Some Under-Informed, Embittered Ranting

I want to write about America's present condition. Our tentative standing on the world stage has come at the steep price of spilled patriotic blood, and our golden towers stand on foundations of groaning, suffering, and deluded laborers. The great lie of this nation has brought it enormous prosperity through investment. The investment of capital, of time, and of countless millions of lives. Only the attractive illusion that nothing stands in the way of success but sloth and idleness still sustains this country. In fact, this is a nation where few frolic in luxury and many work for the upkeep of a monolith that provides just enough of the essential to keep them working. In short, this is scarcely a special place. It is a nation like so many other nations, with one of the few points of difference being that the forces of our oppression cannot be as easily named as a single dictator or coercive polity. Our framework of exploitation harnesses the forces of capitalistic competition to act as an engine for ceaseless striving, and it would really be no exploitation at all if what the common person could attain through back-breaking pursuits were not capped from the start. In the United States of America, the butcher's boy, in almost every single case, remains the butcher's boy until his dying day. The underdog billionaires serve as his idols as he puts slab after slab of beef on the chopping block, as he invests his meager earnings and dreams of a meat processing conglomerate owned and managed by him.

The Bill Gates' and Steve Jobs' of this country are the ones who beat the odds, who overcame through sheer force of circumstance, timely innovation, and perhaps a measure of brilliance. But that, wish as he might, try as he might, shall not be the fate of the butcher's boy. To talk about change in this system and the subversion of the oppressive force of the long-dead-or-maybe-never-real American dream would require political and economic insight I do not possess, but I believe that the negative impact of this superstructure on the common man can be lessened by his attainment of self-consciousness (yes, hello Marx). Again, my goal as I present this idea is not systemic change through revolution, because that would be inherently political in nature. The laborer's self-consciousness should arise because it will, following a period of violent disillusionment, lead to the development of a far more psychologically healthy conception of his place and prospects in this nation. Work must never stop, but he who works in constant striving for the realistically unattainable tempts eternal discontentment. This nation's chief commodity is the concept of "not enough", with the government as its distributor and the highly visible elite as its self-interested promoter.

 "Work hard and you can be just like me!"...sounds real good coming from the king of the metaphorical castle, with his pearly white teeth and Italian shoes buffed to a shine by black servants who are likely the direct descendants of the slaves his family once owned in droves. The common man cannot be content in his place if he whole-heartedly believes that his labor, his only selling point, can earn him a drastically better place. The unlikelihood of radical upwards mobility is a truth interestingly not-so-evident to this nation's poor and lower middle class. Would it not be better, would it not alleviate many of the symptoms of this sweeping social disease of discontentment, if those in the muck did not dream of shitting into golden toilets? If they did not, perhaps no one could afford to actually do so. And that, to me, seems proper. Shit is bound for the sewers, so why the fancy medium?

-Artem Potemkin 

Private Thoughts Become Easier to Share with Time

I shake my head but cannot shake this feeling. This sense of fundamental inadequacy, powerlessness, and utter confusion that turns my waking hours into an anxious dreamstate. The effort put into this line, into the next idea, cannot be captured by machine ink (note: as ever, this is digitized after the fact). I sat down with so much to express, so much unspecific anguish to pour onto this page...and I mustered a sad two lines of any value to describe my condition, to seek my direction. But I write on, connecting character after aimless character into words, sentences. I believe that a reader reading a manuscript is better able to connect to the author, to share in the elements of the human experience that gave birth to the ideas on the page. Machine ink takes something away.

I have not written in a very long time...I have forgotten the extent to which these conversations with myself sustain me. But whenever I am at this pursuit, the ways in which I perpetually waste my time tug at me...they beckon. I reckon there is a problem in one's life when, with an excess of leisure time, they cannot comfortably allot a measure of it to doing something they truly love, to work at it and nurture what even they are convinced is a precious gift. Yes, a problem exists. It has one name, and humans are as susceptible to it as any other creature I am familiar with. Addiction. People struggle with it all over the globe, and a recent trend is to seek refuge in the label, to write off the force of human will and claim that the human spirit cannot conquer the external, cannot even broadly govern a single human body. But I will not do that. I cannot bear to do that, both because I know it would doom me by allowing me to make peace with the unacceptable, and because a rarely-heard-from voice deep inside cries out against living by what I perceive to be a tremendous falsehood. Addiction rules me now, in ways I never imagined it could, but it is not the totality of me. I will never let it be me; I have faith that I will rebel against it consuming my personhood.

