WhiteMan4MaturityandCommonSense

When I was 15 (this was back in the olden days of 1995) my family got AOL , a relatively rare and new luxury back in those days (when dinosaurs still roamed the earth.)

I, of course, could not wait to lose my cybervirginity (my actual virginity would follow a painful five years later.)

One of the first chat rooms I visited was titled "BlackWomen4WhiteMen." I jumped in to the chat right away:

WillJohnsonisHot69: Hey girls. I'm a white guy looking for some black pussy.

DarkChocolateKisses: Loser

CaramelPrincess: Creep

Ebony4Ivory: If you want black pussy buy a cat!

SuccessfulBlackwoman43: Get lost loser!

To this day I cannot understand why they reacted to my message with such hostility.

Okay, maybe I have always seen things differently than others, but what's the point of joining a chatroom titled "BlackWomen4WhiteMen" if not to have indiscriminate orgies with hot white men? What are they, just unimaginative social climbers looking for a bourgeois white man in a suit and tie, a finance guy who will buy them cars and take them to Jamaica for the weekend? Boring! Or perhaps they are the type who date white men because they want to find someone they can "have a conversation with."

Why are people so sexually regimented and compartmentalized? Why didn't those fine sistas jump at my offer? Why not? What did they have to lose? At the age of 15 I was already more mature than all of them. Why make such a big deal out of being picky? Why not be free? Free like me? A mature person doesn't have to play games.

Maybe I was just a naive kid, but I honestly did not expect them to be the least bit offended by what I wrote and I was actually shocked and taken aback by how they responded. Considering the context what I wrote was entirely appropriate. They shouldn't be mad at me just because I am so much more free than them. Maybe I was as clueless as Travis Bickle was when he took a first date to a porno theater, but still - why not give in, surrender to the Dionysian?

Is youth really wasted on the young? I don't know, because most adults seem to grow more boring with age - especially when it comes to sex. And most people look their best after 40, so what a waste!

I prefer my sex to be anarchic and transgressive.

For example I am now working on a fantasy involving a person I know named Stanley. Stanley is a 35 year old Tiny Tim. He stands about 5'2" and he is weak, crippled, hobbled; he walks with an old man's cane. His teeth are black and brown from smoking. He wears glasses. His hair grows back in a small, stiff mullet frosted with blonde tips.

I am working him into my masturbation fantasies. My imaginary Brazilian girlfriend Victoria and I sometimes have three-ways with him.

Victoria and I emasculate Stanley by dressing him up as a girl. Sometimes we allow him to use a strap-on to fuck Victoria (we only sometimes allow him to use his penis.) Sometimes I'll fuck Stanley while Victoria watches.

All in all we form a very happy menage a trois.

Why can't normal human adult sexual practices be anything like this?

Instead women like the women in that chat room vie against each other to be the most unimaginative.

The Bengal Tiger, a children's story by Onan (Will Johnson)

A long time ago...

In a deep, dark jungle...

There lived a very pretty Bengal Tiger...

She liked to roam through the mountains and valleys

all by herself...

She had no friends

but she was happy...

She was a nice Bengal Tiger

but when she lost her temper

she could be VERY FEROCIOUS!

GRAAAAAOOOOOOWWWLLLLLL!!!!

One day a mean, smelly man sneaked up on her

and shot her with a dart gun...

The dart had sleepy medicine in it

and the Bengal Tiger fell to the ground.

The mean, smelly man took the Bengal Tiger to a zoo

and put her in a cage.

Bad, misbehaved children came to see the Bengal Tiger.

They laughed at her, made fun of her and threw popcorn and peanuts at her.

The Bengal Tiger was very sad.

Every night after the bad children left

the mean, smelly man fed the Bengal Tiger.

He always held his dart gun

(the one with the sleepy medicine)

in his right hand

just in case

the Bengal Tiger

became ferocious

GROOOOAAAOOOAAWWWLLLLL!!!!!!!!

But one night he slipped and accidentally shot himself in the leg

with his own dart gun.

The Bengal Tiger jumped on him, mauled him and dismembered the mean smelly man until there was nothing left but a big pile of goo!

EWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!

Then the Bengal Tiger escaped from her cage and ran back to the deep, dark jungle.

