foreboding forgotten, ignored

Against the advice of more than a half dozen friends and close associates, an area man ignored feelings of foreboding and deeply-rooted worry and set out alone on an arduous, five-day-long bicycle ride through Death Valley. Planning on sticking to side routes, old Indian paths, and animal tracks so as to prove to himself his ruggedness and ability to read the land, 55 year-old chain restaurant owner Nivan Laurentz of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania made it halfway through the first day before disaster struck. According to entries in his diary, as soon as he had moved beyond sight of his car, “GPS batteries died trying to acquire signal; compass gone – lost, or dropped; backup water-sack leaking; backup to backup water-sack rank, foul; two front bicycle tires shredded by sharp rocks; forearms sunburned badly, cheap aloe gel runny and ineffective.”

The only traces of Mr. Laurentz's passage found during a search conducted by Park Rangers and area sheriffs were his diary and a trail of detritus dropped alongside the remnants of a path leading into the deepest and hottest regions of this barren and forsaken land. “The missing person's belongings lay strewn about, as if he were trying to lighten his load, or to find a precious commodity, which out here includes even a mouthful of water,” said Officer Dolores Ovillia, of the California Highway Patrol, who has combed the desert many times in search of lost or wayward citizens. “Then, of a sudden, all traces stop, as if the land had opened up and swallowed him – his bike, his bags, all traces.” Nivan's vehicle was unmolested, leading authorities to rule out foul play. “If this had been robbers or highwaymen lying in wait for an unsuspecting traveler to stop and park and get out for a stretch, then the vehicle would have been entered forcibly, and its contents – even those of comparatively little monetary value – would have been removed to another vehicle or to a different location,” said Agent Padraig Raian O'Malley of the federal Bureau of Land Management, who joined the search on its second day. “We see it out here occasionally, desperate people robbing and killing others and then selling their things at swap meets farther west, but, in this case, we have the trail of detritus and the diary, so we can rule out foul play by all parties but Mother Nature herself.”

One hot, dusty search-party after the next returned to the tent village that sprouted in the parking lot where the missing man's car was found, each group throwing up its hands in defeat and sinking despondently into folding chairs to drink cup after cup of hot green tea. Among the searchers was the California People-Finders Collective, a non-profit organization that specializes in… finding people. Said Webster Dulvishnakov, who canceled plans to attend a friend's wedding in order to help with the search, “We've been using methods developed to find persons buried in avalanches, lining up next to each other in rows and poking long sticks into dunes, trying to locate the body, the bike, anything that might offer clues. In his diary, Mr. Laurentz even talked about being really worried that things might go wrong, foreboding feelings he obviously ignored. I've seen scenario such as this before, though – guy starts feeling old, and, after bicycling around his town for a month, he thinks he's ready to do a Death Valley loop trail, alone, with untested and insufficient supplies, cheap stuff bought at big-box retailers. We People-Finders have located individuals who lost their way after walking ten feet into the woods to take a leak. Talk about one less mouth to feed – some people should just stay at home, and stay alive.” After three fruitless days, the search ended, everyone going home to take cold showers.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit

encylopediamericanifesto: phaltweariness - dehydration

  Among the many serious dangers the smog rider faces daily is the risk of dehydration. A condition easy to overlook but deadly if ignored, the body's dehydration distress call resembles closely the distress call it makes to signal hunger; additional telltale signs of dehydration are crankiness and fatigue. A few reports say that within smog rider packs it is common for the incessantly whining and inexplicably binge-eating member to be forced to hydrate by the IPM (the Instant & Perpetual Militia, i.e. the smog-packs' ubiquitous, fully meritocratic agents of enforcement), however our trust in the source for these reports is shaken.

  Multiple trustworthy sources report that when cycling in desert climates the smog rider adjusts his body to the local variances for temperature and humidity, a somewhat risky process in which he trains his body to need less water than it needs in more northern-lying areas. The first step he takes in this process is to eat of the local soil, and to pledge his fealty to the spirits of the land, and to praise the things growing in it, and to celebrate the things scampering across its face (a curious custom akin to the practices of First People tribes). Once he has ingested of the local earth, he cuts back on water gradually until he needs only a liter of it a day, and perhaps a few ounces more if he should exercise vigorously.

  An active person and avid reader alike, the smog rider learned some of the eternal lessons of the desert by reading tales about Rommel and Lawrence of Arabia, tales of Westerners surviving in the desert on minimal amounts of water using methods they learned from the Bedouin people. (In fact, he considers himself deep down an adjunct member of the hard-scrabble group of desert dwelling bad-asses know as the Fremen, from in Frank Herbert's book Dune.)

  But he is not Fremen, and he is not Bedouin – he is a smog-riding street-art vagabond, a man free of scorn and haste whose heart is pure, and in whom there is no room for death.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

on acting like a bitch

The mentality of the average American voter bears certain resemblance to that of a skittish dog rescued from the pound. No matter her physical size or how well she is treated by her adoptive family, the canine will likely never shake the Fear put into her by her abusive former master(s). If when out walking she is spooked, she at times will shake off her leash and bound away at high speed, her face seeming to express an exuberant anxiety. Gracefully eluding all attempts at capture, one of the few options for bringing her back under control is to trick her into entering a vehicle (an action that normally means a trip to the park or some such thing). Once inside the vehicle, she forgets the potential for freedom unbound that lies but a quick tug of the head away, and allows the leash to be bound around her neck once again.
  So it is often with voters in this nation, especially with those who were so scared by the events whose ten year anniversary we will soon mark that they sat quietly by, cowed by Fear-driven propaganda into allowing the Patriot Act to pass unopposed, believing of the lies spewing forth from the suck-holes of power-hungry politicians desperate to expand their base, cheering as we joined the short-list of nations guilty of initiating a war of aggression, re-electing a president who forever tarnished America's long and honorable traditions by valuing the paltry benefits of enhanced interrogation over the unalienable and immutable Rights of the individual.
  A dog raised to fear is unlikely to shake its burden; an individual provided the opportunity to fear will settle gratefully into the welcoming cocoon that fear provides, forever ignorant of the beautiful savagery inherent to mankind, never doubting the actions or the rhetoric of persons claiming to have all the answers, forever trusting any individual who stokes the fires of that fear and who makes skin-deep promises that evaporate immediately upon re-election.
  When the conditions seem right, the voter is likely to break free and to dash about wildly, demanding changes in the status quo through the implementation of untested strategies championed as the solutions to our economic and societal woes, believing with exuberant anxiety in the clever deceptions of the heads shouting on TV, scrambling madly for the first door that promises even the faintest hint of Happiness only to succumb instantly, wild-eyed and out-of-breath, to fear's soothing grip as the shackles of ignorance and repression are calmly reapplied to the cardinal points of the soul.
  It is without question easier for the People to accept the oppressions to which they have become accustomed than for us to venture forth, without a backward glance or the slightest hesitation, in search of new Guards for our future Security. Unlike a tortured and skittish bitch, however, once we have broken free of the chains that have held us in check, we have the capacity to maintain that newfound freedom by consuming news from various unrelated sources, by being wary always of the power of propaganda, and by not forgetting for an instant that, as Frank Herbert said best in his book Dune, “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.”
  Fear in itself is a sufferable Evil, but fear employed by the highest powers as a tool for controlling the hearts and minds of the People is an Evil that has ceased to be sufferable. Freed from constriction, the mind is capable of feats far-reaching and grand, while a mind hobbled by perpetual paranoia functions similar to that of a broken, groveling beast who understands only the bite of the lash.

Speak freely. Stay vigilant. Spread liberty.

Ultima Ratio Regum - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp