Sunday, December 07, 2008

Stranded with the oriental mind.

I read a book recently. It was by a halfrican-canadian.
It was about success.
It was supposed to tell me how I could be a success.
Instead it told me I wasnt.
That I wouldnt be.
But that it wasn't my fault.
It was the year I was born. Maybe even the day.
It had pages of stories, of koreans who would rather crash airplanes and send hundreds of people to the hell of burning wreckage than be slapped by their bosses.
It told me of robber barons and modern capitalists, and they all had the same birthday, of Jewish lawyers from public schools who overtook the nords.

They all had the same birthday.

He said orientals had better numbers and could count quicker. That they could hold more numbers in their heads, that rice paddys made them good at math.

The chinese worked harder because they had to. It was the oriental mind.

Occidentalism is my plague. I dont have a laundry, or a small grocery to stake a claim. I dont have the right birthday. I dont have the oriental mind. I couldn't level a rice paddy. I can't wake before dawn.

The great oriental mind. The suncrunchers. The jew-laywers and white monks in the birthday club, merrily toasting each others good fortune. The oriental mind will soon overtake them. They have no artifices, no need for dialog, simply a lifetime of backbreaking servitude to the sunken marshes of rice.

The nords lost, didn't they? Tall men with cold blue eyes and starchy suits. Lined row-upon row, whiter than their teeth. The nords have the wrong calendar, the wrong birthdate. They organized, standing in pyramids on each others shoulders, building scaffolds of nord, short-cropped hair tousled by the wind.

The nords stood strong with each other: a human crystal, walls of aryan blood lashed together for the benefit of nords. They crumbled, they fell, succumbing to the oriental mind. Helplessly twisting, their woolen suits tearing, strong bones crushed to meal.

Maybe the world was better off.

Orientals can't all do math. At least not the ones I know. They all count in english, too.

The lawyers, the Jewish ones, I hear live in New York. I dont know any of them. They didnt crumble the nords, they stayed well away, they built their human monuments low to the ground, and out of the way of the nord towers. They held hands and shed law, weeping, bleeding pages of what they could grab. I am told that they too were occidental.

Who owns the world, these days? The ones who make the television sets. In the orient, there are paper doll factories, stuffed to the gills with orientals making entertaining pirouhettes, stuffing them in the televisions to be shipped to us.

My occidental blood is diluted, I am a mongrel, ethnically and culturally. I have been exposed, as I suspect you have, to the oriental mind. I have built it as a lattice in my mind, unravaged, built as twisted vines from my slow counting brain.

And it always lingers. The nords never asked me to stand on their shoulders, the jews never asked me to weep the law. The orientals sell me their overstock from their quick-counting over-farmed paddys. I gladly give it to them. My complacence will never built a nordic human tower.

I have never wanted to be a lawyer. I have never wanted to wake up and farm three hundred sixty days a year.

The halfrican-canadian had more stories, but they weren't about me. They weren't uplifting, they weren't about me or anyone like me.

We are all mongrels, we have the wrong birthdates. We, and the others like myself simply stumble drunkenly between the shoulder standers, the suncrunchers and the weeping lawyers.

We buy our rice and bury it with water and drink the rotten juice.

Until the halfrican told me, i had no idea my birthdate was wrong.

Now i know, but don't care.

He is an editor, really. A lovely job where you take other peoples ideas and give them pretty words. Its an effective job, thats how they wrote the bible.

There was a point to his musings, his well trimmed anecdotes, which all seemed to universally point to something. Vague pleasant whispers of unattainable sweetness: hope, change, access, opportunity. That self-made men come from a culture of success, and also had the right birthdate.

He ignores the crumbling nords, the jewish pornographers, the orientals covered in flaming jellied gasoline burned and buried under their paddys, as quick with math in death as in life.

Left behind is the club with the right birthday, but stilted minds, the whiskey laced vagrants who lie idly between the structures, senses too dulled to bother with the images drawn around them.

The ones who work their whole lives to be mediocre at living.

I got the book at the airport. It was better than the in-flight movie.

And the food.


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