journal.novachild.com: "There is no mental suffering by the mere act of photographing,"

"There is no mental suffering by the mere act of photographing,"
2/05/2005

There is nothing to mourn. There is nothing to feel. Does she hear the music? Sabrina? American history, Disney-style.

We are blank as farts. We are as meat moving around in concrete and steel constructs, singing a happy song. Meaning is easily defined by employers and governments. As long as they don't see us coming, we can do anything we want.

This is the message. You are tuned in. God Bless America.

The flash face of terror behind every naked face, many soaked with tears and stained with lunctime kool-aid. They will grow up to be the enemy, because they wish a different sort of freedom. The freedom to pursue happiness, not be led blindly by warped truths, by naked pathetic fear. The freedom to express who they are, who they wish to be, and challenge the flimsy constructions their grandparents built and their parents ignored.

Shiva stirs in her infinite womb, and a fire is kindled. The emptiness of dreams twists and writhes at the other end of her gaze, for even god will be consumed. Meanwhile, our soldiers topple cities, rape and pillage, feed the flesh of our enemies to infernal machines. Build roads with their remains for endless miles of asphalt.

I am a chorus of fleeting memories, awaiting some breathe of life to spin my mortal coil from recycled television transmissions and green plastic everlasting. The sound of meat grinding, change is happening. The sad thoughtless creatures peddle twisted renditions of old klansman songs - screaming beneath the sound of the guitars and industrial machines. Meat meat meat. Grinding. Twisting, shredding into piles.

The end is coming, but not the end. The end of masks, of bitter mothers trapped inside silver prisons with unfinished crosswords collecting dust. The end of routine beneath dense fog of distant memory. Then comes the shame, the torment, as the creature disowns the spoor it leaves behind. Lies. Truth. Information passes through thin, cold lips of America's priest, spilling into the dirty calloused hands of its people, taking the skin from the fingers. The reaper. The sower. The same endless pattern goes on and on.

So now it's time to catch a train, you say. The violins vibrate behind you, and your beautiful hair waves like a black flag in the breeze. The snow has melted, and distant ships set sail, bellowing empty blue horns into the cold, grey slate of concrete and dead trees. The sea retreats. Parades end. Men in sheets retreat into their brick-lined caverns. Time to move on.

The images of their imprisonment become candy for our eyes. We are edutained. Their shame becomes our pride.

"The U.S. government dropped the main charge on Saturday against a female soldier who posed in front of a pyramid of naked Iraqis at Abu Ghraib prison."

The slow, pounding pulse of her own cold leathery heart. It is a nexus. Babylon the Great lifted from her sorrow, led to the altar and given USDA approval. She is ground up, seasoned, and fed back to us as an example of compassion.

"Attorneys for Harman argued that charges related to the photographs of hooded detainees should be dismissed, because victims must be aware of abuse in order to be abused."

We the satisfied victors devolve into mumbling, drooling cannibals eating our own legs. In the name of Truth and Justice we shall prevail.