CHAPTER XX
"The Phantom was all the time talkin' shit to Christine 'bout the music of the night," Mutual nods of agreement; how to explain the rest of it?
My new bunkmate[replacement unit for RAJAN] crouched on the bottom stringer at the bottom of the chain-link, lanced his gaze out towards where my shadow crossed the pavement and while addressing me as "old school" said, "I know what you are thinking." How could he?
When I was sure that this man had spoken to me, I advanced a sure step towards his own space, whet my lips preparing to speak and paused another half second, to gather his total attention. I asked if he'd heard of this masked dude, and proceeded to classify the fictional French composer's utterances as shit-talk.
Upon his admission of ignorance followed my explanation; that whenever this character wrote a letter to the managers in the theater, with his instructions RE:his private box, he signed his missives O.G.; opera ghost. My bunkmate's handle inside was O.G. as well; that 'connection' having prompted the thoughts he could not have discerned without my willingness to share them.
I summarized the ghost's flawed character thusly:his ugliness had corrupted his soul.
For the entirety of those four days he'd been assigned to my 'skybox,' my O.G. had regaled anyone who'd listen to it, without pause a much-rehearsed recitation of his legend. I cannot express how annoying this droning above me has become, but can retell it here in hopes that the writing can exorcise its effects, or at least neutralize the power this hum would appropriate.
In two thousand sixteen, our very lives seem completely dominated by 'campaigns' which pump huge streams of revenue through media corporations; this money buys our attention during the process whereby a nation three hundred fifty million-strong will be POLarized. In November, one of the two POLes will be declared the victor in this much anticipated one-day contest.
In the popular remake of The Fly, which stars Jeff Goldblume, he speaks to his former lover of insect POLitics; his voiced concerns re not intelligible unless you can separate the word from the governmental process used so cavalierly to define it. In order to insure that conversations engaged in above the food that sustains us remains POLite, we must eschew any mention of religion or POLitics at the table. POLiteness is semantically rooted where we 'source' our POLitics.
Any magnetized 'chunk' of metal has two POLes; we usually demonstrate this 'peculiarity' of the unseen force by means of introducing a second magnet; we can easily see that one of its POLes is alternately attracted or repelled by the two poles of the first magnet.
Any idea, any statement, image or action, any religious belief or any other 'thing' which can divide a roomful[or any other 'grouping,' either larger or smaller] of people into two divisions, now opposed to one another, is political.
The very idea of O.G.'s corruption[either Ghost or Bunkmate] is POLitical, and my description of it here, aPOLogetic. My bunkmate's legend is constructed to convince all his listeners that he is in fact a real nigger[not no pussy-ass nigger]! The larger group, of course, being the p-a variety. O.G.'s listener is tacitly invited to consider himself to also be one of those rare real varieties. Obviously, no REAL[insert N-word] would spend so much time talking about the REAL shit going down "with no pussy-ass nigger."
O.G. is convinced there's no action in the hood without his having initiated it[through his cleverness and bold moves]; that everything else you may have seen or heard about was set in motion by the gravitation radiating from 'his spot;' that he is ever so much smarter than those p-a's, and than the cops, lawyers, Judges and P.O.'s. All these 'explanations' were originally conceived in some crack cocaine-stupor, during some extremely-short span spent on the street.
The total time he has spent "up at Riedsville," or incarcerated at some 'County Camp[going back at least to 1974],' or even in this facility, since opening twenty years ago, would preclude ninety percent of his wild claims from possibly ever having happened; not enough time outside these walls to have seen the kind of money he speaks about. Twenty-five thousand dollars-worth of clothes left behind in the motel-room he has occupied for a year and a half? Preposterous!
All the acts of violence he has seen or heard about, during all his many years behind locked doors, have transcended by his imaginings, into acts he should have been charged with, or is imminently capable of, should he need to go off on some transgressor. If only one half of this bullshit were essentially true, O.G.'s shadow alone, would kill healthy plants in mere seconds.
After Dallas, Julianni blasted the political slogan:Black Lives Matter from the Law & Order side of the chasm -growing ever deeper and wider- that separates the poles[pronounced POLLS] to be represented by Hillary & the Donald. Subtract three more from Law & Order's side[Baton Rouge] and Julianni's oration,
under a full moon in Cleveland, harkens back to another orator in Depression-Era Germany.
While the ability to effect change[by either candidate] is imagined, the danger embedded in the polarization is potent.
Webber's Musical contains within it, an Opera the Phantom composed, to feature his ingenue; during the musical number, "Masquerade,"
the entire chorus wears masks. The lyrics are about the power in the masks, to mitigate the hidden vulnerability. The masked composer uses the scene to appear on the stage; to enlighten the cast, the theater's managers and the patrons in his audience; to say aloud, "I'm the only REAL nigger in this here town."
