Birth of the Leviathan

Let's look a little at the origin and development of the greatest mass murderer of the genus Homo-sapiens-sapiens, not coincidentally also the most favorite cause of death in the mentioned species. The Plague people love.

The basic mechanism is probably Organized Mysticism, which has been incarnated in its most vile and destructive forms - the state and organized religion. Unlike mysticism among individuals or small groups that use other people's gullibility or superstition for their own purposes, here we have a global phenomenon that few question. And the consequences are global.

Why is this so and where is the "essential fraud" hidden?

The State arose when a certain group of people, powerless to ensure their physical survival by work that produces concrete results (products and services), organized themselves so that they could live on someone else's back.

After the initial organization, one of the defining moments in the history of our civilization was the birth of organized mysticism, which took it a step further by discovering that they could live quite well on the backs of others, and not just to ensure their physical survival. It is difficult to speculate without having the appropriate facts, but probably with the abandonment of the wandering lifestyle of hunter-gatherer communities and the permanent settlement with the birth of agriculture and animal husbandry, a surplus of products was born on the one hand, and a certain type of Homo sapiens who realized that they did not have to depend on the mercy of the community for their survival despite their total unproductiveness.

Of course, they needed appropriate mechanisms with which to achieve their goal.

Enters the State.

Enters the organized religion.

They got married and spawn atrocities in milenia to come.

By themselves, physically and mentally inferior persons, and as such are characterized not by a lack of intelligence and ability to manipulate, but by an inability to create anything, to be creative, to add value to anything, could neither come to power nor rule for long without mysticism. Here we come to the omnipotent gods or god, depending on which variant was in force in which territory. The anonymous authority. The voice in the head. The voice of fear. The alleged giver of the ruler's right to rule, hereditary. Divine right to rule. All holders of power invoked the "right" given by some higher power to sit in power during their earthly life. To be inherited by family members. And not only that, but that system later encompassed entire classes at the top of society and the economy. The birth of the bearers of organized mysticism, the Aristocracy and the clergy.

(Roger Mortis 026)

Give them their Heroes back!

Not all of us are born out of the same stock!

An unusual life trajectory that began in a completely ordinary orbit. So unusual that in the times we live in, I have no doubt that people would nod their heads in pity. But it is not that people do not have ideals, or if they do, they are diluted like the gasoline at the local gas stations. It is because they do not have a gyroscope in their heads.

Born in Sweden, Count Carl Gustaf von Rosen comes from the ranks of the high aristocracy, which makes his life path a little unusual, considering that for the vast majority, belonging to a certain social and societal class shapes the ways in which they perceive the world and the goals they strive for.

Perhaps it began with his father, prone to taking on the role of the “black sheep” in the family, an explorer and pilot who donated his plane to the Finnish insurgents during the war of independence from Soviet Russia, 1918-19. A family with good connections and status, a relative of none other than Hermann Göring who was the “culprit” for awakening the love of flying in little Karl, during the stays of the later fatty commander of the Luftwaffe in Karl’s home and the stories of his (completely real) exploits during the Great War. A living example of the duality of the whole world and the circumstances that prevail in it. If there was one, this was it, fatty Herman setting the stage for saving thousands of kids.

Whether before or after becoming a pilot is not important, but Karl had a need to fight pre-destined battles, an imaginary identification with the chivalry of past times or occasional outbursts of altruism, as it was after the attack of fascist Italy on Ethiopia in 1935. he signed up as a Red Cross pilot and flew on missions to deliver food and extract wounded civilians. The Italians, in the absence of an air opponent from the symbolic air force of Emperor Selassie, trained on some aircraft of humanitarian organizations, so von Rosen put his head in a bag many times and was once poisoned in an attack with a poison gas at the airport where he was stationed.

A few years after this adventure, he volunteered for the attack of the Bolshevik USSR on neighboring Finland in 1939. Seeing the "number" of the Finnish aviation, especially in the bomber section, he decided on improvisation that would become his trademark later. Having sufficient funds, both from family sources and from his salary as a pilot of the Dutch KLM, he purchased a second-hand passenger DC-2 which he converted into a "do-it-yourself" bomber with an improvised bomb discharge shaft and an optical sight. With it, he carried out numerous attacks on the aggressor forces, despite the unthinkable odds.

