Noise

“For the most sensitive among us, sometimes the noise can just be too much.” – Jim Carrey – upon hearing of the death of Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

The cross city bus clamors out a murderous seasick solo backed by an orchestral scrum of whizzing internal combustion engines in uproarious brawl spewing invisible air and ear pollution death while begging for second gear; both instruments of audio-olfactory destruction, an offense to the ear and nose from landlocked personal space-ships bumper to bumper on the narrow streets of San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood; all, along with the antique streetcars sing out a cacophony of noise so disturbing I had to hold the phone, physically 1,500 miles away from the action, six inches from my ear.

Our story’s hero Jeff is laboring, careening up and down intensely inclined ski sloop streets chasing said bus while he screams into his cell phone at me “Man, the first thing you’d notice if you came back is the noise”. I tell him he’s preaching to the choir. The air in my environs of northern Wisconsin is so calm I can hear the sound of autumn leaves rustling along the well-kept lawns and iridescent blue birds singing their daily arias.

Writers flood into big cities, whether they know it or not, to be uncomfortable; since like the late, great Charles Bukowski opined “no one comfortable ever wrote anything worth a damn”. The city is life on steroids; it’s intensity keeping us all tense. The boulevard is a raging river of humanity and sometimes inhumanity. There is rarely a shortage of stimuli upon which to opine. Here the writers cup runneth over.

Our hero confides he’s been reaching back into his past to make that connection that sooner or later, sooner I think for some of us given recent societal developments, we all eventually make; that DNA linked memory to our roots. Jeff is currently covered by a warm blanket; surrounded by like-minded west coast social justice warriors – yet when looking back over his shoulder in contemplation of revisiting comrades from his mid-western past; he is floored, repulsed and catatonic over the addiction he sees in his childhood pals adherence to the new ersatz fascism; the redneck noise that is Trumpism.

In the same way it’s nearly impossible to escape the noise coming at us all like a Chinese parade, from eight different directions all at once; it’s the same for our natural inclination to decipher the content and arrange it in some assemblage of bite-size order. Is it as it seems? Is the new avalanche of information overwhelming our capacity to upload, sort-out and categorize it’s meaning and importance so we might get a handle on our collective future?

It can’t only be me and our hero who, overwhelmed by the noise, wish solace in heeding the wise voices from our past. Timothy Leary’s advise was “tune-in, turn-on and drop out.” Or the angelic voices of groovy guru of the day who suggest wandering in an open field for mindfulness training. Or the Birkenstocks environmentalist who insist we head back to nature and hug a tree; or the mental spiritualist that whisper meditation is the key. Maybe the best of them are the Tantra yogi’s who claim sexual pleasure is the way in and out; that the answer is a bit more of the old in and out. Being a hedonist myself I tend to flow in this direction.

Yet, with escape valves in place in case of overload and prayers to the universe for guidance, I can’t help myself wanting to sort through the noise and discover, like a pathfinder, which direction to point; for myself and others. The Stoics posited that the philosopher left the cave, examined the outside world and returned to tell the others of the joys and dangers outside the cave.

Now they’re be a noble and heroic cause; to be a fearless scout in the face of unknown dangers; to be a trailblazer for the greater good in a quest to report, interpret and transmit the findings. The conundrum seems to be we can’t translate through the noise to know what’s coming if we disengage from it.

In the end I’m left perplexed. Shall we try to make a path through the noise though we fear not knowing the answers and fear worse not even understanding the questions? Are we all just like our hero; wishing to be heroes; but succumbing to the dictates of surviving the day and reach for the safety and sanity of just catching that bus? #rednecknoise #Stoics #Trumpism #CharlesBukowski

Lucky Sperm Club

Nick Masesso, Jr.

#luckysperm

“The richest one percent of this country owns half our country’s wealth, five trillion; I create nothing. I own.”Gordon GeckoWall Street

I have empathy and affinity for those trying to figure out the mysteries. Recently several of these brave intellectuals have called to tell me about a new hypothesis being discussed these days. It’s called “The New Physics”.

They believe at the center of this philosophy is the notion that anything we think we can do; that just by the power of positive thinking we can achieve any desire, master any discipline. They liken this mind over matter idea to quantum mechanics; a branch of physics describing the behavior of energy and matter at the atomic and subatomic levels.

This sounds a lot more like hope than truth and perhaps they’ve misconstrued the conclusion but it’s also inaccurate to think that this axiom…

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Crazy Wisdom

Nick Masesso, Jr.

“Sweet misery; she loves her company. She is all alone when she is in a crowd. She doesn’t care; follow you anywhere. She is mostly happy when she makes you moan.”Hoyt Axton

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=5m6lymJy57E#! – – The Wanderer – Dion

Tonight the stars, bathed in swirling Aurora Borealis waves, pulsing flashes of pastel blues and greens, look like diamonds. They gift my noggin gracious reprieve from an epic shitty day; a day also made famous by the birth of the greatest man of the second half of the twentieth century. He would have been eighty-four today if he hadn’t had his worst day ever back in 68’; that tumultuous year which authored so many bad days and at least one good one since my son was born that very day. As a result, magically, that day kept me out of Viet Nam; or more accurately the obligatory…

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Emotions

Nick Masesso, Jr.

Excerpted from: The Politics of Ecstasy by Timothy Leary, P.H.D.

“The aw-full truth –  just say Know”– Timothy Leary

So where do we find the scientific answer to the emotional question? Can you really bear to know?

Emotions are the lowest form of consciousness. Emotional actions are the most contracted, narrowing, dangerous form of behavior. The romantic poetry and fiction of the last 200 years has quite blinded us to the fact that emotions are an active and harmful form of stupor. Any peasant can tell you that. Beware of emotions. Any child can tell you that. Watch out for the emotional person. He is a lurching lunatic.

Emotions are caused by biochemical secretions in the body to serve during the state of acute emergency. An emotional person is a blind, crazed maniac. Emotions are addictive and narcotic and stupefacient. Do not trust anyone who comes on emotional.

What…

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Spies Are Us

Nick Masesso, Jr.

“Civilization is the progress toward a society of privacy. The savage’s whole existence is public, ruled by the laws of his tribe.  Civilization is the process of setting man free from men.” – Ayn Rand

Six days after the big bang, god, according to a fresco painting by Michelangelo on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, breathed life into Adam, the first man; creating him in his own image and there, as Willy Shakes would later opine; lay the rub. God, the original spy, as legend has it, watched, as he does all six billion of us, their every move 24/7. 

Apparently unable to secure Mexican field hands to upkeep his Garden of Eden, god ordered Adam to work without pay. Adam, needing a little recreation, hit on god for a consort. In a kind gesture unlike him god performed a major skin graft gifting Adam a

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