Hush Prelude’s blog

And they say, disengage,
From yourself,
A pair of tweezers,
Two layers of skin,
One soul,
Prying from bone,
From mind.

And they say, disengage,
From them all,
A pair of boots,
Two layers of sweat,
One sock,
Prying from home,
From where you belong.

And they say, disengage,
From it,
A pair of hands,
Two prayers and knees bent,
One hint,
Prying from ignorance,
From God.

And they say, disengage,
From madness,
A pair of eyes,
Two blank stares,
One heartbeat,
Prying from reality,
From it all.

Stop

Stop Sign.

I'm sitting here in my Chrysler 300M Special, my ass burning on the high heat seat coils, both hands gripping the eternal wheel, eyes about face, staring into a lane that stretches for another 2 miles until it turns into a dead end.  To my right is a red sign with four symbols.  Ten minutes ago its symbolic power stretched its arms into my car, under the floorboard, and initiated a fast twitch into my upper ankle.  My foot had no control, bewitched by a tin octagon.

STOP.

So here I am in my vehicle, idling, my foot sleeping on the brake, and I have no idea when it will let up and shift over to the accelerator.  A black Honda is slowing behind me.  I don't move an inch, in fact I'm not sure I'm going to give this energy.  I'm not in the mood for anxiety today, so I'll let this spell take as long as it has to. 

The Honda bugles like a bull elk in search for another hole, and I observe the scowl on some 40 year old man who appears to be impatient.  I've only been here for 11 minutes now, but he wants to go.  His destination may disappear in another second or so.  He must get this journey over with as soon as possible or his wife will hemmorage in her kitchen. 

I stare at him as he makes love to the car horn with his right palm.  I don't twitch.  I don't give him the bird.  I don't move.

He backs up and moves around me, so passionately furious, he forgets to STOP.

A green Toyota truck was already in progress when the black Honda plowed its head into the side of the truck.  I watch the slow action accident take place in front of my windshield, now being kissed by tiny glass shards.  My foot is still strong on the brake and hasn't budged for 12 mintues now. 

A police unit drives by and recognizes the accident, switching his revolving lights on.  I think about Anime seizuring as I stare into the blue light, then the red.  Surprisingly, the lights are too fast to converge.  Purple was never on the menu this fine day.

He steps out the official shell, his hand on his gun and another on his baton.  His eyes appear nervous, like it's his first day on the job and I wonder how he feels about purple light.  The woman in the green Toyota has a 3 inch gash on the upper left corner of her forehead.  Her right forearm is broken, and she has glass in her right thigh.

The man in the black Honda is fine.  His adrenaline heightened his senses and gave him the ability to dodge broken bones and glass inbedded in thighs.  He is looking down at the eternal wheel.  Poker face and tired now, he's not sure what to do next.  The insurance company called earlier in the morning to inform him that they were going out of business and to switch as soon as possible.

The officer investigates both parties of the accident.  He's no longer nervous.  The officer has just realized that this will happen everyday for the rest of his career.  He expresses concern for the wounded bird in the Toyota, but scowls at the man in the Honda. 

My foot is ready to leave now.  The spell has lifted, I go around the collision.  The officer shouts and waves at me, but I keep going.  I head east on this 2 mile dead end.  15 minutes has passed and it is here. 

The end.

It's a frightening thought that I know what's coming next.

http://www.projectcensored.org/censored_2007/index.htm

I know this has been seen for a good few years now, and I'm well aware that I have known at least half of it without really doing anything.

I feel like a dog in a cage with learned helplessness... no matter my fleeing strategy, I'm overwhelmed with the thought of escape, that it may never happen, and I will be forced to plea guilty for writing a blog entitled, "Censor Me," on January 9, 2007.

I just made it past the million thoughts per second phase, which ensued during my reading of U.S. detention camps, future production of landmines, and the destructive nature of genetically manufactured soy and other food items, all grown with a toxic weed killer we all love, RoundUp.

I have images of 12ft. mountains of burning literature and non-fiction. Loud mobs with Southern drunkeness, herding the panicked 'liberals and left wingers' into semi trucks with no air, heading toward designated concentration camps.

I suddenly became suspicious of Myspace and Facebook. Our comfort in free connections to people who were nameless 12 years ago. The overgrown viruses of LOL and OMGZ, how cute, yet lazy, and perhaps the secret language whispered in the future... in the cold, hollow guts of the 100ft. semi trailor.

Then the endless questions: Should I abandon the internet, my car, my job, the grocery store, and start learning agriculture, read as many as my books as I can, absorb as much as I can, correspond as much as I can, live as much as I can?

Then argument: No abandonment.. it's only punishment. Live like an American, recklessly, destroy everything, consume everything because in a few years you won't have the internet, a car, a job, a grocery store, books or people.

So here it is...jumbled paranoia, and a few scraps of truth... so censor me.

I believe in dry towels, for soggy towels create soggy moods.

I believe in doing what drives you, even if it is considered taboo.

I believe the mind is god and we are all connected through a low dose of telepathy.

I believe in electricity between a person's fingertips and piano keys, violin strings, or accordian waves.

I believe in the wilderness of the brain, where one circuit will grow larger to compensate for missing branches.

I believe in skin to skin perspiration.

I believe in all altered states, be it from a night of dancing, a night of making love, or a night of heavy conversation.

I believe in the high you experience from raw observation.

I believe in building new emotions.

I believe in the bird's song.

I believe in the last few seconds before sleep, where everything is nonsense, a million thoughts at once conducting the most sweet, jumbled symphony known to man.

Human Lungs.

Human lungs can only hold so much oxygen.

Our upright pose is the culprit for such a misfortune.

Your lung capacity would shame most penguins.

Alas, we are no artic beasts with beaks.

We are humans with flacid air sacks.

We crave more because we have less.

If only we were to walk on all fours.

Build our lungs to maximum lift off.

And finally sink to the bottom.

Without having to come up.

For more.