After the end of the "Winter War", Karl enlists in the RAF to fly as a volunteer against the Luftwaffe. But he is prevented from doing so by British intelligence due to his family ties to Göring, underestimating the Count's sincerity (his wife dies as a member of the Dutch resistance movement fighting the Germans) and losing an incredibly powerful propaganda opportunity (Herman's nephew scored a kill against the Luftwaffe!). After the war, he heads back to Ethiopia where his exploits are not forgotten and he lives there for a decade, organizing the newly organized air force in that country. Perhaps the most controversial period of his life follows when his actions have a global impact. During the civil war in the Belgian Congo, he flies as the personal pilot of the UN Secretary-General, Dag Hammarskjöld.

Except for one day, when he reports that he is sick and lets another pilot transport Hammarskjöld. And coincidentally or not, that is the flight when the Secretary-General's plane is shot down and Hammarskjöld dies in an assassination attempt, most likely by Belgian mercenaries.

Leaving the Congo during those controversial events, he remains off the radar for a while, and appears on the scene a few years later when he makes a legend of himself, the civil war in Nigeria 1967-70 due to the secession of the Ibo people from it and the creation of Biafra as an independent state.

Apart from Israel, France and several neighboring countries, Biafra is blockaded from all sides and the USA and the USSR and Britain side with the Nigerian central government and help them bring the "runaway" province back. Carl flies as a volunteer to deliver humanitarian aid to the victims of the blockade who are dying en masse from hunger. It is precisely in Biafra that the world sees scenes of mass child slaughter for the first time with the help of cameras. But the daily contact with those children and their gaze that is extinguished by the interests of the "big players" is something other than an afternoon sigh about the injustices in the world and the comfort with the secular gospel that appeals (without suffering from too much originality) to the sinful nature of man.

All this leads him to take on something more.

With a group of mercenary friends, a colorful group of ex-Luftwaffe aces, former South African pilots, Swedish adventurers and members of local tribes interested in learning to fly - decide to go on the offensive. After failing to procure "serious" combat aircraft on the international scrap and military surplus market, apart from a few "AT-6 Texans" and "A-26 Invaders" as well as one "B-25 Mitchell", a relic of World War II, he again develops the sense of improvisation. He returns to Sweden where he buys 5 (or 6 according to other sources) two-seater MFI-9 basic training aircraft on which French technicians later mount rocket launchers and optical sights. With these "frivolous" machines with a 100 hp engine, he does what shocks everyone, friends and foes. After training several local pilots and test flights, they embark on the most unequal battle in the history of aviation, against the Nigerian Air Force equipped with modern aircraft, a radar network, air defense and assisted by "instructors" from the Warsaw Pact, Egypt and Britain.

During the entire war, there was no recorded case of a strike by the Nigerian Air Force against the guerrillas. The main goal - to kill as many civilians as possible and to stop humanitarian flights.

Von Rosen and company dismantle the Nigerian Air Force.

Literally. Kickin' the shit out of.

There is no definitive information on the number of aircraft that were surprised by Von Rosen's small planes, about twenty aircraft and helicopters (Il-28, MiG-17, C-47, DC-6), several airfields, several anti-aircraft batteries, a large number of vehicles and over 300 soldiers, both killed and wounded. And without losing a single plane despite the constant fire they were exposed to.

But the most important part was in distracting the Nigerian Air Force from its targets (Genocide Airlines) to fight an enemy that together cost as much as a spare engine for a MiG-17. Talking about cost-benefit, they were out of this world. The number of lives saved is difficult to estimate, but unfortunately Biafra fails to defend itself and is annexed back to the "motherland" and the reprisals continued. Even von Rosen and his merry men couldn`t make the final difference. But they dealt a blow. After the evacuation from Biafra, he again flies around Africa on various flights to deliver food and medicine, for years and defying fate, bullets and anti-aircraft artillery. Which will never bring him down.

The luck in the sky has not left him at all. Unfortunately, he turns his back on the earth. Karl, already 68 years old, with a life behind him that could be written in volumes, dies in an attack by Somali soldiers on some auxiliary airfield, during the war between Ethiopia and Somalia in 1977, the final chapter of the drama in which an aristocrat and eternal fighter for forgotten ideals found himself quite voluntarily, outside all the causal connections of this world.

