded Blues…

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Reader Post | By GK

At 33, I was just beginning to try and unravel the mess that was me, and I was a long way off from fixing the dysfunction that repeated itself like the floral print of wallpaper. Then of course I suffered from jealousy, a symptom of insecurity. Was it my imagination or were there always 6 other men circling your girl like a pack of coyotes, looking for any sign of weakness?

The older I got, the more I realized that finding a woman to replace your woman was more and more difficult. Timing was everything. Everybody was invested in someone. If a woman pivoted from the old love to the new love, you would have to be ready to commit. But for me, who was perpetually juggling the old and the new, I simply let these flings die for lack of interest. I was good at avoiding a huge emotional showdown to 4 of the 5 women I was juggling. My cold indifference came on slowly but quickly Like How a Monday becomes a Friday. As for the main squeeze so to speak, I essentially was whipped. My emotional investment became like an addict. Irrational displays of lust and anger, jealousy and immature behavior. I cringe when I think about it.

And it wasn’t just me. I saw it in so many of the people I encountered who inspired the characters I wrote about. Even my friends who seemed to accept the traditional roles society had laid out, were suffering from the broken mirror of substance abuse. In my case one of my substances was women. Most people I knew largely kept to one woman but I was a womanizer.

Sex and drugs and self-gratification in the 1980s. Although I had my moments of taking drugs and alcohol way too far, 99% of the time I had an inner policing that knew when one more drink or drug was too many. I cut myself off quite often, whereas I knew people who couldn’t do that. If they snorted cocaine, they stayed up for days consuming the white powder like mad men or women. I could do a few lines and retreat to my bedroom where I would dive into one of my manuscripts. Pretty much any drug I took sparked my right brain and the idea I had about myself that I would eventually be recognized one day as a great artist.

Time was no longer the issue as in I had to have my first Academy Award by the time I was 28. Now I was in my 30s and beginning to accept things were not going to happen as my fantasy had written. I had passed up the dream and now I looked like the beginning of that old Mr. Magoo cartoon. Driving haphazardly from state to state and city to city, just trying to survive. Fixating on landing that huge prize. My intellectual property stuffing cardboard boxes in the backseat of my car was essentially my metaphor.

My boxes are a key component to this story. I need the reader to embrace this idea. Those boxes were full of finished and unfinished stories that make up this story. Like those pants hippies made by sewing patches together from every remnant of fabric they could find, flag, potholder, handkerchief, flannel shirt, denim, tablecloth etc.

This story may jump from the format of a screenplay to the format of a diary. It may feature what was a short story or a poem or an unfinished lyric.

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In the wake of what was
I heard her whisper because
it summed up a million miles of madness
a thousand tears of sadness
and all that time was wasted
because bitter was the time we tasted
On the heels of our time
A step or two out of line
The sky was booming with thunder
Silently we wait, watch and wonder
And all that time was wasted
Because bitter was the time we tasted
the time we keep is bittersweet

This lyric was typical of my songs. I was perpetually nursing the wounds of love sickness. There was Sue in high school, Janet in the early 80s, Elizabeth in the mid-eighties and into the nineties. I was a victim of wanting my cake and my other cake. Good thing intercourse wasn’t fattening otherwise I would have been a fat hog.

Partly the fault of societies schizophrenic media and its bad influence. Can anyone identify where good influence actually held power strong enough to have sculpted right and wrong in a way that stood firm like a granite statue? One might argue Christian values but come on, we know even Christianity has been weakened by the same demonic forces. Who is first in line at the recruiting office when a war arises fueled by a sense of vengeance? Christians all too willing to kill. Easily fooled by anger.

Your government loving you so much, they always had a gift to help you. Public schools being one such Trojan Horse offered up as a gift to parents. Parents who had already been assaulted by an economy that no longer supported Dad working and Mom running the home.

These were not natural progressions of humanity’s course. These were symptoms of the enemy inside the gates. Social engineering with known goals proven out by the results of a generation or so. Both mom and dad as taxpayers and social agencies stepping in to run broken homes.

This story may be a gothic horror story or a confessional. It may be pornography or self-help, fantasy fiction or an indictment of the devolving human condition with laughs stabbed into the box like airholes for a captured lifeform. 

This is why I am putting the burden onto the reader. I need you to be alert and ready to accept what might be a sudden turn in style. A sudden leap of time. A jarring, neck straining plot point that a lawyer would ask you to wear a neck brace for. Certainly, a book editor or publisher would be aghast at the structure I am attempting to convey in advance. But you need to remember the boxes.

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My boxes are full of thousands of pages of everything from funny little skits to the painfully traumatic, overly dramatic diaries we experience while growing up. What I once believed in like the Phil Donahue/Alan Alda liberalism years wasn’t what I came to believe three decades later when certain truth tellers on the internet would defy television’s monstrous control over minds then snap people out of that trance. TV had silenced those who rejected the leftist agenda but the internet became a soap box for many disenfranchised individuals who had perfectly valid points to make.