Now the Bengal Tiger runs through the mountains and valleys of her jungle

and she is happy again.

The End.

Up

Disney/Pixar's "Up" must be one of the saddest, creepiest and most morbidly depressing films I have ever seen.

I've read some far-out conspiracy theories about the Columbine massacre and one of them was that the shooters were indoctrinated into a worship of death. Columbine High School actually offered "Death Classes" as an elective. "Up" almost seems like similar creepy propaganda aimed at teaching children to worship grief and death - or to become accustomed to it.

Grief and death are part of life, of course, but should such themes be treated in a children's cartoon?

I understand the stoicism of so many others about as well as I understand grunge music, especially Nirvana. I agree with Vince Neil, the lead singer of Motley Crue: Why would anyone want to listen to music about guilt, grief, death, depression and despair? There is ENOUGH OF THAT in LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Shouldn't art be an escape? To drop Nietzsche's name again, I am not covering any new ground here. Life was pretty damn precarious for the Classical Greeks and they dealt with it by affirming life through tragedy.

The treatment of tragedy determines what is depressing or not. When Sonny was murdered at the end of "A Bronx Tale" it was not sad or depressing - it was operatic, a street opera - "Live by the sword, die by the sword." Therefore "A Bronx Tale" remains uplifting and not the least bit depressing. Is it as simple as following - whether intentionally or not (I don't know how erudite Chazz Palminteri is) - certain rules of drama?

"Up" on the other hand was like being bludgeoned by a wooden board with a protruding rusty nail. The most poignant scene for me was when he was putting on a different tie every day, the ties signifying the routines of the everyday eventually leading to years gone by. We can only hold out in our cozy and cheerful microcosms for so long before old age, loss, grief and death hit us. There was something almost brilliantly existential about this scene - I think Heidegger would have gotten something out of it had he been around to watch it. Time! Time! Time - a quality of Being that sometimes feels like the worst enemy of all when one really - at heart - loves life, enjoys life. And even when I hate life I still love myself and the people I care about. I want to learn, perhaps, yogic tricks to slow down the ticking of a second to the time of a minute. It can be done with increased and/or altered perception.

Everyone considers these existential and ontological issues, of course, but my OCD makes it difficult for me to cast them off, to forget about them, to get so caught up in the everydayness that I am only interested in tying my tie for work each morning. I don't even have a job that would require a tie (any job at all!) I'm so far from the everyday sometimes that I can't escape so many of my own thoughts. (At the same time I cannot FUNCTION in the everyday at all.)

I'm an alien (yes, an extraterrestrial) and this is what gives me comfort. How many other people are up until 5 in the morning reading about hallucinogens and their relationship to quantum physics?

I'm not just interested in psychonautics because I have a curious mind. I'm also looking for an escape hatch. I'm looking for bigger and better realities in this life and the next. Because normal life can be very far from pretty and this is such a terror to me that it really is like a constant and painful thorn in my side. Don't forget that Buddha became an uber-pessimist after witnessing old age and death firsthand.

"Up" revels in treating themes that terrorize me every minute of my waking existence.

I am sure quite a few people made huge piles and piles of money on that film. But, despite all their money, power, fame, fortune and everything else that causes normal people to envy and admire them they, presumably, are also subject to the tyranny of time. Do they get off - like me at a porn store - on treating such themes so lightly?

Like true villains, how the hell do they sleep at night?

Sex, Drugs and Philip K. Dick

I just finished a book by a man named Clifford Pickover. Clifford Pickover is a rather prolific and self-made (well, aren't most writers self-made?) science and science fiction writer. The book I read "Sex, Drugs, Einstein and Elves" was mostly speculation.

I must be an abductee. 4:30am in the morning and I'm reading about DMT experiences. Why am I always attracted to this sort of literature? No matter what bookstore I go to I am always immediately drawn to the "Speculation" shelf. Am I an abductee or am I an alien?

I always enjoy reading about the Science Fiction writer Philip K. Dick (even though reading about his swallowing phobia was what prompted my swallowing phobia; but I can't blame him - that's where my worst blockage was, right in the throat; all those years of not speaking up for myself; it makes sense.) Philip K. Dick believed that we are - at this moment - living at the height of the Roman Empire. The specific date he gave was 50 AD.

