Daylight In His Eyes

dead man lyin
by the side of the road
with the daylight in his eyes

Boris Nemtsov, just before midnight, on February 27, 2015, went a-walkin’. Across the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge. There in Moscow. Hand in hand with his lover. And then he was shot four dea dman lying by the sid of the roadtimes in the back. And then he was dead.

And then at which time, everyone on the planet, who was not there, and who never before had ever had an opinion, even an inkling, much less any real knowledge, of this man, immediately leapt, vomiting, projectiling onto all and every tube, To Tell Us All What Really Happened.

The “news” from out of America, from the “right,” from the stream of The Main Thing, in articles filled with Lies, sed Nemtsov was a mighty all-good-things democratic warrior, ready willing and able to bring down, and mebbe even tomorrow, That Putin, and so he was for sure, bulleted on that bridge, by Bad Mad Crazed Vlad, and/or Vlad’s merry men.

Whereas the “news” from out of America, from the “left,” from the stream of We Really Know, in articles filled with Lies, sed Nemtsov was a fuck, a bought-off, a neo-con, a tool, a no-one, a patsy, a wanker, a Jew, done killed by his own, to try to bring down Vlad, who is Pure, and Good, and Righteous, and Without Blame, or Blemish.

Nearly none of these people, today ululating without surcease across the tubes, knew or know anything about Nemtsov. They are but robots. They have willingly killed their own minds. They have carved for themselves a reality tunnel, and severed all neurons that would lead to any Thought other than that which they, in that narrow tunnel—that straw—have already Decided upon.

To wit: US is Good, therefore Nemtsov was killed by Putin.

To wit: US is Bad, therefore Nemtsov was killed by the US.

They have, both and equally, willingly de-evolved themselves . . . long, way, far before, past, the monolith. And are therefore less conscious, even, than slime-mould.

They are of duck-speak.

From the table at Winston’s left, a little behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck . . . . He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the light and presented duckto Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once Winston caught a phrase—”the complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism”—jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front—it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It was not the man’s brain that was speaking, it was his larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck.

Duck-speak is uber-obnoxious—in truth anathema—whether from the “right,” or the “left.”

As Robert Anton Wilson came to understand, when, back in 1967, New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison went a-huntin’ for the killers of JFK. And, Garrison, he, Decided, he had ’em.

That was when I really began to understand how arbitrary are the reality-constructs of the average human nervous system. The Establishment press was 100% anti-Garrison and let's have a wardenied all of his charges. The underground was 100% pro-Garrison and supported all of his charges. All the signals that could be organized into a “good” Garrison Gestalt were transmitted freely and omnidirectional in the underground press game, while all signals suggestive of a “bad” Garrison, or insonsistent with a “good” Garrison, were smoothly, efficiently reserved for the Establishment press game.

“My God,” I said to myself one day in early 1968, when this had become clear, “the left wing is as robotic as the right wing.” (I apologize for my naivety in taking until 1968 to figure that out.)

That’s okay, Bob. I mean, took, even Pete, a couple more years, to figure, even than you.

I myself know about Nemstov because I’ve been following him since 1991.

But none of that matters. All that matters is this:

Have you ever looked at a man?
There is something helpless and majestic about a man.
If you believed in anything, you could not kill a man.

A man has two legs. He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands. He’ll put seeds in the ground. He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work. He’ll take a woman to bed. He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day. You’d think that man deserved a little something. You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration. You’d think that maybe someone would say, Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.

They try to fix it so nobody’ll care what happens to a man anymore.
I don’t mean millions—I mean any one man anywhere.
If anything is worth anything it’s because one man is worth something.
If any one man isn’t worth something, then nothing whatever is worth anything.
It’s all got to come back to any one man anywhere or it isn’t going anywhere.
Don’t tell me how interested in Confucius or Jesus Christ you are.
Tell me how interested in any one man anywhere you are.
You don’t get it.
You’d cry.
You’d cry if you could feel that.
It’s all got to come back to one man or it isn’t going anywhere at all.

it looks more and more to me like the only really important idea
is to say yes to anything that brings life
and no to anything that brings death

go into the darkness as clean as you can

Boris Nemtsov: dead man lying by the side of the road. With the daylight in his eyes.

Assuming, awaiting, the continuance of his yeslife.

His ending the ultimate anathema.

Boris Nemtsov. A man. Something helpless and majestic about him. If you believe in anything: you could not believe in his killing. Could in no way justify it. Could have no reaction but to cry. To cry because you could feel that.

No excuse. No explanation. No place. No reason. No right.

So: all you, with your “I know who did it,” and your “I know who did it”: shut, please, your unholy robotic guessing yammering ignorant pre-monolith yaps.

And recite instead, please, with respect, the kaddish:

say yes to anything that brings life
and no to anything that brings death

la la la la la la la la
la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
i say
i say jane
sweet sweet jane

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When I Worked

March 2015

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