Votings I Have Known
When I was still quite young my then-lover and I worked at all times like twelve bastards on the newspaper and one of the elections we so wore ourselves down reporting, writing, and editing on the voting that when the day of the actual voting arrived we had not gone to bed until near onto dawn and so when some hours later we awoke we were both too drained to get up and go to the place of the polls and there make our own votes.
What, we figured, anyway, difference, could it, possibly, make?
Very late that night, we listened, in horror, clasping one another, in fear and trembling, as a radio man soberly intoned that our county supervisor, a woman out of a time tunnel, a Confederate war widow of some type, who believed everything not White, Old, and Mean, should be beaten senseless with a branding iron, and then be tossed down a well, had escaped having to appear in a runoff, by a single vote.
We swore each other to eternal secrecy, she and I, that never, would we breathe, a single word, of the harrowing Fact, that because we had lolled around in bed, in sex and drugs and rocknroll, Mary Suratt, she had survived, to serve another term.
But then, even later that night, thinking about it, coming on another dawn, I thought: what in the sam hill alice in wonderland kind of voting could it be, that it would make a difference, that a couple of kids, didn’t flail out of their libertine wallow, to trail on down to a poll?
A voting that’s a nonsense, that’s what.
The voting regularly, rhythmically, attempts to communicate to the humans, that it is a nonsense, but the humans, they resolutely refuse, to get the message.
The 2000 voting for the American president, for instance, was such a nonsense that extraterrestrials came from parsecs around, to plant themselves out there in the Oort Cloud, and Look, as the humans, for weeks, in attempting to determine who had Winnered in the voting, engaged in an endless series of extreme and unnatural balderdashes, like “divining chads.”
“Do they understand they are in a nonsense?” one of the ETs out in the Oort Cloud wondered.
“I don’t think so,” observed another. “Not yet.”
Eventually the Winnering was not determined by any voting, or even some absurdment like chads, but instead by four old men in robes, and also an old woman, who late one night wrote an embarrassed paper now commonly referred to, even by them, as Shit Just Made Up, in which they announced they had decided to anoint as the Winner the candidate who was most drunken.
“We had that, on our home world, when we had the voting,” said one of the ETs, out there in the Oort. “Except just when the nine priests were having the voting, one of them died, which meant their voting was tied too. So: still no Winnering.”
“What happened then?” came the inquiry, out in the Oort.
“No one knew what to do,” arrived the response. “No provision had been made, in any of the sacred scrolls, for such an event. Not foreseen, never imagined. All the people in the politics, for months, screeched and rended their garments, trying to urge some solution that would most benefit their own preferred stupid and drunken contestant. But no consensus was reached. The politics was at an impasse. Until somebody who was not in the politics suggested: ‘why don’t we all just get naked in a big dog pile, and try to work it out that way?’”
“That’s how we did it,” nodded another ET.
“Worked for us, too,” said the first. “That was the end of the voting, for us. Not long after, the veil lifted. And we met all of you.”
“Have they ever tried that here?” asked another ET. "Getting there through nakedness in a dog pile?"
“Not really. And when they do, it often veers off into Thanatos.”
“That can happen,” nodded an ET who was amusing itself by assuming a corporeal form, and then shooting blue and onyx flames out its gyolg.
“Like, they had a human here named Chuckles, who went for it for a little while. But then he switched to stabbing forks into people’s stomachs.”
“What is a fork?” asked an ET.
“What is a stomach?” asked another.
“Look what’s going on there now, in the voting!” said an ET who, fascinated that humans had heads, had sprouted about forty of them on a nearby Oort ice orb, experimenting with them, sort of like Mr. Potato Head in space, to see if the various protuberances and orifices on the human head, they could be more artfully arranged.
“They are relying on Chance!” ejaculated an ET whose life-form had never known ejaculation, until I employed the word to describe its speech, though none of the ETs were speaking, because they were all in each other’s minds, except they don’t have what humans know as minds, because they are long past that.
Yes. It was true. The ETs in the Oort Cloud, they were now Looking at the Virginia House of Delegates voting, where first one candidate had the Winnering, by ten votes, but then a recount had the other candidate Winnering, by one vote, but then three Robes decreed that a vote that had been thrown out, should be thrown back in, which made the two candidates tied, and so then the names of the two candidates, they were written on some papers, that were put in a Bowl, and then a Hand, it reached into the Bowl, and then the Hand pulled out a paper, upon which was written one of the names, and then the human with that name, was the Winner of the Voting!