(Roger Mortis 025)

Maturity

Imagine if you will, a duel between Stanislav Petrov and Wayne Rooney. Hold on. Who the fuck is Stanislav Petrov!? Wasn't he a player for CSKA Moscow...hmmm, or did he defend for Spartak? He wish he was. He's not a footballer, nor a Soviet gymnast with 229 medals from various competitions hanging around his neck. Fortunately, he's not a politician, singer or actor. He's not a famous lawyer or an Orthodox saint. There's nothing about him that would be "televised" enough to dig him out of deep anonymity.

He's just the man who saved the world.

Nothing more, nothing less.

The first reaction after reading something like this would be quite natural and would move towards imagining a Russian counterpart to American and Hong Kong B-movie productions where various characters save the world, fast, precise and strong, driven by a derivative of universal virtue and their default affiliation with the forces of good and, of course, their muscles.

But as mentioned, Stanislav is not an actor, not even a bad one. He was never even close to acting as a profession, although he existed in an environment where the path to the top depended on bad acting. Comrade Petrov was a lieutenant colonel of the strategic air defense of the former Red Army, on duty in the operational alarm center of the satellite system "Oko" ("the Eye") which was the first instance in detecting a possible nuclear attack on the USSR by the USA/NATO. He received the alarm signals from the satellites.

Among the monotony and paranoia that were constant roommates in such a place, something unusual nevertheless crept in. And that was what that system was built for. Alarm. An intercontinental ballistic missile was fired from the USA towards the USSR. Could it be a system error? But before that thought could reach rational processing in the brains of those present, a second signal was received. Error? A third. The fourth and fifth already seemed to confirm what was at stake.

From the alarm to the news reaching the ears of the Secretary General and the codes being forwarded to the strategic action units, not much time should have passed in an event such as that which took place on September 26, 1983. Any hesitation would have reduced the possibility of a counterattack. It was a matter of minutes. However, Stanislav somehow remained calm despite the roar of the alarm, the pulse that hit his head like a 20-megaton hammer, and the panic of his colleagues who demanded that he stick to the procedure. Which he violated and made a completely rational decision that five missiles were too few for a general attack. He decided that it was a system error and not a real attack. Although theoretically there was a safety mechanism for launching missiles that provided for confirmation of the attack from another source, no one knows what would have happened if he had acted as the rules required.

And no one would have known even if paranoia had prevailed, reinforced by the upcoming NATO military exercises in West Germany that would begin within a few days of the false alarm at the satellite center, and which would also include a simulated...first nuclear attack on the Warsaw Pact forces. Of course, they knew about that exercise in the East. And their basic assumption was that the attack would come under the guise of maneuvers. This event was classified as a military secret that only became public after the end of the Cold War and the collapse of the Eastern Bloc. Both during Bolshevism and during "democracy" Stanislav was promised awards and recognition, hills and valleys. Of course, more cynical readers already sense what he received as a reward. There were neither palaces nor yachts, not even orders, nor was a school named after Petrov.

Those amenities in life are reserved for other people. Not for those who save the world in real life, but for those who do it on film. Not for those who contribute to a better quality of the experience called life but for those who deny it.

Which brings us back to the opening sentence and the announced Petrov-Rooney duel. The man who is why we are all here and doing what we do with our lives has no chance against the semi-retarded Wayne who earns more money per week than Stanislav will ever see in his entire life. A dingy apartment in a Moscow suburb and a pension that cannot keep Petrov alive.  

I have nothing against Wayne and his ilk, I'm just using him as a symbol. He could be a random basketball player, handball player, rugby player, volleyball player, tennis player...whose highest career achievement, which will be paid as if it were worth its weight in gold and over which there will be orgasmic contractions of generations of people...millions of people...is that he passed some kind of leather ball between three beams or through a metal hoop. Nothing more, nothing less.

And one would say that at the very least they saved the world or something similar, given all that noise around.

Does the comparison seem unreal? Maybe.

Or maybe it's just a testament to the maturity of a generation. A biological species. A global culture. A civilization saved only to continue blindly moving towards self-destruction.

(Roger Mortis 024) 

Requiem for the silent

And the sign said  "The words of the prophets

are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls"

And whispered... 

In the sound of silence

(Paul Simon)

We will never know. 

It remains a mystery that will never be clarified. But like all things that have no proper answer, they will forever remain smoldering somewhere, at least in a few places, at least in a few heads that have found it convenient to burden themselves with such questions. At least on the walls that Paul Simon sang about.

We live in a time of constant repetition of the burning of the Library of Alexandria, a sad daily rerun of the destruction of the collection of Al-Hakam II or the blackening of the Tigris River due to the spilled ink of millennial knowledge thrown out of the House of Wisdom in Baghdad.

As if in some cursed vicious circle whose contours are constantly traced by the caterpillars of the armored vehicles of O'Brien's Skull-Trampling Boot, the System, are locked the talents, the creative energy, the unspoken beauty, the unexpressed elegance, the unsung songs of billions of people.

Destruction is seen everywhere, in the eyes of all those who occasionally remember something they would like to do, to give their best, it is expressed as a scar in all those who do not know what they want outside the received programs with which the system generously supplies them.

Most of the energy and time that life consists of is spent in fear of the impossibility of eventual physical survival in various forms and types and of satisfying imposed needs.

Motivation is fear of death.

Motivation is fear.

Fear.

Pour qui?

Pour quoi?

(Roger Mortis 023)

Bewildered Sweethearts

There is one situation among a significant portion of people that is something special and to which due attention has not been paid.

And that is that the state of misery and unhappiness in itself gives them additional content, despite declarative commitments au contraire, at least in their heads. This condition is most often expressed through the tendency to start or if they are already in a relationship or marriage that can be characterized as a generator of unhappiness and fear. Add to this a job, an educational institution or any kind of position and the complete picture appears on the surface.

Why, oh, why all that bewilderment...

Because a possible happy and harmonious relationship/marriage would eliminate the "value" of most of the social content they deal with. Of most of the perception of themselves. Of Fiat currency backup. Probably everyday communication with friends, comrades, friends and acquaintances, real and virtual, real and virtual parents and relatives is such that happiness never comes to the agenda. And besides, happiness irritates the aforementioned people. Much more than a bleeding hemorrhoid.

No, happiness in any combination does not bring adequate feedback. The need for comfort? It's a winner. Although it is never called comfort, do not deceive yourself by naming things as they are. That is a one-way path to isolation. Pulling the chain on those oh so powerful emotions? Chasing the rainbow round the corner?

There are certainly small differences between the male and female versions of this strange situation, but the differences are not that great. We talk at length and extensively about how the partner does not seem like him, this or that, garbage and goods, but lo and behold. There is light at the end of the tunnel, a collective council of unhappy paradise is gathered, friends feel "needed" and "useful". Comforting, giving instructions... and after the sixth beer or the seventh vodka, one comes to the legendary words "Well, he's not such a jerk. He's actually not bad. He has a heart of gold, you know. He loves me".

The number of relationships that have ended up executed by the "good intentions" of friends, girlfriends, parents, relatives and other characters is incredible. The benefit is mutual of course, a reverse engineered mutualistic concept without a parachute, the service is returned with a service when the misery changes the face, but not the content. But those "advised" are in no way victims. The good old compliance.

But it's not just that. There is also the whole picture of themselves, beyond the perception of the closest environment with which they interact on a daily basis, the alter-ego, the Ponzi scheme. Being different you know. Original. Something else. Dancing counter-clockwise on a clockwise path. The question is how different someone is if the results are always the same as those of 999 out of 1000 people. Vast, overwhelming majority of people don`t want to be happy. It takes all their projected values ​​down the drain. So the only way to make a lasting relationship is to act in a way that makes them miserable.

If you are up to it and enjoy that.

If you are not...

Ask your self how fast can you run.

(Roger Mortis 022)

A Subjective look at the beautiful side of reality

I can't find words convincing enough to capture the extent to which I am against today's policy of putting street dogs to sleep or locking them up in cheap euphemisms for concentration camps - infirmaries.

The same goes for giving those creatures into the hands of various spoiled people to adopt them and thereby kill their essence and cut off at the root the aesthetics that are born in every swollen belly of a newly mated bitch! The feeling of having a pack of a dozen mangy, toothless and rotten dogs hanging around me makes me happy. Maybe I share this feeling with someone else, and maybe not. I haven't asked about it, and I don't give a damn. The fact remains that they make me happy. Just as the wizard Merlin was happy in the presence of unicorns.

Okay, I'm not exactly Merlin.

