Scripted or scripting?

Of course, emphatically, most of us will state that we are the scribe of our script.
A scribe in this sense being this omniscient piece of us that ‘sees all and knows all’ and can, therefore, script the play of our life.
Undoubtedly, this scribe is in charge of direction, events, goals and ultimately results.
Being so all-everything takes a lot of pressure away from the ordinary human being who makes up the rest of that big piece that we are.
I suppose this scribe within us also has to be fed. I imagine the food is the reward of success it achieves through the script.
“Creation feeding the creator.”

Dare I allude to a God-like core within us?
Well, I have decided to dare.
Where there is God you also find Anti-God.
Am I now going too far in my script sketch?
Is this Anti-God just the figment of a split mind?
That belief of the Anti-God comes from much simpler, other examples, like for instance: where there is light there is a shadow. And, has the brightest light not also got the darkest shadow?
Definitely, this world is composed of contrast and opposites, so we all know who or what the contrast to God is.

Back to the scribing part.
The scribe is in cahoots with DNA, evolution, the ancestry chain, and, in collaboration with the mind affects us with an illuminating, motivating and often automated influence.
Can I seriously have any say over what is happening, never mind exercising a veto right?
Who am I then but a puppet in this predefined process? A quasi-liberated pawn, but one who in addition to being conscious and aware also has the responsibility of a conscience flung upon him.
Pawn or not, I certainly am unable to just heed these embedded forces with blinders. I will question them and attempt to dictate my own destination, — for the better or something different.

Clearly, however, there are original, fundamental, immutable parts or ingredients that are manufactured already and that define my motion in life.
So then there is a script, right? Some cloud walkers say that there is a contract. Or, at least, there is this idea that we have been provided with all the tools to survive this life episode.
We wouldn’t have made it this far if our tribe wouldn’t have survived. But, this is where it gets interesting. If it were a ‘survivor’ game, then surely there wouldn’t be so many of us around and constantly increasing? Although, nobody actually survives in the end. We are subjects relegated to keeping the treadmill of life moving. Does it need a conscience for that? Seems like an overkill to me.

The notion of survival, and surviving under all circumstances, also does not apply anymore. It is 2017, for script’s sake. Dog eats dog is for dogs, and an eye for an eye belongs in the Old Testament. When life becomes survival again then the achievement of humanity has slipped through our hands (like, sadly, in so many parts of this planet, for reasons (obvious) and not to be expanded upon here).

I think the primordial drive within, that combination of all the forces and influences that have brought us here, cannot be changed. We should, however, as early as possible, become acquainted with what drives us before worldly influences shape us. That’s why entrants into this life (babies), because of the ‘gift’ of cognitive awareness, should not be chiseled into this existence but allowed to enter gently. Earliest influences are absorbed into the hungry strains of new life as the stepping stones onto the stage of Life. We don’t need another pawn or survivor, we want another free thinker.

So, looking at all of this, I venture to conclude that we can write our own script and we are actually meant to, because, why would we have been given all these ingredients if everything is pre-determined?
Even further: scripts are generally used in movies and they can go into any detail and include as many actors and events as I, the scriptwriter, can imagine.
And, because as we have heard that so much happens in automated mode, I don’t even have to write the script, I just have to direct the movie.

Just as a side note: My written material is never meant to offend and my disclaimer always applies.

While some of the lines in my script are certainly my creation, where did the rest come from that I can’t figure?
My script has run out prematurely, no arguing here.
Could there perhaps be more than one script?
And what if the movie director(Moi) is a flop?
Well, fire him. The imbecile. Get Moi the 2nd.

Here comes a new script:



A handsome, scraggly bearded, shock-headed alternate is holding a brown paper packet, wiping his mustache with his dirty coats’ cuffs, stretching his feet like in rigor mortis.




A lean looking, brown, sophisticated adventurer, resembling the park bench occupant, starts the radial engine of the float plane. His beautiful woman beside him looks on.
He looks at her, their eyes meet and seconds later he switches the plane’s engine off and leans over to her.




When did I become a line-jumper and what is a line?

A line in this sense is a border that we shouldn’t cross.

Shouldn’t, – as defined by society, ethics, manners, conscience…mom and dad…
But nobody said “mustn’t” cross, except Grandma, because she knew stuff nobody else did.
That borderline is not an Iron Curtain or a DMC Zone with armed police patrols and watchtowers and minefields physically preventing me.
Although, when I think about it, it actually is, because if you cross such a line in public, boy you know about it.

