The existence of this post betrays its existence.

At the same time, the Anarchy Party is planning to…well, wait, isn’t anarchy about the lack of organisation?

The list goes on.

Poking fun at ourselves with complicated symbology is the best form of innerspecies flattery.

Pretending to be enraged/mad or insane/mad or happy/dull or unsharpened/dull.

Or just plain mad/dull.

Rewriting Lysistrata and the Art of War for the seventeen-thousandth time.

Or perhaps happy/mad.

The pursuit of the pursuers of happiness – that’s the sole purpose of the Patriot Act.

“By God, man, don’t you know my version of the Great American Way is the only true path to happiness?”

“I don’t know, boss.  I’m too busy cleaning your floor while earning less than minimum wage and getting no benefits in order to feed my kids who dream of anything better than what I’m doing, even if they simply become slaves to technology and monthly roaming rates like you, rather than my parents, who were slaves to the dry soil and fickle weather of my home country, which inspires many there to seek the easy life of drugs and gun running, which your country buys from us and supplies to us, respectively.  But, hey, I’m nobody, right?”

To stay on my path, which includes sitting here and watching a cicada body trapped in a spider thread spin in the wind, is what it is, neither THE way nor just any way to live in happiness and peace.

A person my age is the most-recognised political executive of the Western Hemisphere.

To control a vast network of people hidden from view is like being in charge of the Apathy Party – no one cares to know the truth because it would shatter every dream or wish we have in saying we are in control of our personal destinies.

I overheard an elderly person make a toast with a glass of wine:

“Here’s to those who wish me well,
The rest of you can go to hell.”

Then they proceeded with a fashion show at the assisted living facility, including a lady who wore a hat made of pill bottles, much more inventive than any of the haute couture creations that pass for wearable art these days.

I’m in a wickedly vicious mood, wanting more out of life than what a passive, nonadventurous, monotonously monogamous, family-oriented, suburban existence offers.

Let the moralists cry over the sex crimes of the IMF chief and others who make good conformist news headlines.

Quite frankly, I am not them, although I live among them and support their subculture like any other.

At the same time, I suffer buyer’s remorse over putting my mother in-law in a “cruise ship” firmly planted in the middle of urban sprawl, wondering if she’ll get the intellectual stimulus she’s enjoyed at a small town pace her whole life.

And finally, not worried about readership, I return to the life I had, coordinating with my network of nonconforming individualists to herd the lives of most of the rest of the seven billion of us states of energy hanging out around this orb, none of you fully aware of what’s really going on, some of you getting a rare glimpse behind the illusions you were handed in your formative years.

Time to complete a few tasks for my mother in-law’s move and then meditate on nothing in particular – the best part of being inactive and uncaring in relation to the voices of extremists and whiners.