There are many en-tities. Narrative psychologist speak of living and telling
a story. Our lives should be as we en-live them and en-story them. We tell
our tale as we see it, at the moment over time, oscillate between the future,
past and present and form a dialogue between the four of us.
Sense who we are, have been, will be and in the long and short make sense of it
all. Relieve all our fragmentations and hopefully extimate all the stuff which manipulates us.
Get rid of outside indoctrination, introjections and internalisations and place them, where they rightfully belong.
Into the outside world and not contaminating our inner Selves.
And yet we do not live in a vacuum, but cater for context and contingency. Nothing wrong with that, although the world seems to be pretty incontinent with lots of shit going on, infringing our sanity, with perpetual madness trumping it all.
It has been said all along, that if the not so United States of globalised power sneezes, the rest of us catch a cold and I am shivering chilly and burning sweats and hot and cold wars, when I should be peacefully sitting in my garden and listen to spinning Oms of the planet.
Difficult to meditate though, when my life is macerated and infiltrated by the constant dribble of news from the leader of the self-appointed ‘free and democratic’ policeman, governing from Washington. District of Columbia drugged to the gills by narcissistic megalomania and delusion.
Trump is everywhere and the novelty has worn off. Overkill has reached my zenith, the line has been crossed and only I can overcome the venomous poison which blights my days. Boredom can be dangerous, but enough is enough.
Donald, the pussy grabbing misogynist and macho xenophobe is everywhere, oozing fake news and miserable truths with his orange visage turning darker, disturbing my freedom.
Personality disorder with mushroom hair looming dark in nuclear threat and fall out omnipresent.
I am sick and tired of the antics, the bully bulldozing through our lives and the self-gratifying twitter soundbites flowing from the screens in my gym, while I exercise to escape from the bedlam. He is an icon of sorts, a revolting pop star and no doubt, psychopaths have always been effective in drawing us minions into a web of lies and sociopathic adherence. But can I ignore the writing on the walls of silence? Will my shouts bring him down or will I succumb to depressed resignation.
With political freeze advancing, the trump clown’s image and messages sport from T-shirts and head gear, but the paraphernalia lack the scull and bones they really deserve. Little snow globes enclose Trump, safely sheltered by translucent plastic, in which he wields the sword and red button at Putin in a Punch and Judy charade of pulverising proportions. Trump pencils and stationery, skimpy underwear, tattoos, baseball bats and toy guns everywhere and surely some porn shop sells Trump trademark S and M dildos for instant gratification.
The Monopoly game liberates Wall Street, Aleppo, Mosul, Tehran and Kiev, with little tanks, drones and ground troopers advancing to the throw of the dice. One problem is that the game is programmed on auto pilot with none of us in playful control of the board.
Trump is collectible. Little tin soldiers and civilians lack the odd leg, rape cards are exchanged for points and for mutual anticipation and puzzles are completed with Damascus reconstructed.
Spot the difference, tunnels in Afghanistan before and after the bombs. Lucky dips in which little smarties hanker for their miniature leader and Hopscotch for girls and for girls only, but beware of the mines. Football for boys with Guantanamo the goal.
Leviathan oozes into living rooms and studies and the reality show is complete. No one can claim that we have not been warned and we either rise or rise from the ashes and radiate uranium in the thereafter.
Back to the entities. The picture is rather wholesome and complete. En-lived and en-storied by a madman. Increasingly so our stories are told for us by a foolish malignant jester, fostering his market value for business as usual and therein lies the method. Lived to the screams of a template of shining gloom and the constant dribble of Trump, the show is meant to hypnotise us into a dream world of inertia and collusion.
I do not want to be en-trumped any longer, but is there a choice in the matter. I am either for him or against him, caricature of bad politics or not. Endurance not tolerance is called for, insufferable suffering has a meaning and the Berlin Wall did not crumble with soporific denial.
Trump on the dartboard and grab the bull’s eye by the cantankerous horns. Dis-en-trumping is quite sexy and intimate, when extimation holds the darts to survival.
18th April 2017
Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2017