In the words of Pickover: "In short he (Philip K. Dick) believes that our world today is not taking place in the 21st century, and we are deceived and live in a counterfeit reality lodged in a spacetime pocket in 50 AD."

For some reason this theory oddly resonates with me. Does anyone else feel the same?

Have I contributed to the death of literature?

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4:36 in the morning

I haven't been this happy in a long time, but I still have a lot to write about.

Here are three projects I am working on:

1. "Resurrection Will." A short story. I walk down the boardwalk on a nightly basis and motorists mistake me for a ghost. Am I a ghost? I learn I am a ghost when I see an Unsolved Mysteries episode of myself on YouTube. It turns out I have been dead for years. I'm thinking of doing this one for my writers group.

2. "EqualityRedBullFuckshit3000" - another short story. A new and improved version of "EqualityCocaineFuckshit3000." This one is set at a Brookdale Community College in an alternate universe where a wigger named RazzMaTazz from a VH1 reality show is God. A group of "consumer" Brookdale students go on a Wizard of Oz like pilgrimage to find the God of Consumer-Mediocrityese.

3. "Gumby" - a stoned bitch once said I looked like Gumby. Then I realized that I DO look like Gumby. Or I did look like Gumby. It's because I'm tall, thin and awkward. But I'm no longer ashamed of my Gumbiness. Like the word "nigger" for black people I've decided to OWN my Gumbiness, to take back my Gumbiness, to be proud of my Gumbiness.

So these are the three stories I am currently working on. Of the three I will probably read "EqualityRedBullFuckshit3000" for my writers group on the 18th.

The Black Lady with the Furly Hair

Yesterday I read about the life of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, considered by some to have been the last Renaissance man.

Like me, Goethe too considered all the implications of life, death and God by the tender age of 6. I had him beat by a year - my first existential crisis was suffered at the age of 5.

My mother and I were visiting my paternal Grandmother at the Presbyterian church where she worked as a secretary. On the way to her office I walked past the outer doors leading to the inside of the church itself. Glancing in I saw a very small, very old black woman laid out in a white casket.

With my mother's permission I approached the casket and looked at this poor woman. I remember sayign she had "furly" hair. I couldn't pronounce the word "curly" but I, unlike most dull and worthless 6 year olds did understand that this woman was no more.

Sometimes I wonder if this woman is still remembered by her family and friends. After all, 1985 is now 25 years ago.

Back then I had more pressing concerns for my own fate. If every child is supposed to feel safe I felt very unsafe. No one could keep me from death. Existential anxiety at the age of 5.

What happens to us after death? Lying in my bed I, for the first time, realized the concept of eternal nothingness and I experienced the flushed, nauseating panic that I would experience many times over, whenever I thought of any possible end to myself.

And what if I lived on forever? The implications were even more profound. What would eternal life be like and who can conceive of a life - at least a human life - carried out for eternity?

All of my thoughts were not even advanced enough for Existentialism 101, but still, pretty heavy stuff for a 5 year old.

That poor black lady with furly hair. Now she was in the great unknown. Was her name Florence? Or Lucille? Did she dress hair and play bingo?

What would my casket look like? I couldn't wait until morning so I could participate in some dull 5 year old activities. Would it be brown? Polished? How gruesome that I had to die. I didn't even like life as much as I loved myself, my own company, thinking my own thoughts and living in my own skin. Not an end to the world, but an end to myself is what made death so terrifying.

So I can flatter myself by comparing myself to Goethe (we shared an early, precocious interest in the opposite sex and a fear of thunderstorms), but I was also like William Blake. Through my childhood I felt on intimate terms with God and other spiritual beings, some of whom showed themselves to me or came into my room at night. All orders of beings were in my lif. So I believed in something. I still do. I think I will go on forever..

But just the thought of not existing is scary enough.

The Cosmic Adventures of Fuckshitassholefuck The Clown

I've always hated reckless drivers (especially speeders, drag-racers and other automotive dare-devils) for the same reason I have always hated litterbugs, line-cutters, noisy people, Grateful Dead fans and general ignoramuses. I could care less about most of what they sully, but their actions imply a certain laziness and carelessness that is unthinkable to my own particular form of rectitude and responsibility. It's like the guy who wins Motley Crue tickets on WRAT-FM and can say nothing but "Awesome, dude! Sweet! That's friggin' awesome." Yes, I hate the inarticulate too and I will bet you dollars to donuts that people who drive recklessly are also laughably inarticulate. All of this and similar phenomena are related and it all comes down to just a certain kind of anti-intellectual laziness that seems almost unique to America.

