There Isn't Really a Suicide Pact

Making a suicide pact is an obvious choice in the circumstance in a country which talks a lot but doesn't deliver.  It's not so obvious when the hope goes beyond these walls and the Mystery Lady is needed as much as she needs anyone else.  When no-one else cares what becomes of us, it's all the more important to care for each other and dropping out except due to natural croakage is not acceptable.

Hope is friends like Cadillac Man who have seen the fucked-up parts but they're still friends.  It's also brothers who may be more real now than ever before even though the contact is not too much.

Note:  any talk of an exit plan is natural croakage because such a thing would not come into play unless there is no viable alternative.  Kicking out because of the poverty is not acceptable or it would have happened a long time ago.


There's no need for a dissertation.  It's only that I thought throwing it off as a joke in another article might need a disclaimer.


That there isn't any hope in the country doesn't mean it's gone everywhere and that's a huge part of the life which takes places down here in the lower reaches.  If not for sustaining each other, we wouldn't have a chance.

Cat has a cool word for it from German, Wohngemeinschaft, and it means more than a commune.  Mostly 'commune' elicits thoughts of a whole lot of sex culminating in Charlie Manson and a lot of dead people but a Wohngemeinschaft is somewhat more benign entity in which the purpose isn't working through every page of the Kama Sutra but rather sharing the cooking and all the things people do.

(Ed:  but no fucking?)

Nope, nix on the fucking, Charlie.  Sorry to disappoint but nix on the axe murders as well.


Something which feels like a suicide is selling the kit for music and lasers.  It still feels like a suicide so it can't happen but reasons are pressing.  One is that Yevette's computer is going to make like a Lockheed Martin F-35 pretty soon and catch fire or explode.  The second is the need for jeeps with machine guns for a rescue mission.

- Insert much hand-wringing over selling the kit which is only made more of a drag by describing it -


(Ed:  what about jeeps with machine guns?)

What about them?

(Ed:  why should you need them?)

For the operation!

(Ed:  what operation?)

I already told you.  It's a rescue mission!

(Ed:  what rescue?)

Well, that's the mission in the operation.  Why can't you understand?

(Ed:  tell you what, Monty.  If you were to shoot something with those machine guns, what the fuck would it be?)

Potential combatants, of course.

(Ed:  well who the hell are the potential combatants?)

How can we know that until they oppose us?

(Ed:  are you completely insane?)

No and that would make things so much blissfully easier to know none of this is real.

(Ed:  the ganja is sure doing a great job!)

Actually it does an excellent job since reality is constrained by choice with artificial constructs and those evaporate with the advent of awareness.  You know the truth of it but you're not willing to permit it and that may be important from some standpoints.  If you're flying an aircraft, likely most prefer at least some adherence to the importance of artificial constructs.  Otherwise, our flight has nothing to do with aircraft and how much time anyone wishes to spend on the ground is a personal decision.

Most of my life has been building castles in the sky since there's nothing you can touch anywhere as evidence I did anything.  Everything in computers was software and music never touches the ground anyway.  It's not an exaggeration that most of my waking life has been in fantasy.  In one form it was IBM z/OS, the most formidable of the mainframe operating systems, and in other it was maniacal guitar playing but none of it had any particular physical context of reality.

(Ed:  are you dodging the subject of the machine guns?)

This was your choice, matey mate.  Wanna smoke a bowl?