There are few things that I feel are in my power to change, but I am one of those things. My father always told me to be my own master, and there was wisdom in those words, for if you do not govern yourself, then someone or something else will. As of this moment, I am not my own master. I exert free will, but it is only free insofar as it is human will, because it is profoundly influenced by decidedly negative forces. But I WILL, god dammit, I WILL establish a firmer grip on myself. One day I'll wake up and say: shit, this is a mess. And I'll fix it. If it is not too late by that fateful moment of my radical awakening...

"You will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not."

-Artem Potemkin 

????????????????????????

The screams could be heard throughout the valley. The fires made the night sky glow an ominous orange, and the smoke obscured the stars. The little girl cried quietly, lying facedown in the marshes, in the reeds. What had become of father and mother? Where was brother? No answers; only questions. The screams of victims carried from afar. The village was aflame, the men had been defeated. Those left alive would not cling to the world for long, as their wounds were fatal and everything they had to live for had been burned to ash in any case. A dark, dark scene. A story of raiders in the night and families destroyed, livelihoods lost. I write this capturing a feeling, nothing more. I am no storyteller, just a boy overwhelmed. The little girl was cold. Gnats and mosquitoes were eating at her exposed arms and legs. Her frock did not pass muster for hiding out in the swamps. Her mother had told her to run. They had little warning the invasion was coming, but the precious little time they did have afforded her the opportunity to run away at her mother's insistence. She didn't want to. She could feel the danger, could see it in the firmly set lips of the men, the scared eyes of the women. Nothing would be as it was. She ran. She ran and ran and ran until she collapsed from exhaustion. It was only by some cruel twist of fate that she did not drown in a bog, but ended up on a patch of soggy ground somewhere in between what must have been dozens of them. She was so tired that she could only cry quietly. There is no story here...this is just a moment. A human moment to cast it all into perspective. The definition of bleakness, in the face of which everything else fails. Your trivial complaints. Your lavish wants. You do not know the feeling of bleak, the feeling of futile, until you've hidden in the marshes as everyone you've ever known was herded into one wooden granary and buried alive. Mercilessly. Inhumanly. Oh the atrocities...you would shut your eyes to avoid witnessing the pain and suffering of millions, but you do not deserve that respite, no. The images are behind your eyes; they play on the reel of your own mind. A snickering, dark voice. Mockery from the shadows as the tanks roll out and people are plucked from their homes. Was it in the distant or the recent past? Which war? Which people? Which witness? Does it matter? We think time is at the root of things, we want its measure for our comfort, but it isn't the point. Not the point at all. In fact, the essential is timeless. If we exist, it exists. If we don't exist...well, it probably doesn't exist, but how can we know? I have a vague idea that I am insane. I want to believe that I write all of these disjointed, sick words because I am pretending to be out of touch with reality, because I am pretending to be crazy, but unfortunately they are what pour out of me when I let the walls down, when I let the feeling take hold. So what does this make me? I don't know. I don't want to know. I don't care to know. Gunsmoke in the cool breeze, that's what I'll take for a description of who and what and how I am. Gunsmoke. Do you ever feel the magic send shivers up your spine? I do, very often. I am overcome, and it is good, sometimes, but it can be haunting. It can influence you and never quite let you go...it can rule your mind. Ownership. Possession. Subjugation.