“Surely now they will see that the voting is a nonsense,” hoped an ET.
“Why are there only the two vision orbs?” wondered the ET puzzling over the Mr. Human Heads in space. “And why are they not on stalks?”
“You know that here they mate with the same organs with which they discharge wastes,” pointed out an ET who itself had never had an organ, and therefore could not possibly point.
“Ah, the efficiency option,” observed another.
“They should declare the loser, the winner,” said an ET who was still Looking at the warp-nine nonsense of the Virginia Hand Bowl Winnering. “That’s what we did, towards the end of our voting. The goal should be to be defeated.”
“One of them made that observation about their wars,” piped in an ET without any pipes. “He wrote: ‘The real trick lies in losing wars. Italy has been losing wars for centuries, and just see how splendidly we’ve done nonetheless. But then Italy won a war in Ethiopia, and promptly stumbled into serious trouble. Victory gave us such insane delusions of grandeur that we helped start a world war we hadn’t a chance of winning. But now that we are losing again, everything has taken a turn for the better, and we will certainly come out on top again if we succeed in being defeated.'”
“What is a wrote?” asked an ET.
“What is a war?” asked another.
“Never mind,” said the Joseph Heller-channeling ET. “You don’t want to know.”
The last time I had the voting, I made a vote for a man who had already succeeded in being defeated. The polls on the west coast had been closed for well over two hours, but not where I was, which was in Brisbane, which everyone was always forgetting was in the Bay Area, including now the polls people, who had provided the town with as few places to cast ballots as if we’d been melanin people in some inner city, where the authorities didn’t really want the melanins to have any of the voting, would have preferred to just firehose them off the streets, but then maybe someone from the Fake News with a camera would See this and Film it, and then put the firehosing of the melanins on the television, and then the Snowflakes, how they would Complain.
There were about a hundred of us, milling in and around someone’s house, there in Brisbane, waiting to make the voting, even though the television had long announced that the Bushman had been voted the president, but we were all there to vote for the man the Bushman had defeated, because the Bushman for weeks had been blowing out our aortas with a campaign that consisted solely of reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, visiting American flag factories, and hinting darkly that his swarthy opponent was surely a Negroid of some type, all the while airing television ads that said his opponent would for sure if made the president throw open the prison doors and let out all the black men so they could pillage and rapine all the white women. We had developed a great Hate for the Bushman, and so although he had already that night succeeded in Winnering, we wanted to vote for the man he had defeated, to go on record as not wanting to have anything to do with the Bushman.
I realize that the Bushman’s 1988 campaign Crimes these days seem quaint, as we endure this era wherein every day for more than three years The Hairball has greeted the dawn by firing up his meth pipe, his daughter dutifully kneeling to polish his microknob, then going unto the twitlers to throw some Mexicans into a raging Hate bonfire, or some Mooslems, or some kneeling Negroes, or some metooing wimmins, or really anyone who has melanin and/or a vagina and/or refuses to acknowledge the godhood of his bigly, or just has higher brain functioning, which the Hairball, and all of his people, surely will never have not. But, at the time, the Bushman, he seemed a real Outrage.
The Bushman is the man who famously said “read my lips,” even though he had no lips, thereby proving that not only is the voting a nonsense, so too are the presidents. Later he went on the television with a big bag of crack cocaine in his hand, proof positive the presidents can’t possibly be Real. His son, Bushman II, as I’m pretty sure I wrote around here somewhere at some point, when he became the president, it became pretty obvious, fairly early on, that he was actually the last great dark prank of Andy Kaufman, who had not died at all, but had instead gone into the politics. That prank was pretty damn nasty, but doesn’t even begin to approach the horror of the current president, who, let’s face it, is fucking Cthulhu.