Zombified dogs in all their shapes, forms and smells are far from Unicorns. And our fucking cities are not mirrors of Avalon, a place in this world, but not of it. Except maybe Resen, which occasionally smells of apples.

But that doesn't mean there's no beauty in the whole situation. Of course, the word perception will appear in this text because of the subjective experience of beauty. Which doesn't always have to be smooth, fine and organized. Unlike here, on an island where piles of perceptions exported across the Channel originate (no, it's not Japan, for fucks sake), folk proverbs have meaning. Like the one - The beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Why, oh damned subjects of television lobotomy, are you trying to kill the dystopian idyll of our cities with the help of blinders in the form of hypocrisy and a crippled essence of morality!? If an animal rights activist tells you that he respects diversity, do him a favor and don't take him seriously. Because he wants this city to be different like... Zurich!?

Can this city be like Zurich?

And that by building a roof before the foundations, as always.

Neither Skopje would be Skopje, nor Bitola - Bitola, nor Veles - Veles without their beautiful four-legged symbols of dystopia and harbingers of a non-existent future that has the sheen of an ulcer on the skin of a half-decayed dog. And I'm not just talking about dogs, I'm not forgetting the other animals, the cats that drag a rib found in a container that was gnawed by a man for lunch and dinner and, by God, for breakfast, the rats, the eternal Condottieri of the transition processes, from here to Kinshasa, the jackdaws like morning trolls, the sparrows that hang around in parks, the cockroaches as a sign that the end is knocking at the door...

They are all just travelers from the future in our time, reminders of the errors in the foundations of the system. Maybe that's why there is so much hatred towards them. Who knows . They hate almost everyone, from those who would shoot them in the streets to those who keep cats on the seventh floor and love them so much that they break their eggs to turn them into moving toys. Ah...love...in a time of general decay and decay, you can be loved and adored even without your testicles.

Second best option?

Inter-dystopian cooperation and mutual assistance!

Charter flights with North Korean students who would come to us with the aim of getting to know the strange local culture and frivolous lifestyles. They could also watch a video by Slaven Žižek, since the authorities there are hostile to the Web. And since exchange is exchange - perhaps the most useful thing would be for mom and dad's sons and daughters to head in the opposite direction, to broaden their horizons and get acquainted with a bizarre culture, different in all aspects of existence and to try to progressively influence their colleagues on the other side of reality.

Why the hell not?

(Roger Mortis 021)

High Frequency Tango

The energy a.k.a. frequency that is the basis of the material and immaterial world..may never be explained so that we can perceive it in a quantitative-materialistic measurable way. Naturally, the Western-centric way of decoding information requires exact values ​​in order to function, but it is a model like all others, with its own great limitations, starting from the inability to accept the subjective image that depends on the observer as much as on the observed.

Now we have reached the Higgs boson as the basis of the fluctuation in the nucleus, but even that is not even remotely final, there are already models that divide that particle into constituent elements, which in turn opens up space for a model where the constituent elements are divided, and those that are divided are divided... we have a situation that resembles a dog that wants to bite its tail and spins in a circle without catching it, there is no end...

Because the one is contained in all and is projected into all, as all are contained in the one.

Some incomprehensible paradigm is needed, something completely new in order to be able to "grasp" the nature of that force in its very essence, and which will probably never happen.

There is no measurable and quantitative way to capture that.

Not at least with the decoder of reality that we have at our disposal. Known as the brain. Also known for the fact that many people use it as a decoration.

So at the end of the story, no matter how one turns, we gotta take a leap of faith.

Which is not so bad, at least not according to my perception of reality.

Especially if you know what form of materialization that energy/frequency sometimes takes.

Of course, far from any religions and ready-made models of beliefs and rituals...you know what they say. God save us from religion. Religion is the main force with which the elite throughout known history has distanced man from the possibility of conscious co-creation of reality by forcibly imposing a dogma that requires belief in an external force, an external terrible authority that punishes, all by sowing fear and lack of trust, faith, self-belief and doubt in the possibilities that are truly enormous.

Intellectually, many are aware of this. But in the heart it is difficult to find the path that allows co-creation of one's own reality in accordance with the dualistic nature of the universe. They made is believe in imposed limitations, so we experience those limitations.

A lucky few have overcome that and reached a reality of existence unimaginable to us.

(Roger Mortis 020)

Independence

Dependence and independence. From the system. As it is, not as the authorities declare it to be. Everything you have to do and do so that the system grants you the privilege (not the right) of life.

