No more

[Sepia]

The too good men stand on top of residential building, downtown somewhere, the city, country or culture is not important and whether they be men or women are also not important. They are debating, rambling occasionally, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes, at the stage of life where they still talk about their parents much, needing acceptance, wishing that those who spawned them understand them. Dreams they have in plenty but every dream is vague and incoherent, has no definitive, has no way of being explained to the world without the loss of essence and the too good men think this and discuss this at length, invoking Burroughs and Gysins theories about language and communication being virus.

The too good men discuss at length and find that it isn't possible to translate themselves to any language, save for a multitude of languages reminding them of the auster story about the man trying to find a divine alphabet where "broken umbrella" has its' own word. Knowing all the languages in the world would perhaps make them see, would make them able to tell everyone else what these thoughts, dreams and hopes are, solidifying it into coherency and making of them a new strain. The men does not learn more languages in their lives, the men, as they grow older, figure out that there is indeed no need to spread these to others for they immediately think that if these thoughts also become public domain, what will they then use to fill?

These unpronounceable ideals, they find out before they die, are what kept them alive through the struggles, through the mazes and labyrinths of mind and matter, this was what they were, the stable part in the mingling of what people do, say or think. These were the feelings dreams had, the feeling colours and scents have untill a memory about a colour or a scent is remembered.
The too good men were those who were shaped in the fashion of mountains that would never be moved with faith or tools, those who would never quote "as above so below" but understood what was meant about it and saw beyond the veil of dull illusions but understood the importance of everyone elses dull illusions.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I LIKE my dull illusions!   

[singer]

I LIKE my dull illusions!   

Oh hell, TGRR.

Your illusions are sharp enough to make us all bleed.

[Sepia]

Continued..


The too good men sit in their living room and discuss, the madness outside the walls and the cattle moving to and fro. They speak ill of mankind, with bitter tears clogging their bloodstream, generalizing just not enough to include their friends whom they in reality see as partners in crime. The too good men believe that we already are living in the world of 1984 and Brave new world but that the masters, whomever they may be have learned from the books, understood there is really no need to involve politics in the whole ordeal. There is no need for a ruling iron fist and noone likes those that say no. The utopia that holy scripture tell us about and the dystopia Huxley and Orwell teach us about are the same thing. None of these systems are systems that will last forever, further and into eternity. One does not need control but clamouring for control is a distraction that can potentially take up much spare time and the willingness to be distracted is one of mankind's greatest strengths.

Then, they discuss, as the common census is a desire to watch four episodes of Entourage or reruns of Sex and City, does that make us anti humans? Social relativity takes the high seat in their minds and guides the discussion to the outcome everyone knows must come. Free will, fate, there is no difference. Went there, put there, there is no difference. You're there already and you'll have to make a stand, you'll have to fend for what is yours no matter how little of an inch it is and one of the strengths of the too good men is that they know the lines blur out, society is as cohesive as it is dynamic, like a mexican standup comedian using stupid as a punchline for hollow laughs. We have used up all of history, we've heard the stories and we've seen it so many times that it doesn't matter if it happens in front of our eyes on the street or televised with Steven Seagal and Dolph Lundgren. It isn't important to read the book because the movie is there or will be there.

A seed was planted in every religious script. The message can be found there when you delve into them but you stand  for you haven't heard it like this before. You haven't seen the story of Lazarus with your own eyes and you haven't heard the words of Jesus untill you read it, watching over your back, wondering if you're wrong, if you've misunderstood but in your gut you know, still the fear that you are wrong even though you know that for you, being wrong is right. The seed that was planted was a seed of interpretation, like in the older days when a mother would chew a piece of raw meat before passing it to her child, easier to digest. The world hungers for things that are preprocessed, words that have been filtered through a mind before reaching you. There is no need for an iron fist, control is a fickle thing.

The too good men sit up late and drink, bohemian as they are, waiting for the sun to rise, signalling their breakfast hour where they will eat and prepare for their days untill the will meet here again. It is monday and the sun is up.

[Sepia]

continued


The too good men reconvenes after work, make dinner and drink wine, discussing briefly their hours at work but none of them go deeply inside it, copying the actions of their coworkers as they sit in the lunchroom, discussing odds and ends about their lives, reciting it atonally and rolling their heads back and forth and it isn't untill the work is mentioned that the fire in their eyes is rekindled, talking about managing, talking about the accounts, the customers but you know what resides behind their eyes and they'll tell you that at the annual party where most of them will be dressed up in the suits they got when they turned sixteen, to mark the new era of manhood which was upon them. Instead, they talk about the manchega they eat now, never going into the territory of quality before quantity for this is a sanctuary where one does not need to discuss the petty things of life. They do not speak about the things they are good at, they speak about the things they don't know, have no idea about.

The too good men muse over professionalism, the way they see it. Locked inside cubicles, the workers still smart and bright and see that their cubicle is a guilded cage and have no need in viewing it in any other fashion before they come home to their sixteen year old daughter which tells them that they're trapped inside their lives, the lives they created because they wanted security for their children, themselves and their parents as they were heading into the world of the retired and they simply copied the blueprints supplied by their parents, the people they'd known for all of their lives, delving so deep into their childhood memories that they find a source of diminished and dead powers, dreams and operating theatres where dogs only listen when you call them Pavlov.

The too good men continue their talks into the early afternoon and the late evening, mulling over ground they've covered earlier, thinking these thoughts they've thought so many times, figuring out the landscapes of dreams they want to explore and while they know they've been here before, they feel their baby steps into something new and unknown.

They sit and talk about what they are, not what they do, not what they think but the essence of their beings. They've accepted their shortcomings long ago as parts of their personality and stand for what they are now, not what they will be for like the way they talk, they have no idea what the future will bring, what these talks will bring other than glimpses of themselves.



This thing turned out longer and more different than I thought, if you feel this fit Bring&brag better Roger, move it.

[Sepia]

continued

The too good men speak of many things in their week of living together before returning to their ordinary lives, bellies filled with information and sated with understanding and we do not know what unconscious processes the group sat into motion, we do not know each and every good mans underlying desire and most probably, they don't know themselves. They did it and will continue to do it, to rebuild themselves in eachothers images, to lock themselves inside a different bubble than what they lived and live in every other week of the year. This interest along with the fact that all of these men would shoot themselves in the heart if they were ever to commit suicide is the only thing binding them together in an old fashioned fraternitas.

No matter their cool, no matter their discussions of the souls intent and how much they have grown beyond the limitations of ego, their minds are still shackled in the heart. The drum of life beating sense into the retarded as we all are. For the heart is the mindkiller, the heart is not part of how you view yourself, the heart is its own master and has its own agenda, the heart sits on the outside looking in. The ancient tribes did not eat eachothers hearts to come closer to god but to come closer to themselves, to see how you are with two hearts where one is always loosing and the other is always winning. The levers of fate locked into ancient battle, mangling eachother, destroying and creating enough that we do not know what is what.
It is the heart that will topple empires, create revolutions and bring tyranny yet again into the world. The story of the heart is always a tragedy that none wants to experience but only watch at a relaxed distance. It is a story all of us wants interpreted and most of all those with the intelligence to understand its functions for the heart burns more bridges than it builds and the heart is what will lead you into exile.

Dreams are the heart, those which you have when sleeping and those you have when awake which you attach to the hopes and fears the future or past will bring. They are never benevolent, they are never evil but a force we can do nothing about.

[the last yatto]

morality tails are always fun and it brings new meaning to broken heart...

[Sepia]

Sorry, bear with me as I end this.


I told her to sit on the carpet and show me her vagina. She said she couldn't, rodents had been shitting it up, leaving trails of black residue all over the fake persian rug. Awkward silence happened but she didn't seem to mind. I was standing in the hallway, newly showered and drying my hair, watching in on my part of the flat where she stood, her ass my way with eyes gazing out of the windows. It was cloudy, early autumn and she'd pouted her lips earlier because she had a dream that night, walking through the botanical gardens watching dead leaves flying through the wind. I went into the room and closed the door which cued her to pick up one of my older ideas titled the too good men. In a sense it was autobiographical like all things one put to paper are. It was an abandoned idea I'd kept with me for some time and even though I knew it would never be anything, I picked it up occasionally and read it (Like I do with wheel of time).

I had this brief flash of information rolling over my brain, my eyes, soul, aura or whatever else it is you believe in while doing the dishes after I made ducks breast with grapefruit, pea pesto and ovenbaked potatoes. It reminded me of Philip K Dicks story about his vision, which was grander, bigger and more clear when 1974 LA is superimposed over a Rome from the past. It was the only thing that was close to fitting but it didn't really fit. It was a different experience and all the friends of mine I spoke with said they hadn't had any of these which works the same way as rubbing your eyes with your hands. Not drugged up you see stars and if you keep doing it long enough, lightly enough you see a vortex, something you see momentarily when high. When stoned you feel like you're falling upwards, on acid you realize you have to open your eyes because it feels like a rendering of the end of 2001 straight on your eye and on shrooms you just giggle with glee and begin to talk stupid.

This vision, if I'm allowed to call it that and at the same time strip it of any mysticism or religious significance that word might have held at any earlier point, was connected to the too good men. Because the too good men is a vision, a vision that I found is shared among some of my friends, mostly females for some reason but they are the men and women you'd wish you'd fallen in love with because they're so clean and nice, personalities that are walking talking embodiments of hollywood and they are memories you've created, perfect memories that stand out amidst every other dreary memory you have.

The too good men sit and discuss life.

[Cramulus]

[Rumckle]

              ₂


Nice, that's one of the best ones you've written, I'd say.