“Didn’t any of them think,” wondered an ET in the Oort, “that there was something just a wee bit, well, odd, in their first making the votes for an emperor, Bushman II, obsessed with another emperor, named Hussein, whom Bushman II was convinced had tried to kill his father, Bushman I, when Bushman I was emperor, and so Bushman II, he stole Hussein’s dirt, and took over his people, and killed his sons, and then executed Hussein himself, and finally took Hussein’s gun, as a souvenir, back to his own palace, all like one of their emperors of some 2000 years before? And then the very next time they had the chance to make the voting, they voted in as emperor, to replace Bushman II, a man named Hussein? Did they think that was random?”
What I thought, was that the Americans were bizarre beyond measure, or that some consciousness not human, was fucking with them.
“Actually, both,” an ET in the Oort sticks its oar in, though it does not know what is an oar, and has no corporeal form with which to wield one. “Remember: quantum.”
“They’ve reached what they call ‘chaos theory,” added another Oort observer, “and so they know that a butterfly flapping its wings can thereby set in motion events that result in a storm halfway around their globe. But what they do not get, yet, is that the butterfly, sometimes he is smirking and smoking a cigar, and is basically Groucho Marx.”
I never made a vote for Groucho Marx to be the president, as did my friend Mark, but I did once vote to make the president Gus Hall, just as did John Brennan, and I imagine for the same reason: because we felt bad he had been put in the prison, for being in a party the Americans running the laws did not want to have in the voting.
I don't know if anyone ever tried to put Brennan in the prison, but they sure did me, because the Americans running the laws said I should be be-caged because I was up close and personal with plants not permitted. They made me a Felon, and for a while said I could not be in the voting!
Eugene Debs, when he was in the prison, he said that everyone who was not a Felon, they should be making the votes for president, be for him. Debs, he was sent to the prison because he advised the Americans they should not sign up to be serial killers in the version of the war called World War I. His conviction was sanctified by the same robed body that would later decide the most drunken candidate should be the Winner of the president voting in 2000. The Debs decision was written by a gasbag named Oliver Wendell Holmes. Who, in a companion case, Schenck v. US (1919) 249 US 47, bloviated that advising Americans not to become serial killers was akin to “a man  falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic,” and was thereby unprotected by the First Amendment.
This was of course horseshit of the first water: people should always shout don’t go be a serial killer, because being a serial killer is always a panic, and, what is even more important than the right to shout fire in a crowded theater, is the right to shout theater in a crowded fire. I try to do the latter pretty much at all times, and in one of the newspapers, in the little box that explains the newspaper’s Mission, I wrote that our Mission was to shout theater in a crowded fire, and encouraged everyone else to do the same. Some of the humans liked that so much they cut it out and put it on their refrigerators.
“If enough people shout theater in a crowded fire,” observed one of the ETs in the Oort Cloud, “the fire goes out.”
“Right,” added another. “Like if the emperors are made to wear no clothes, soon there are no emperors.”
“Towards the end of our voting, we made all the people in the politics ask for the votes while naked,” spake another Oort ET. “Because when you are in the politics asking for the votes, you are pretty much always balderdashing, and it is hard for people not to laugh at the balderdashing, when you are standing there in a nude corporeal form subject to the Second Law of Thermodynamics.”
I recently conducted a survey about the voting among humans who in their Jobs are most often naked. In their Jobs, they take off their clothes, and then they Dance, for humans who are not naked, but fully clothed, and who Look at the naked dancers, and in their minds compose visions, visions of Mating, with the naked dancers, Mating, like how an amoeba splits off, and then hands a cigarette to the split-off one, and asks: “was is it good for you too?” Except with the humans, in the Mating there is not the splitting, but instead deployment of the organs that are also employed in spraying waste materials. Though sometimes, true, the humans have cigarettes, after the Mating, too.
Anyway. I learned that almost all of these humans, they had never been in the voting. And the reason why, is they felt they were not informed enough, to make any votes. They did not spend all day, and all of the night, with their faces glued to news tubes, and so they thought they were not awake and aware enough, about the politics, to make any votes. I pointed out that The Hairball, he, every day, in every way, makes it perfectly clear, that he does not know, about anything, jack shit—or joe shit, or jane shit, or frankly any of the shits—and yet not only does he make the votes, the votes made him the president! These humans, they had heard of The Hairball, particularly how he would go backstage at his beauty contests, and there Look at and Grope the contestants, and they said that if he ever tried that at their Job, they would have the bouncer take him out back, and there beat him with big sticks. This said to me that these are exactly the type of humans who should be making the votes, and yet they are not. Which is Sad.