-Artem Potemkin

Melancholy Tidings

        Once upon a time, I had a friend. He was my introduction to the world of the illicit, and he taught me the meaning of what it meant to be in an emotionally abusive relationship. He showed me the dark side. I was the guy who devoured book after book, who loved the written word and reveled in acquiring knowledge. He was the guy who only ever read for school, and even then with extremely reluctance. He disparaged intellectualism, and hungrily sought money and power with little potential to ever acquire the wisdom to temper their inevitable ills. I could clearly see then what has proven true now: he was headed down a dark, dark path. I terminated that friendship. I let him go. Not because I didn't care, but because he seemed beyond salvation, and I did not share his interests, aspirations, or his self-destructive tendencies.
       They say that he is now a shadow of his boyhood self, having drank and smoked himself into oblivion. I feel guilt, but not enough to regret not putting myself in the way of his decline, because, by the very nature of that relationship, he would have ruined me even as he destroyed himself. As Nietzsche said, "...when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." My once-friend ran with the shadows, and stared deep and long into the abyss. I console myself with the thought that there was nothing I could have done, as those I could have turned to to help him were among his demons. I feel not a shred of resentment towards him, but am haunted by the news that he now appears to others as a specter on this earth, no good or thinking being, but a mere ghost of a human.
        Consciousness is the greatest curse and blessing of the human race, and in turning away from thought, he gave up his tether to this world. I remember him as a youthful, lively kid, and even though I always knew his heart was not in the right place, I loved him because he acknowledged me when nobody else would. Based on the tidings I've received, he now moves about with a vacant stare, disconnected and barely sane. I do not know how much more I have to say...this upsetting case supports the idea that failure to nurture the gift of consciousness amounts to the murder of potential, and is the shortest road to illness of the mind and body.

-Artem Potemkin 

A Touch of Optimism

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When you're walking down gray streets,

Just smile in the rain.

When the skies come crashing down,

Just smile in the rain.

When tomorrow seems a looming threat,

Just smile in the rain.

When the future seems too bleak to bear,

Just smile for today.

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"Blessed be the man who leads the godless to salvation..."

-Artem Potemkin

A Collection of Personal Quotes

[Drawn from years of spontaneously inspired notes on my old, now retired iphone]

"Marriage is a contractually legitimized alliance against the world at large."

"In the face of utter desolation, at the pinnacle of suffering, life takes on its most vibrant colors."

 "All it takes to forge a brand new path is the courage to tread where none other has."

"Show me how they were educated and I shall know the means by which they can be manipulated."

"Questions get people killed quicker than answers ever get the chance to."

"What good is a man who knows everything? One who knows everything is good only to talk, and one who can't listen is a friend to none."

"We are all artists, and nothing that is art can ever be unworthy of acclaim."

"Let go of that which you have lost, and you'll stand right to gain anew."

"Come as you are, leave as you were, if you're hindered, slam the door."

"Be not afraid to speak the truth, for in that lies our salvation. But take a care at spreading lies, as that can be our demise, and not a life for that will be the brighter."

"It shall be now as has been always, for our greed we'll pay in blood."

"Seek not to lead astray the masses from the path of light, for you will find in the deed that they'll put up no fight."

"What's the worth in an effort to act when our lives are steadily lived in structured pretense?"

"As you pick your way through a landscape of charred carcasses and broken dreams, you can be forever assured of your happiness just as long as you're reveling in the sunrise."

"Faith is the manifestation of the desire to be free from the terror of the unknown."

"When the destination is death, the journey's all the trip is worth."

"What am I I just can't conceive,
  Who am I I don't know.
  Life is quite the odd old thing,
  A rather funny show."

-Artem Potemkin

A Rant (One of many...)

I was looking for an idea. But now I am not. In retrospect, I was stupid to have a hierarchy of relative merit for words on a page, for thoughts from me to you. Nothing is worth more. Nothing is worth less. There is only what is. I really have little more to say; the futility I feel is inexpressible. That is funny, though. To describe something as inexpressible is to distinctly express it, the inexpressibility of it becoming a matter of degree, pointing to something intense, something more than expressible. Now, I want to look back, read what I have written on this page. I want to analyze it for meaning, for merit, for coherence, for fluency. For ACCEPTABILITY. Acceptability to myself, who carries in his head the judgmental voices of the world. Perception is funny. It is mighty difficult to tell where your mind ends and reality begins. Because really, there is no difference. Whether what stains this page is deep or shallow, eloquent or shitty, I'll still feel the way I feel standing up from this writing. I want to censor for I fear censure. But why? This is only me. Me speaking to you, an audience of shadows. I don't recognize your significance, maybe because I do not recognize my own. We live in the valley of fleeting shadows. Like yesterday, I remember scaring a rooster off a tree. It was many years ago. It sure would have been a great photo. Thoughtless action ruined it. That said, should only thoughtful action be undertaken? I am sick of looking for a way to live. I would live no way, but I don't want to die. Everyone values freedom, but most waste it. Again with the hierarchy of merit. What exactly is a "waste" with the belief that there is no Plan? That human life serves no purpose? Relative merit is an illusion, in philosophy as in action. The heroin addict is the schoolteacher is the murderer is the firefighter. I the student am the coal miner am the writer am the insect am the mangy mutt. The only difference is how hard we strive. Endless reaching is the curse of consciousness. Tell me how to live. Please, tell me how to live. Better yet, make me. If you tell me I won't do it, if you show me I won't learn. Make me. I want to submit. They call that being oppressed, with so much negativity attached. Really, it is simply being subjugated. And they say that's bad too, but in the land of the free and the home of the brave, are we not all subjugated anyway? There is a simple comfort, true freedom, in the lack of freedom. Some submit to God and to their church community, others to money, another powerful force. Others still, even those most free, are at the end of the day slaves to their life experience or their whims. We all submit. We are subjugated. Individuality, they say. Independence of mind, they say. From what? From who? From all you've ever been and all you've ever known? How? And more importantly, why? You can be crushed by choice. Trapped by possibility. They'd say that's the excess talking: "You have too much and appreciate none of it." But true appreciation is only in want. Do you more profusely thank the stranger for a hunk of bread if you belly is full, or if you are starving, crazy-eyed and in frenzied need? If you could choose, you would choose never to experience that degree of hunger. But then you would have opted out of experiencing an almost divine thankfulness. They speak to me of empathy. How do you empathize a world, an ocean, a language apart? "Because we're all human", they say. No. Empathy is self-related and experiential. Having never felt pain, could we wince at another's? It would be as meaningless as a Phoenician pictogram to a layman. I want to submit. If not drop dead on this desecrated patch of ground, then to submit. Make your cause mine, split your life energy to sustain us both. I have none left to strive. Ambition, they say, Goals, they say. The notion of relative merit runs deep. But it's all in what you rest your hierarchy on. Theirs rests on societal success, on my duty to strive in order to contribute to some great, bigger scheme with my life. Should I pay with my blood, sweat, and tears into your economy? Into your endlessly churning mass of social concerns? Should I help seek solutions to great human tragedies? Futility. I want to submit, but don't let me pass judgment. If you do, I'll say no. No, that's stupid, I'll say. But don't let me speak. Don't give me a choice. Rob me of voice and put me to work until I wear away this earthly shell, and then return me to the worms. I'll have served whatever purpose you had in mind, you in your striving. I'll have lived a free slave. You would have blessed me with freedom from the curse of consciousness, the curse of choice. I am sick of deceit and duality. Everything is two-faced. Is there too much choice or no choice at all? Is it a choice not to have a choice? Futility. Thoughts on a loop for years, with a meaningful philosophy yet to take shape. I wonder if any man has ever kicked the bucket with the thought: "Fuck me, I've done it!!! I've hammered out a meaningful philosophy!" That was enough to draw a laugh, for what's the good in reckoning you've figured out how to live when the living's done? Philosophizing is a meaningless pursuit, they say. Their alternative? Ambition, work, goals. Never stopping to ask how that is a meaningful pursuit, exactly. If you don't philosophize enough to question meaning, to question relative merit, then how can you assign it? Maybe this is the trap. Maybe the working, striving world, the unquestioning world, is the freedom within slavery. Futility. When you do something, you do nothing. When you do nothing, you are, in essence, doing something. Something is broken, but what is it? Where is the hole in the chain link fence? It's only good if it's unbroken, so where the fuck does it fail? Maybe the failure lies with language, if not then with consciousness itself. Does language capture too much or too little? In a word, what is the potential of language? Hahaha. Get it? In a word. Futility. There is no final authority. People seek God because they need God, an arbiter to narrow options, to limit choice. With 50 colorful cereal boxes screaming at you from the shelves, which do you select to stuff your face before work every morning? LORD OH LORD, RAISIN BRAN OR FROSTED FLAKES?!! Fuck. Maybe I'll  read this someday as someone "established." Someone "successful." And I'll say, wow, I was so embittered, so angry, so lost. I hope now that then, this will make me question what exactly I have found. Maybe I will finally have been subjugated. Endowed with purpose that is not my own, like every purpose really, but maybe stronger conviction on my part will belie it. I am tired, so god damn very tired for my few years on this planet. I am not even unhappy, just bored and stifled by choice. When I'm there I'm there, when I'm here I'm here. Only laziness and occasionally, the instinct for self preservation swing me one way or another. "What is life?" the kids ask jokingly. But if it wasn't a joke, if it were as serious as genocide, what would they reply? Their weak words would fail them and their faces would slowly converge into expressions of puzzlement. Restate the question. Could you use that in a sentence? Fuck. Futility. Can there be rage where there is so much futility? I can attest that there can be, right here in this warped and twisted headspace. Undirected, sometimes icy, sometimes searing rage. Rage of outcry. Rage born of some inexpressible pain and some abstract despair. What hurts? Why are you sad? Simple questions children ask; most difficult to answer. They say children are happy and spontaneously delighted in a way that adults cannot be. Some say that's a mystery, others are convinced of a clear answer. "They just don't have all the worries of adulthood." What are those, exactly? I reckon that children are happy because they are A. subjugated completely and B. ignorant. Ignorance and subjugation. Two "bad" words. Heavy words. But can they be freeing? Can they be delightful? I think they can be.