In all fairness, the right wingers weren’t much better. In fact, I am even more disappointed in their weak spines. Take the 2nd amendment for example. Don’t you dare undermine that amendment to the Constitution because the Constitution is written in marble but the 1st amendment, well… I’ll just weakly grumble about my right to think when a liberal isn’t around. It is that lack of conviction that had led us to the present-day situation. Spineless in defense of most principles.

I remember talking to a friend in a bar when I was 26. I was lamenting with great trepidation that the future was going to pull the rug out from under us. We loved being young desirable men chasing fetching young women. I didn’t want it to end but I knew that it would.

Even if my shallow pursuit ended by default, that was even worse. A decade over 26 to 36, settling for broken single mothers instead of the freshness of a woman who had not been ruined by other men. It was inevitable. I didn’t see that part as clearly as I should have but the point is valid.

I had a clue as to where it was all going but the reality was thinking one is a good swimmer then jumping off a boat in deep water and realizing treading water was a daunting reality.

Part of my insecurity was the lies I had been living, thanks to liberalism. Down deep I was an alpha male who wanted to be a chauvinist. Chauvinism being a contrived concept to vilify the type of man who wanted to be the boss. Instead, I was simply weakened by not understanding how much of society was the weakest little bitch biting at my ankles, trying to pull me under. Like piranhas who work in schools to devour one large prey who fell into the water. A force of strength on land but in this river of murky roles, a victim of coordinated teeth, death by a thousand puncture wounds.

The powerful became weak and the vulnerable– flailing to grasp something real. What the hell happened? Like the sturdy white man in society, now apologizing for being white.

People accept what comes to them if it helps them, who in their right minds would say no thanks it doesn’t seem fair to everyone else. Oddly enough I am extremely rare in that regard. I can point out the flaw in any system even when doing so hurts me. But that is part of the longer story here. I have examples from my life when offered the inside track on investing whereby I stated, if I take this offer I am being a hypocrite. I said no to corruption that likely would have gone unseen and unpunished.

The world was that corrupt. So corrupt it was in itself thick fog for itself. But because I was adamant about practicing what I preached I did not bite the apple. Six decades later with nothing to leave in an inheritance, I debate whether a bit of corruption might have served me much better than the principles I embraced that are seemingly invisible to my family and friends. The human condition is funny that way, I could be seen as a winner had I only cheated quietly.

Once I was in my middle forties, I understood the piranhas were a school of razor fanged predators that needed to be seen for what they were. A collective designed to keep the river flow unimpeded. But unimpeded for whom?

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Society had many ways to devour large independent mammals. One such way was the banking system. Designed by small schools of  cleansers of bone. They did not fight fair as in equal opportunity. Instead, they designed a system that lied about equal opportunity and punished those who strove for that idea.

The predators weakened the idea of strong independence by lying about what freedom and independence actually was. They poisoned education with concepts that divided and conquered the individual. Individualism became that prey to devour if it dared to cross a river. The river full of fish too small individually but deadly as a jagged tooth collective. Psychologically programmed to insist everybody get back into the group.

Another epiphany I had was while videotaping dance recitals. Our little video studio in Wisconsin makes most of its annual gross income by shooting dance school recitals in the spring then selling the tapes to the parents. It occurred to me that this was massive conditioning for lockstep. Kids aged 3 to 18 were trained to flitter about the stage to the beat of the music. Ultimately, why? Dance as artform? Dance as exercise? Dance as social conditioning for the collective hive mind. Don’t over think it, just feel the beat. Feel the math, and 1,2,3,1,2,3…

This was in everything the schools were doing. Marching band, football, staging the same tired old “classics” on stage. Bells, lines, raising hands and conformity rewarded, rebellious nature met head on with hammers. Communist, socialist, collectivist, hive mind training. Get in the group, you all get a vote but you will be voting on the two choices we give you.

Communist leaders get to stay rich and powerful but they control the group. Does Capitalistic so called free enterprise change the shape of the group? Of course not, just another way of pretending the shapes and goals are different. Even using a word like communism was the sign they had you in their trap.

They once drained a lake in central Florida and there were so many alligators that you could walk across the lake by stepping on their backs. Did anyone know how lucky they were to survive a swim?

Realizing the purposeful lies by omission was only part of taking back one’s independence though.

This brilliant system designed by a species hidden beneath the earth we walk on, had long thought of every contingent. Every means of escape as to katy bar the door, block the exits. Anyone who figured it all out did not need to be immediately destroyed. Influencing enough people for true rebellion was for all practical purposes, impossible.

But to our mothers and fathers who are a reptile species, that rare egg that hatches into a freak of nature, was a sort of odd mutation worthy of study. Why is this one so different. The Pharisees likely let Jesus go for a while before deciding to shut him down

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