You know that late-night television commercial where the old woman falls out of her chair and is laying there on the ground and she cries: “Help, I’ve fallen in the Oort Cloud, and I can’t get up!” Well, that’s where I feel like I am in this story.
I suppose it’s time to say that I have no idea what will go on today in the voting of the Americans, but I do hope that it works out well for the humans. The humans are the ones who know they are all the same, as they are all different. Because. They. Know. Quantum. They know they are no better than anyone else, as they also are no lesser. They want to live as free human beings, alive on this earth, and they want that for everyone else, too. Because they are Sane and Decent, they know this does not mean they are free to build a slaughterhouse and then pipe the filth directly into a river, or go out to the mall and there Roy Moore the infants in the strollers. They do not want anyone killing them, and they do not want anyone else to be killed, either. They extend all this, to all of the humans, all over the planet. Because, they know, that I am he as you are she as you are me and we are all together.
They, know, this:
The information we’re plugged into is the universe itself, and everybody knows that on a cellular level. It’s built in. Just superficial stuff like what happened to you in your lifetime is nothing compared to the container which holds all your information. And there’s a similarity in all our containers. We are all one organism, we are all the universe, we are all doing the same thing. That’s the sort of thing that everybody knows, and I think that it’s only weird little differences that are making it difficult. The thing is that we’re all earthlings. The earthling consciousness is the one that’s really trying to happen at this juncture and so far it’s only a tiny little glint, but it’s already over. The change has already happened, and it’s a matter of swirling out. It has already happened. We’re living after the fact. It’s a postrevolutionary age. The change is over. The rest of it is a cleanup action. Unfortunately it’s very slow. Amazingly slow and amazingly difficult.
All of the humans, they are globalists. There isn’t even any question. It puzzles them, that there would even be a question. Of course the planet is all one, all and every bit of it interconnected, all one, and indivisible, from itself, and from all the other globes, all matter and energy, in all and every universe. That’s just basic. The "globalist" term has a negative connotation at present, among some, for reasons that are just silly, mostly having to do with the fact that it is the money, pure Thanatos—“money is death," saw Lew Welch, "ask yourself why banks and currency use the same images as tombstones"—that has globalized fastest, but that is the way that it always works on this planet, and has and will on most of the others, too, in a shift Thanatos is the first to move out front, but Eros always catches up, and surpasses, even if only by a little bit, or we wouldn’t even be here, and neither would those teeming trillions, all there in the one; some of them out there, right now, Looking at us, as we speak, from the Oort Cloud. Consciousness will globalize, just as has the money. It is already happening. There is a force that through the green fuse drives the flower that in the humans now is wanting them to fuse consciousness. Which is why such is now creeping even into the televisions, from Fringe to Sense8 to The OA to Maniac. When that happens, there will not be any need for the voting. Because everyone will Know. And then the veil will lift, and the humans, they will see that they have never been alone, and they will be admitted, into the family of stars.
“It’s fun out here,” they say from the Oort Cloud. “But then you know that. As you always have. As you’ve always been here. As you know that too. As you know you don’t need ‘ships,’ to get here. That ‘ships,’ in the Real, are neither needed, nor permitted. You know that too. Because you have always been here. All and everywhere. And forever. Right now, you’re just waiting. For the time. To catch up. And then, even the time, will be just another toy.”
“Like Mr. Potato Head,” says an ET in the Oort, “in space.”
“I still think,” says the ET still playing out there with the Mr. Human Heads, “that they might See better, and quicker, if they had more than the two vision orbs, and if the orbs were on stalks.”
“That they mate with their waste organs, that still doesn’t seem right,” says the human-hole-fussing ET.
“Don’t worry about it,” says one, splitting, just for fun, into another, who is also the one, and handing the another, who is also the one, six hundred thousand eleventy-billion totally Real non-corporeal cigarettes, that have never existed, and never will, except when they do. ”We all had our corporeal crosses to bear. But we all got here, nonetheless. As we always, everywhere, always do.
“So,” says the one, to the another, who are both all of the ones, and all of the anothers, one life, indivisible, with liberty, and justice, for all, for every, everywhere, everywhen, of all, “was it good for all we too?”