REALISM HATS

A baseball cap or a cowboy hat are what you wear if you are nobody in particular.  You want to belong.  You’ll be as generic as possible to do that.  You are proud not to be different.

Those different people must be put down.

Hatlessness is okay, but eventually will grow suspect.  Even baldness has been turned into a hat.

That man over there in the slightly shabby clothes with over a million dollars in his bank account, he is not one of the elite.

Oh no.

He likes to go on about them.  The Elite.  Something about “Wine and cheese and Perrier water.”

He knows the script.  He helped to write it and forgot he was reading it ever afterward.

The hats are lining up.  They are taking sides.  All are “regular people” who need to “get on with their lives.”

Don’t ask them where they need to get on to.  This exceeds the event horizon.

They either have money or work faithfully for those who do.

It’s the money talking.  Even from people who don’t have any.

And beneath the money–for money is nothing at all, just like evil, but so very powerful–is the labour talking.

The groaning, back breaking, heart breaking, self-pity making labour.

The rat in the cage.

Oh proud rat.  You are not amongst the Elite, are you?  Of course not.  Good fellow.

The important thing is that you either wear livery or are the owner of it–the “brand.”

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Let’s go down a level or two.  Beneath the labour, even.  The Marxists go this far, much further than their enemies, but usually not far enough.

“In the sweat of thy face…”

Back to the Springtime of humanity.

Back to the origins of “things as they are,” back to the origins of “Reality,” now worshipped as a god, self-plucked from the void and much to be venerated by his followers, the “Realists.”

The baseball cap and the cowboy hat take council together.

(But the Lord shall hold them in derision.)

Back to the birth of the “necessary evil” without which there can be no good.

So we are told.

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The baseball cap and the cowboy hat take council together.  Their inanities are deadly and they know it.

But these are “good people” trying to “get by.”

I’m Only Real

I’m only real
When I’m alone
I always cease to be
When giant faces loom about
To blink and
Silence me;

It is not fear
It is not dread
There’s simply nothing there
There is no bit
Of  “I am me”
I am not anywhere.

So look you sir
Now I’ll go pray
To get and keep a soul
To each his business
And desire
quiet I must be.