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Monday, December 31, 2007

When Nobody Knows Your Name

They made no attempt to reenlist me. My four-year service ended after three years and 325 days.
Of the six or seven visits I made to the hospital in Germany, at least four were for bike injuries. Once I pulled my achilles pretty bad in a crash and couldn't walk uphill; a terrible thing on a hillside base.
Montana was a chaotic mess. The order of the service was replaced by terribly stupid hippies whose one talent in life was to make fun of smart people who liked to think and talk about things.
Solace was found in the selective cultivation, dessication, incineration and inhalation of various strains of a pernicious plant.
A philosophy was formed, leading to an ideology that remains, albeit personal and considerably impolite to pass on with any kind of impassioned voice, lest those terribly stupid hippies come back for their Dead tapes.
Some lessons were learned more selectively, and in parts of a forest primeval where other voices reign much more supreme. A hall of spirits who showed the river of emotion through which we all flow our lives. An antidote.
It lasts forever, this knowledge, but it is hard to share. Many only know the euphoria; the transcendence leaves them queasy. Their untwinned tonal/nagual spirits are unable to join and they only see the road in front of them.
Cynicism is easy. All you have to do is pull the trigger.



JLF said...

Hernando Go Adbusters

Amber Rais said...

I actually know two of the guys in the poster of the four cyclists pulling the chariot. I rode with them two weeks ago in Austria. Not kidding.