Yesterday a hillbilly in a black truck intentionally sped up to my bumper as I was switching lanes, scaring the hell out of me (I surely thought I was going to be in an accident that was not my fault.) My pure hatred of him and everything he represents seized every atom of my being.

But then I did something I was never able to do before: I let it go. As one's view of the world becomes more spiritual (at least in my sense) one begins to realize that ugliness is just the worst illusion. I like Colin Wilson's analogy of everyday reality simply being a heavy, rusty steel door that we all just have to push very hard to open.

One must understand that someone like him is simply an extra in the movie that is in my life. He was placed there for the simple purpose of temporarily making my life a little bit more interesting and challenging.

He is still waste though and he must still be cleared out, flushed from the tissues of the body of reality before real happiness can be none. Yes, he still deserves to die (if it were up to me he would simply be hanged in the middle of Times Square), but I, unfortunately, cannot kill him.

So I'll have to think of him as an entertaining clown - a bot placed there for cosmic amusement. I refuse to believe that a person of my value could be arbitrarily wiped out by a worthless hillbilly who, probably, cannot even spell the word "cat."

I'm not a solipsist, but I do believe that some of us are star players while the others are merely background.

Am I developing something of a religious faith?

Buy my novel! Here is the link:

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Will+Johnson%2C+Aliza&x=4&y=18

Relapse or Convalescence?

Last night. Couldn't fall asleep. Bad anxiety. Worried about Buddhism and falling into pessimism. But more than that I was absolutely shocked and horrified by the way that I've lived the past few years. Wondering when was the last time I felt pure pleasure, completely unsullied by OCD (a good example of a pleasure-destroying OCD is the OCD about time, the mind-bending fact that time actually passes and I can't hold on to the good moments forever.)

When was the last time I just sat by myself and took pure pleasure in listening to a song? Or having a meal?

A lot of the anxiety is probably because meditation is breaking me down. But I don't want to fall into pessimism and negation - I want to meditate to hone and then direct my Will and, yes, it has been helping. A lot. Things are getting better, not worse. Still, anxiety. Anxiety so bad it makes me nauseous.

The important thing is not to become obsessed with the meditation. Do it and then focus on life.

Probably a lot of the anxiety had to do with realizing what a huge role OCD plays in my life. It controls almost everything I do. I almost hesitated to put in the "almost."

Why are those of us with higher IQs punished like this?

I was reading about the Tea Party Herd Animals today. They're not tortured by these particular issues the way I am. What are they protesting? Don't they realize they are only cattle? Do they not realize that their only function is to do their job quietly and well?

Down with the masses!

Walter

My pet cactus Walter is thriving.

I bought Walter last year and he has been through a lot since then. He has been poisoned with cleaning chemicals, dumped in raw sewage and frequently crushed by the windowsill. He lost much of his original dirt and had to receive dirt from a bag. He has been exposed to every weather condition conceivable and he has gone many months without a drink.

But he is thriving. Walter is tough, just like me. He can "tough out" any and all situations and continue to thrive.

I may sound like a weird faggot just for writing about this, but what the hell - this is what writers call "vacuuming the cat." Anyway, at least I have been advancing my career lately. My short novel is on Kindle. To find it, just go to Amazon.com and type in "Will Johnson, Aliza" on the Search bar.

There is another writer named Will Johnson but he mostly writes Buddhist books on peace and love. Think of how I've been defaming the poor man!