-Artem Potemkin

Just a Couple of Poems

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Magic

For a rare moment

I was captured

by the magic of the sun.

Away from the harsh glow of screens,

from oppressive pursuits,

I found my peace.

I felt life

and felt alive.

I felt my body groan.

It creaked,

and I marveled in the sound.

I am alive,

as part of the scheme

as the small green tomato

Ripening in the last rays of day.

For a moment

I was captured

by the magic of the sun.

By the feeling of a cool breeze,

By the soft sigh of rustling leaves.

I am not dead

and had,

for that moment

Escaped the haze of grey.

I said

I am alive,

and it was a joyous sound.

For that briefest of times,

so scarce among others,

the man behind the curtain

walked into the spotlight.

The phantom of the opera

experienced applause.

 

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Voices of the City

The man of action

and the thought,

walked hand in hand

that day.

An unlikely friendship,

but the strength of the union

could not be denied.

They sat down,

heavily,

in a green wicker chair.

The thought spoke,

the man laughed,

and all was well.

A happy companionship,

keeps the black wolves at bay.

When loneliness encroaches,

the man turns his back;

he drowns himself in action,

But the thought does not

admit defeat.

The voices of the city,

cry out in sad harmony.

The man and his thought

seek solace in each other.

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Echoes

They speak to me,

these angels,

of the deep, dark

shadow sea.

They speak of bygone days,

of treasures lost,

and memories gained.

They speak to me of timelessness,

in which all fades away.

They speak,

but offer little;

no answers to eternal mysteries.

They are the long lost,

once forgotten,

now recalled.

I sit surrounded by specters,

an unwilling participant,

in a haunting storytime.

These whispers of insanity,

they bring me to the brink,

but in their hurried tones,

it is never quite clear,

What lies over the edge.

The experience of windchill,

offers its own comfort,

as the voices whisper,

of past and present ills.

I am driven to share,

but to share one must know.

Their secrets escape understanding.

When they speak,

the tangible rings hollow.

The tapestry they weave,

comprises my reality.

They are unchained,

free to rain down destruction,

but they just want to speak.

They seek connection,

with what is.

I hear,

but cannot be their voice.

My dues have been paid.

They are saddened

but conscious,

of my limitations.

I go to my rest,

and they oblige me,

with reluctant release…

-Artem Potemkin