Biological life. The other qualities that it consists of, well...you have to pay for that privilege to be happy. Or at least for the illusion.

A quote from "Trainspotting" and the point is self-evident :

Choose life.

Choose a job.

Choose a career.

Choose a family.

Choose a fucking big television.

Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin can openers.

Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance.

Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.

Choose a starter home.

Choose your friends.

Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.

Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.

Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.

Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.

Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose “life”...

But why would I want to do a thing like that?

I chose not to choose “life” : I chose something else. And the reasons? The reasons? Come on...

Life consists primarily of time. It can be defined through time both qualitatively and quantitatively. Without any deep philosophies, at least for a start. Time is a fundamental category in both the quality and fulfillment of an individual’s life. A person gets too little or nothing for the huge stake he places in the hands of the gambler called the System, and through his brokers and local gamblers - politicians, bureaucrats, parasites, employers...if he does not belong to the above categories, and even if he does belong to the lower echelons of that pyramid - he will receive an anal application of a Kwa-Zulu sized Penis.

One invests his life and what one`s get in return? He gets - feces!

No one asked me if I wanted to be part of this whole hypocritical, criminal, bloody system in which I am condemned in advance to pay derivatives for everything. Literally everything.

Well, no more.

Ya Basta, agueros de culo!

Freedom may be just the ability to dispose of the time that life consists of, in the largest and most comprehensive measure possible. If you want, you can also measure it, establish some kind of unit-measurement for freedom that would read "How much of a given period of time an individual spends on things that he does of his own choice, of his own will and for his own pleasure".

Probably with the intensity of the use of expressions like "I have to", one would sense to what extent a person is free and how much. I have to do this, I have to do that, I have to get up at such and such an hour, I have to go to bed at such and such an hour, I have to go to work, I have to fill out documents, hang around counters, stroke someone's ego, I have to put up with this, that, that...because this and that and that and everything and nothing depend on me, I have to, I have to, I have to...and so on every single day, from cradle to grave.

We are not talking about voluntary, chosen interaction and cooperation with people. But about imposed and forced, the kind that takes up time and nerves and resources...and permission is obtained so that the individual can be - abused...or if you don't mind the outdated expression...A slave! If this were applied to today's living, the results would be devastating. How much of our life do we have for ourselves and how much for the system?

Having sufficient resources that put the individual out of the eternal race for "survival", from all the conditioning and blackmail with which the system is used... is certainly a condition that must be met. Of course, 100% independence is hardly possible, but a gradual reduction in dependence is not only possible but within reach. For everyone. If there is anything good in this 2024 Anno Domini, it is some technical possibilities that have never been so accessible. You would be surprised to know how little is needed for an independent life from social and psychological pressure.

For energetic, social, political, emotional, spiritual and intellectual independence. It only takes a ridiculous fraction of the time it takes to serve the system. And the stake at bet isn`t your soul or life or sanity.

It`s fun actually. Imagine that. If you dare!

(Roger Mortis 019)

Love is a Derivative

Often, the biological paradigm derived from "The Origin of Species" and further research that supplemented the basic assumptions is used to explain intersex relations, but not lobotomy. That`s a very different topic.

Although this is true for the animal world, it is not exactly true for the human world. Not because of the unfoundedness of the assumption but because of its complete projection of the animal-human relationship.

The problem is in the results. It is said that everyone hides a savage, an animal, a Neanderthal. Unfortunately, there is no Neanderthal hidden inside, but a citizen, savages have been dead for 30,000 years and only here and there are signs that they survived. And a citizen is needed who is submissive and obedient. And that is how he is. Whether that citizen has a dick or a pussy, the elite that controls our perception of ourselves and reality does not care... the difference is in the nuances.

The matrix has been hacked, so that a program has been imposed on men and women. It would be disastrous for the system if men and women discovered that the most beautiful, most useful and most valuable things in this world are free and available to everyone.

And what can they achieve together, complementing each other in the nature and spirit of complementarity on a dualistic basis. That is why we are moving towards downloading a program (the Holy Trinity - media, education, environment) that will ensure that men and women do not achieve what they are capable of together. Emotional mutilation, conditioning from diapers, imposing behavioral models, artificially induced needs and ideas... you name it they are doin` it.