In the privacy and seclusion of my thought world, however, I don’t jump the line, I use it as a venerable starting point for my imaginary excursions into ‘forbidden’ territory.
The world that opens up there is beyond description in intensity, pleasure, horror, reward, naughtiness, audacity…
If mind police would exist they would have squad cars lined up on my line: in gear, engines revving, foot on clutch, ready to pounce, because he is a serial offender.
And, if judgment day considers any line-jumping, I am in for a terrible surprise, like a ton of bricks as a ball and chain, forever suspended over a bunsen burner up my tenderness.
Not one soul will want to help me in that situation.

I became an lj as soon as I recognized that there was this “shouldn’t” side to a line. Initially cautiously, circumspectly, even fearfully, but driven to explore and quick in learning to return to the line as if nothing happened, lest you wanted a lecture.

Of course, because I am a line-jumper I think everyone else is too. We just don’t flaunt our line-jumping prowess like a gold chain. Despite the intention not to wear the line-jumper brand, and remain incognito, I have the feeling line-jumpers somehow know about others. I am also careful and skeptical of those who are line-jumping judges. They must have exemplary mind control or are just liars.

There is one side of line-jumping where you want to light an atom bomb in someone’s face or be stupidly daring.
There is another side too.
It’s not bad, but it is nevertheless also beyond the line. If ‘they’ make a strong enough case against you, you might end up in a place that really exists, but is so far from the line for most of us, it might as well be called Bedlam’s Cuckoo’s nest.
This other side of line-jumping I want to refer to carries the unenviable baggage of being branded delusional. The mere mention of the adjective has the sirens of the cuckoo’s nest proclaim an emergency upon me. So I have to tone down the delusion and call it an illusion born from a vivid imagination and now I’ll just skirt the gates of admission. Close call though. Where was the line now? That rigid line had flexible inserts. Much like having a bulldog-shrewd lawyer on your side that finds those inserts and turns delusional into inventive, ingenious and now suddenly judge and jury jubilate and acquit me.

I don’t walk the line.
On a good day, meaning when I have that acceptable (pre)disposition to the world, I might slalom over that line, hitherto and fro, like an inebriated driver attempting to follow the white line, but that is only because the world is watching me with a magnifying glass. As soon as I feel unobserved I flatten the pedal and pull back on the stick and dodge even my own surprises.

Somehow it always happens that I return to the line though, as if without it there wouldn’t be a reason to do anything. There is comfort, safety and sobriety around the line because it can get pretty rough out there. The line is like my bed, it is not where I spend my life, but only about a third of it.

Are you a line-jumper?
I’d love to know, – for my own sanity.

The Scream

The Scream

Pastel on cardboard created by Norwegian Expressionist artist Edvard Munch 1895: was sold for nearly US$120 million, at Sotheby’s, in 2012.

I wail and scream. I howl
I bleed and I implore
Desperate cries distort my lips
Torn into a grimace
fearful open the visage
Clueless and lost I am
Anguish is upon my soul

Dark wrinkles now remain
where tears in streams
once hoped in vain

A devilish nightmare
horrible and mean,
from inside my ulcerating stomach
and my flailing heart,
forced its shadow onto my scene
Warning me, ‘beware’

A thousand cellars deep in agony,
dank with acid, bile, and irony
It’s me

I bang my head and bite my nails
My soul from sorrow is impaled
and my spirit poison has inhaled
wishing for the comfort in the grave

Eyes in white rage ajar
now burned out,
once upon a time two sunny stars

My fists are clenched,
spiked with ragged bony hands
stabbing aimlessly at burned out plans
I once knew another side of this fence

Screaming threatening,
helpless windmills are my arms
Harsh and vile the words accusingly escape
Hear me whoever and whatever you may be:
You are fearsome, belligerent, debilitating,
uncompromising, ruthless and emetic
I am on a vertex uncontrollably forlorn
Sickeningly, rhymeless, unpoetic
Pushed too far, beyond repair I’m harmed
I suffocate
It’s deadening

Disappointed, disillusioned, hurting bad
Events heaped upon me that made me crying sad

Life’s definition –
amongst buried papers, dogmas, egos
and coated in red tape:
An endless suffering caravan of greed and hate
Controlled by law enforced by society
I scream some more
It is too late
Piety, sobriety, and deity, notorious dubiety

What now?
I scream again, I scream
I tell the universe I’m sore
Sick of all the hell, right to the core
Liberate me, bring about a change
Never will I accept some fate
Turnaround my life
I still believe it can be done somehow

But scream I must
till then
Before I settle into dust
and blow away,
Scream, scream, scream in pain