(The skipped lines above, in this Chapter, indicate transitions that I was incapable of writing.)
My new bunkmate[replacement unit for RAJAN] crouched on the bottom stringer at the bottom of the chain-link, lanced his gaze out towards where my shadow crossed the pavement and while addressing me as "old school" said, "I know what you are thinking." How could he?
When I was sure that this man had spoken to me, I advanced a sure step towards his own space, whet my lips preparing to speak and paused another half second, to gather his total attention. I asked if he'd heard of this masked dude, and proceeded to classify the fictional French composer's utterances as shit-talk.
Upon his admission of ignorance followed my explanation; that whenever this character wrote a letter to the managers in the theater, with his instructions RE:his private box, he signed his missives O.G.; opera ghost. My bunkmate's handle inside was O.G. as well; that 'connection' having prompted the thoughts he could not have discerned without my willingness to share them.
I summarized the ghost's flawed character thusly:his ugliness had corrupted his soul.
For the entirety of those four days he'd been assigned to my 'skybox,' my O.G. had regaled anyone who'd listen to it, without pause a much-rehearsed recitation of his legend. I cannot express how annoying this droning above me has become, but can retell it here in hopes that the writing can exorcise its effects, or at least neutralize the power this hum would appropriate.
In two thousand sixteen, our very lives seem completely dominated by 'campaigns' which pump huge streams of revenue through media corporations; this money buys our attention during the process whereby a nation three hundred fifty million-strong will be POLarized. In November, one of the two POLes will be declared the victor in this much anticipated one-day contest.
In the popular remake of The Fly, which stars Jeff Goldblume, he speaks to his former lover of insect POLitics; his voiced concerns re not intelligible unless you can separate the word from the governmental process used so cavalierly to define it. In order to insure that conversations engaged in above the food that sustains us remains POLite, we must eschew any mention of religion or POLitics at the table. POLiteness is semantically rooted where we 'source' our POLitics.
Any magnetized 'chunk' of metal has two POLes; we usually demonstrate this 'peculiarity' of the unseen force by means of introducing a second magnet; we can easily see that one of its POLes is alternately attracted or repelled by the two poles of the first magnet.
Any idea, any statement, image or action, any religious belief or any other 'thing' which can divide a roomful[or any other 'grouping,' either larger or smaller] of people into two divisions, now opposed to one another, is political.
The very idea of O.G.'s corruption[either Ghost or Bunkmate] is POLitical, and my description of it here, aPOLogetic. My bunkmate's legend is constructed to convince all his listeners that he is in fact a real nigger[not no pussy-ass nigger]! The larger group, of course, being the p-a variety. O.G.'s listener is tacitly invited to consider himself to also be one of those rare real varieties. Obviously, no REAL[insert N-word] would spend so much time talking about the REAL shit going down "with no pussy-ass nigger."
O.G. is convinced there's no action in the hood without his having initiated it[through his cleverness and bold moves]; that everything else you may have seen or heard about was set in motion by the gravitation radiating from 'his spot;' that he is ever so much smarter than those p-a's, and than the cops, lawyers, Judges and P.O.'s. All these 'explanations' were originally conceived in some crack cocaine-stupor, during some extremely-short span spent on the street.
The total time he has spent "up at Riedsville," or incarcerated at some 'County Camp[going back at least to 1974],' or even in this facility, since opening twenty years ago, would preclude ninety percent of his wild claims from possibly ever having happened; not enough time outside these walls to have seen the kind of money he speaks about. Twenty-five thousand dollars-worth of clothes left behind in the motel-room he has occupied for a year and a half? Preposterous!
All the acts of violence he has seen or heard about, during all his many years behind locked doors, have transcended by his imaginings, into acts he should have been charged with, or is imminently capable of, should he need to go off on some transgressor. If only one half of this bullshit were essentially true, O.G.'s shadow alone, would kill healthy plants in mere seconds.
After Dallas, Julianni blasted the political slogan:Black Lives Matter from the Law & Order side of the chasm -growing ever deeper and wider- that separates the poles[pronounced POLLS] to be represented by Hillary & the Donald. Subtract three more from Law & Order's side[Baton Rouge] and Julianni's oration,
under a full moon in Cleveland, harkens back to another orator in Depression-Era Germany.
While the ability to effect change[by either candidate] is imagined, the danger embedded in the polarization is potent.
Webber's Musical contains within it, an Opera the Phantom composed, to feature his ingenue; during the musical number, "Masquerade,"
the entire chorus wears masks. The lyrics are about the power in the masks, to mitigate the hidden vulnerability. The masked composer uses the scene to appear on the stage; to enlighten the cast, the theater's managers and the patrons in his audience; to say aloud, "I'm the only REAL nigger in this here town."
(The skipped lines above, in this Chapter, indicate transitions that I was incapable of writing.)
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