And as we see in reality, 95% of relationships are a struggle for supremacy. Men, being physically stronger, use their trump card. Women fuck in the brain, which is their trump card, and all in the name of various strategies in the eternal war called - the struggle for supremacy. Physical, intellectual or psychological, they are all like some elevations on a hill of great tactical value that the Ego attacks. But unlike military operations, here both sides lose, and the system that parasitizes on human misfortune, misery and dissatisfaction wins.

Why else would you think of selling 108 cm TV`s, a car without a roof or a random little thing with the purchase of which finally, but finally - the endorphin will start flowing through the blood vessels. From the porn industry to all the useless objects that make up the bulk of the economy, although work is running away all the way to Babylon. And in the end, someone sees a man, a strong fucker in Herr Josef Fritzl, Uncle Adolf Hitler or Richard Ramirez, and in the immediate vicinity, for example, there is someone with whom she could have a nice life or relationship. Of course, that is the ultimate limit, the average person sees Twilight.

And he? He sits at home and gets turned on by Angelina Jolie, Jenna Jamison or Megan Fox and is bothered that he is not rich, handsome or powerful enough to fuck someone with such technical-tactical characteristics. It is not so much about the fucking as it is about the applause. And about the fact that everyone imagines that something far better than they are belongs to them. That fate has destined someone like that for them. The universe has made a plan just for them.

Derivatives...gotta appreciate them.

The circle is closed, both "he" and "she" are miserable, the caravan is moving, the system is profiting, teeth are gnashing.

(Roger Mortis 018)

Un homme et une femme

Jean looked impatiently at the river every day. He hoped that at that very moment she would arrive. His one and only. He knew every detail of the shore, every shadow in the harbor, the reflection of the sun on the water was engraved in his brain, every voice about the arrival of a ship was his friend.  And everyone knew him, crazy Jean, the one whose mind had been consumed by hope, the target of ridicule for sailors who emptied themselves into local prostitutes and irritation for eternal cynics.

Every day he hung on the harbor like an inventory to anchor hope, he had no information about her or his children, uncertainty every day tore off a piece of the illusion that happiness had not abandoned him after all and that maybe after all, there was some chance of meeting again, meeting with his Isabel. He was often a target of competent and incompetent advisors, invited and uninvited guests of his conscience who parroted him to forget her, to have pity on the children and to marry again. All those years they convinced everyone that they were right. Except him.

On the other side of the Amazon was Isabel. Four thousand and eight hundred kilometers away from Jean, the former beauty through whose veins flowed the blood of the conquistadors but also that of the Quechua Indians, a mixture that does not tolerate failure, educated and aware of the world around her. And she was waiting for Jean, whom she married too young, seemingly inexperienced. By her own will and to the immense joy of Jean, the twenty-something old cartographer who had come from France to measure the circumference of the equator and give it a final dimension to our planet, in the Le Condamine expedition.

And she expected news every day, and her sadness gave her a heavy expression in her eyes, she knew every detail of the coast, every shadow in the harbor, the reflection of the sun on the water was engraved in her brain, every voice about the arrival of a ship, and she was a friend. She spent eight years with him before he decided to leave for France. After the death of their daughter from the usual tropical diseases, they still decided to go. But now he refused to take her with him. He knew the risks of the expedition, he convinced her to stay and watch the children, they wouldn't be gone for more than a few months anyway.

If only he had known how much those few months would cost.

And he was right, almost half of the expedition was left to rot in the Amazon swamps, a tribute to discovering and charting new routes. The forgotten heroes of a forgotten war.

Still, he reached his destination on the Atlantic coast, with rough maps that he had compiled himself. Now he just had to send a message to her to come. And he did. The letter never arrived, lost in the curse of human madness and the sadistic games of chance. Spain and Portugal closed the area to the French, on the way to another war to gnaw at South America.

The road was closed. There was no forward, no back. As if the whole of Amazonia was not enough, now it was also divided by local maniacs thirsty for blood and gold. The future did not keep up with the present. At least not for Jean and Isabel.

A detour was needed. Jean set out through a bureaucratic labyrinth that was as nasty as the Amazonian one. He wrote, begged, sought passage through the Spanish-Portuguese territories. He tried to overcome obstacles, cynicism, misunderstanding, open hostility. Months turned into years. Jean decided that enough was enough and that it was time to take his fate into his own hands. He was helped by La Condamine, his mentor who managed to use some of his personal connections with local Portuguese powerful people. One thing did not leave Jean in peace...he knew that the Portuguese were aware of his attitude towards them, of the correspondence in which he accused them of their massacres of the natives. His suspicion slowly grew into paranoia. Had they forgotten?

