Etalkinghead

Sometimes, perched upon the pinnacle of realization, I totter, uneasily, dangerously, imminently, on the brink of insanity.

What is it to be insane? Insane is actually when one loses the recognition of what is sanity and what is insanity. Insanity is when the equal opposites cease to have any dimension, any contrast: any weight. It is a state of mental weightlessness, a weightless recklessness; it is when man defies the concept of the absurd by rejecting its absurdity. Thus, I totter, tiptoeingly on that abysmal brink. I really, honestly, sincerely, heart rendingly, almostly, go completely insane.

The way everyone around us exist, this splintered generation with its sad excesses, its lack of love, its lack of a hearth, its lack of friendship, its spiritual and cognitive malnutrition, its intellectual, sensual anorexia: the primitives of Africa, whose physical turmoil release them from their abject existential horrors by death, may, if they understood exactly the condition of their Western equal opposites, would feel a waft of consolation: injustice is not just a question of free trade or structural loans. It is the commodification of a culture entire. Spengler’s decadence and demise of the West; the Roman annals in Juvenalia; the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire– Edward Gibbon.

I always think about it: the distorted expressions and inner psyche. When I understand it to its exact detail, its negativity, its disturbing, profound, incomplete psychoticness, is so repulsive, so alienating, so pervasive that it makes me go “hey mama, what the fuck!”. Didn’t I tell you though? I totter. T-o-t-t-e-r.

Now, now, don’t get me wrong. I have never actually gone insane.

Benito Bangalotti, the product of a catholic school, wrapped up in the stained loincloth of his eighteen years has finally thrown away his bib. He says “College allows me to turn my suspicions into theories. In high school we had a dress code, and I didn’t get to see how people acted out of school. Insane? No, that happens to me a lot.”

I tell Benito, “to be honest with you Benito, if we don’t do anything about it now, not only is it going to eventually claim us, drag us by our private parts into the gaping organ of that sodomite whore called conscious eternity; but it is going to wipe out any hope any child ever had for a discovery, any hope for finding a natural fulfillment that is a child’s, this urban culture, it’s sickening. The lack of nature so dehumanizing…” Benito interjects. “Yes”.

I go on: “I find the most human folks in this country are the ones from other countries-the ones who would never assimilate; and really, THAT is a shame. I find Mexican immigrants to be more human than a high school student.

“I met a French lady today, she was amazing, she’s from Normandie, German father, French mother. She was so full of this crazy love, she almost forced me to have her scarf. She said in her cottage accent “it’s zo kold, yer neckh iz kold, hier, haav a skarf, haav mein.” I did not find a speck of insanity in that whatsoever. An american would sue this person out of instinct. This is all so fucked up. Everyone’s living in a fucking bubble.”

I made a video of myself, in my $100 Walmart digital camera from Black Friday. It’s so fine. I used the video to capture my rage. My face contorted, jarred, twisted, flexed with a raw anger, rising and welling out of the gall bladder of the Valkyrie, in its mighty flight, in its soaring, defiant dash towards the great Sun.

Benito liked it. He expressed himself: “wow, hahaha”.

“Benito, we are young, strong, and smart. If not us, then who? Let us stand for something deeper and far reaching. Come back to Voorhees, let’s talk. It is time to be truly American, in the way your parents taught you to be, and my parents, even when they weren’t living here: for, any who ever had any wisdom, any vision, any root, and fundamentally a piece of conviction, will always be, always has been, and will continue unrelentingly to be just that: An American.”

The concept is a metaphysical one. America is the sole center of world sanity- it is the only hope-only in IT can the best ideas of the human race be propagated and cultivated to a brilliant fruition. We cannot just stand by and see it squandered. Never forget who founded this nation, and the ancient roots of that founding.

Benito says, “True.”

A pause and a half, and a three fourth of a pause. Benito says, “Play football: game on tuesday”.

I tell him “..it has always been a symbol of something very decadent to me. It is crude, it is animalistic, it is sexualized, it doesn’t have the same athletic grace as the runner has, as the farmer who works his sweating sinews in the field-it lacks life. It is a commodity”.

I don’t like football because for me it is a very obvious symbol: all these made up, highly commercialized, clown shows have the same stench to them as amphitheaters. These so called sports.

It is wrong to commercialize human vigor like that, and very unnatural.

Benito says, “Sports unite people”. I reply, well retort, “So does Fascism”.

And what does this unity produce except for fanatics? I guarantee you Benito Bangalottis of the world, that there is a correlation between people that like these “sports”..these sports that trigger instincts that are very basic and primitive; and decadence and deconstruction.

Primitive. That can be a good thing in a different way though. In a sincere, respectful way: for instance, plowing the soil, cutting it up, it is violence in a way, a use of force, physicality. But yet, the soil, the grass, the skies, the smell, they all create a conversation. In commercialized sports, that silence, that poise, is non-existent. It is filled by the ugly shrieks of fanatical supporters of a consumeristic regime.

The concept of cheerleaders for instance is not at all accidental. Unnaturally beast like men dressed in helmets attacking each other and smashing their raw, plasticized buttocks against each other with an unintelligent aggression and primitive objectives, as barely naked girls jump up and down, flapping their microskirts, “peekaboo~”.

What Benitos find in football, I find in military reenactments. I am removed from the history, but yet into it. I am not a nazi, but yet an admirer of the German Volk-zeitgesit.

The basic humanity of a soldier who is in touch with the raw elements of the Earth; his uniform crusted with mud, yet he marches, disciplining the soil underneath him. The harsh wind leaves a frost on his face. The leaves rustle over his helmet, and the ground moistened with dew crunches and gives away ever so slightly underneath him. He is alert and has a gun in his hand, and a trowel in his sack.

“I like romanticizing things” says Benito. “I do too”.

And I hate it when this reality, in its insane insolence interrupts and ruins it, robs my tongue of the bittersweet; the pepper and the salt.

I think if you exposed yourself to that which you have been always denied, you’ll find better and greater discoveries. I tell Benito, “You have the raw and potent qualities of a great man. You have the introspection of a poet. You have the balanced masculinity of the athlete. You are morally developed. And you are curious.”

Wake up! There’s a lot you can do. We need those like you. Look around you. All of those qualities are tyrannically replaced from an early age in every single one of your peers to the point where they become sorry rejects to their own humanity: Surrounded with the filth of consumption, fundamentally illiterate, incompetent, phallic worshippers, incommunicados.

“Phallic?” asks Benito. I reply, “Penis.”

Yes, penis worshippers. And am I better than them? Yes, I am, for their sake and for my sanity’s. There’s nothing wrong with being better. There’s everything right with being better if you truly are. A better-than-rest individual is well-cultivated, compassionate, humble, constructive, deeply loving, creative, intense, simple, abstract, and profound.

We need more like them. Join us.

I have no ideology, no nation, no religion. I believe in God. And in my Sperm. And in this Earth.

I think I might be going insane. Right now, I’m tottering. T-o-t-t-e-r-i-n-g.