Slaughter of the Lambs, Rough Draft

I'm apolitical. I'm so apolitical I do not even like to discuss what makes me apolitical. I suppose I see it as a hyperactive shell game, but that's besides the point. I hate political "poets", most of whom are rappers with a slightly larger vocabulary. A place like the Nuyorican Poets Cafe crawls with hateful, left-wing posers, hate-whitey types with Afros and Army jackets; frauds living in an outdated 1960s paradigm; unoriginal hacks who write the same preaching to the choir doggerel over and over again; any poem that praises the oppressed black or brown people is met with a lazy "that's deep." When I was in a bad mood I would go to places like Nuyoricans and read spoken-word pieces to the right of Ann Coulter and Adolf Hitler. I wrote pieces in praise of traditional values and Eurocentricism while lampooning revered figures like Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. And why not? These people were always invoking Freedom of Speech! I was merely exposing their hypocrisy. Sometimes these "hippies" became violent and glass bottles would fly at my head. I learned to duck. Every once in a while a true hippie - some old, toothless East Village type - would approach me and say: "Way to go, man! You're giving them a taste of their own medicine!" Not that I'm some kind of right-winger, some kind of Rush Limbaugh jerk. As I said, I'm apolitical. I just don't like crybabies like Junot Diaz. "Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! Christopher Columbus! Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! Racism! Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! Colonialism! Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo!" Get a life already and worry about yourself you neo-Puritan hatemongers. Every group has had a rough shake at one time or another and, what, the life of every white person is supposed to be the life of Reilly? White people struggle and have nothing too. So boo-hoo, boo-hoo! When I was in a good mood I would go there and read pieces about how there is nothing more important than one's own individuality and subjective will, how everyone must stay true to one's own self and not get caught in any crowds, groups, movements or isms. These pieces were not popular either (consider that I was reading them in front of a bunch of followers), but at least those performances did not end in violence. On Friday night the Nuyorican poets cafe held an open slam. For those of you who don't know what a slam is, allow me to explain: scorecards (like those used in an Olympic diving match) are handed out to random audience members. Poets will take to the stage and perform spoken-word pieces. At the conclusion of each piece, the audience members with the cards rate the piece and those with the highest scores move on to the next round until a winner is declared. In short, a simple concept and an example of democracy at its worst. After all, what does the average joker on the street know about poetry? I, of course, was knocked out in the first round. I read a fairly innocuous piece, Nietzschean-inspired spoken-word (now there's a concept) about the struggle of the individual against the herd and the eternal glorification of the subjective will. Of course, a bunch of non-individuals are going to have a natural hostility toward anything that celebrates individuality. The guy following me was a short little white guy with long blonde hair in a ponytail. "Lamb" was his stage name. What was his last name, Chop? Was he a smelly little hand-puppet made from a sock? Lamb? What kind of a stage name is Lamb. My stage name would at least be "Will the Butcher" or "Will the Thrill Who Loves to Kill" or at least "Baby-Slaughterer" or "The Rapist of Virgins" - you know, something to scare and unnerve the opponent! But Lamb? To me Lambs are meek little creatures made to be slaughtered, butchered and eaten! That dirty Jewish carpenter who hated everything good (aka Jesus Christ) was the Lamb! "Where are you from?" Someone in the audience asked Lamb. "Union Square." Oh, he was certainly not paying for that apartment (this nigga wasn't even shaving his downy white beard yet.) It's very easy to be a pussyshit when you've never had to worry about yourself! Lamb went up there and read a "preaching to the choir" piece about George W. Bush and his imperialist wars of aggression. Now, like I said, I do not care to comment on politics, but - this guy was reading a poem that hundreds of other Nuyorican poets had performed. It was the same poem by different authors. The same poem over and over and over again. George W. Bush, corporations, Iraq, oil, etc..., etc... That's not art! That's pontificating on the same thing over and over and over again. If you're going to criticize Bush or anyone else at least find a fresh angle. But to read the same piece over and over and over again... His George W. Bush poem was, of course, a huge hit and he was promoted to the next round. Damn Lamb! He was a lamb? Well, I was a wolf! And all I wanted to do was rip into him with my canines and watch his lily-white lamb ass bleed all over the pure white snow. Blood all over the snow, melting it as the lamb bleats from fear and pain! Bleh! Bleh! Help me! I'm just a little lamb! Bleh! The next round he read a piece about how much he hurts and suffers when he sees the homeless and how he wanted to devote his life to helping the less fortunate. This, of course, promoted him to the third and final round. What a lack of artistic integrity. Lamb was nothing but a white guy cheating a bunch of blacks and Puerto Ricans by telling them what they wanted to hear! If I told him this he would never believe me! Oh, the irony. Especially considering that his best was yet to come!