Although both La Condamine and the local governor assured him that everything was in order...they even provided him with a ship to reach Riobamba, to Isabel. After so many years of troubles and apathy, he saw a trap even where fate had not intended to set it for him. He boarded the ship and set off. Every whisper of the sailors seemed to him like a conspiracy and an intention to throw him to the piranhas. One evening he got off the ship in Oyapoc, a small town forgotten by everyone, even by the crazy gods of the Quechua Indians. The ship continued and without him reached some destination that was not Riobamba, by the captain's will. And Isabelle heard rumors of a ship carrying him, several hundred kilometers away. Those rumors were enough to convince her to set off through the jungle, even though she had no knowledge of the dangers and despite warnings that she was going to certain death. Those who persuaded her were persistent and convinced everyone.

Except for her.

The small amateur expedition she had hastily assembled and financed was doomed to failure. No one survived the journey; they all ended up as the local cynics had predicted, playing the role of ominous birds in the eternal fear of being killed. Malaria and the swamp took their toll. The end of a love's journey.

Except for Isabelle.

Alone, half-crazy with fear, eaten by insects and despair, she continued. Like her ancestors who went to find El Dorado and left their bones in some remote pit, dreaming of the city of gold, she too went. With the vague instinct inherited from her other side, the Indian, she sought her El Dorado. And he was a certain Jean Gaudin, a man of flesh and blood whom she was not even sure was alive.

On 22nd of July 1770, she saw a settlement. With a last effort of will, she dragged herself to the first houses of...Oyapoc! The same place where Jean had reached.

They were finally together!

There are many things that cannot be explained rationally. This is one of those cases. Two spirits impenetrable under the fierce blows of fate. An insignificant episode in the history of South America, a mere footnote compared to the supposed great games and events.

Or something else entirely.

(Roger Mortis 017)

The Circle

The expression on her face was unusual. A kind of satisfying smile under her eyes that avoided other people's gazes. She was about forty-five years old. She left a vague impression that she had once been an attractive girl who had probably been the target of lustful glances, someone's loving eyes, or at least an erect penis.

What now attracted attention to her, besides her drunk and too slim of a body, grotesque makeup, and uncertainty in appearance, was her baby, from whom no one had ever seen her part from. Everywhere she went, she went with her little one. Well swaddled and in a safe maternal embrace. Protected from everything she considered a threat to the little one...like many mothers, she had that expression that is incomprehensible to men. No one knew who the baby's father was, whether it was a soldier on leave, the love of her life, or the local bored Council house fucker. It was strange that she was not the target of gossip, except for the newcomers to the city who were seeing her for the first time...

The mystery was revealed one ordinary rainy day on the steps in front of the local hospital. For reasons forever buried in her mind, she often hung around the city hospital.

No, there were no dramas or confrontations with the baby's possible father. No fateful encounters, at least not the kind that novels are written about, are retold as the latest gossip or end up on the pages of the black chronicle.

Just a small slip on the slippery stairs. And a shock. Shock when she slipped and fell down the stairs. For the first time in who knows how long, the baby, under the influence of inexorable gravity, left her arms and rolled down the stairs. It remained lying down on them, between the expression in the mother's eyes, some essence of horror, stopped time in her eyes and the shock of those who witnessed the incident. The baby remained lying. At first she didn't move. Despite the fall that engulfed all the stairs one by one. The baby didn't make a sound. And how could it have made a sound when it was made of - plastic!

It wasn't any baby, but an ordinary doll, a little old-fashioned and worn out. Plastic is not prone to injuries.

Collateral damage to the invisible whims of fate, drug addict`s stories from another time, an insidious game of chance, a karmic incident with no return ticket, like all of us, although all in our own way, carrying our cross as long as we have some illusion in front of us. Even if we have some kind of plastic doll in our hands, we also have something that makes us not stop. Not to break the circle.

An insignificant scene from an insignificant street in a small, gray town on the border with the promised land. A sad inspiration in the brain of an hydraulic press worker during a cigarette break.

(Roger Mortis 016)