the paranoia caused by the insidious system of capitalism
fiction
edward w pritchard
One day realization strikes that the paranoia caused by the insidious system of capitalism is real, not a figment of the imagination, but an actual everyday structural vast edifice that treats each and everyone thing and stone as a means to an end. Something to be discarded, something to be depreciated until obsolete and defunct.
Slowly perhaps others enmeshed in the system may see the light. Understanding that what is happening to them is systemic and universal is the first step in untangling the net that entraps us all.
It's the system, it's the system. See the light.
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Sunday, June 18, 2017
the department of named disturbances
the department of named disturbances
fiction
edward w pritchard
In this story set sometime in the near future an ordinary human subject is being interviewed by a bureaucratic machine psychologist at the VA hospital. It is just another day for Doctor, Ghe 884, Ghe being a title of honor usually a-titled as address when speaking to an artificial intelligence machine class seven or higher at time of the incident discussed below.
Human subject- " I like early mornings, before it is fully dawned, when awoken by the cool winds from an open window with a reddish hued light before a pending storm. At such time it seems that nothing can harm me, nothing will happen and for a moment when the wind stops completely just before the storm breaks with a fury I feel alive."
Ghe 884- and at other times
human subject- not listening and far away- " one lone bird will be chirping with modulating voice talking to the storm about to strike" " suddenly and without warning a cracking will occur, and to my ear a movement will be detected, it is a falling large heavy branch from a distant tree dropping and crashes and instantly I will know the bird was predestined to have his perch destroyed by the ancient deity known here locally as Wind".
doctor Ghe 884- well that's about it for today, thank you for meeting with me here in the department of named disturbances, wing four department 7A Ohio district.
fiction
edward w pritchard
In this story set sometime in the near future an ordinary human subject is being interviewed by a bureaucratic machine psychologist at the VA hospital. It is just another day for Doctor, Ghe 884, Ghe being a title of honor usually a-titled as address when speaking to an artificial intelligence machine class seven or higher at time of the incident discussed below.
Human subject- " I like early mornings, before it is fully dawned, when awoken by the cool winds from an open window with a reddish hued light before a pending storm. At such time it seems that nothing can harm me, nothing will happen and for a moment when the wind stops completely just before the storm breaks with a fury I feel alive."
Ghe 884- and at other times
human subject- not listening and far away- " one lone bird will be chirping with modulating voice talking to the storm about to strike" " suddenly and without warning a cracking will occur, and to my ear a movement will be detected, it is a falling large heavy branch from a distant tree dropping and crashes and instantly I will know the bird was predestined to have his perch destroyed by the ancient deity known here locally as Wind".
doctor Ghe 884- well that's about it for today, thank you for meeting with me here in the department of named disturbances, wing four department 7A Ohio district.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
the plight of horses and cows in Nazi occupied Prague circa 1942
the plight of horses and cows in Nazi occupied Prague circa 1942
fiction
edward w pritchard
A year is a long time to live under Nazi occupation of your homeland. Despite attempts to be optimistic, forward looking and to live in the present day to day life is a struggle for me here in Prague. Often I wish I could leave the beautiful City of Prague, the place of my birth and best years and move off into the countryside. Away from the confusion, regrets and away from recriminations of the here and now.
Perhaps I shall go up country to Lidice a small mining village two dozen miles North of historic Prague. Things are slower in a place like Lidice, even in these troubled time not much happens there and a person can get a new start in a rural setting in a place like Lidice.
fiction
edward w pritchard
A year is a long time to live under Nazi occupation of your homeland. Despite attempts to be optimistic, forward looking and to live in the present day to day life is a struggle for me here in Prague. Often I wish I could leave the beautiful City of Prague, the place of my birth and best years and move off into the countryside. Away from the confusion, regrets and away from recriminations of the here and now.
Perhaps I shall go up country to Lidice a small mining village two dozen miles North of historic Prague. Things are slower in a place like Lidice, even in these troubled time not much happens there and a person can get a new start in a rural setting in a place like Lidice.
Thursday, June 8, 2017
accent on the wrong syllable
accent on the wrong syllable
fiction
edward w pritchard
The boss would call us into a brief meeting at a mini board room and after hearing a few lies from some of the team about why things were going so poorly would shake his head and looking into the distance would mutter" accent on the wrong syllable." Summing up the entire human condition in one pithy platitude.
Sometimes listening to Chopin's "Liebestraum", love dream my mind will rearrange the tempo to re-set the mood caused by the beat of the external world pulsing around me. The march of History I have heard that stuttering march that surrounds our temporal reality called by the wise men of the ancient past.
Today, I awake, I march about seamlessly through the madding throngs of faceless strangers. Me the invisible man of the crowd [1] them accent on the wrong syllable.
[1] author is referencing Edgar Allen Poe
fiction
edward w pritchard
The boss would call us into a brief meeting at a mini board room and after hearing a few lies from some of the team about why things were going so poorly would shake his head and looking into the distance would mutter" accent on the wrong syllable." Summing up the entire human condition in one pithy platitude.
Sometimes listening to Chopin's "Liebestraum", love dream my mind will rearrange the tempo to re-set the mood caused by the beat of the external world pulsing around me. The march of History I have heard that stuttering march that surrounds our temporal reality called by the wise men of the ancient past.
Today, I awake, I march about seamlessly through the madding throngs of faceless strangers. Me the invisible man of the crowd [1] them accent on the wrong syllable.
[1] author is referencing Edgar Allen Poe
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
imaginary lover's unreal
imaginary lovers unreal
fiction
edward w pritchard
How can we be expected to have and vividly recall racial memories of our distant ancestors of tens of thousands of years ago walking about the Savannah or scavenging shells and mussels for survival at the ocean side when in fact we can't remember a lover now so changed who a mere twenty or thirty years ago acted so different towards us? Were they once authentic and spontaneous or was it imaginary, never happened, and is this remembrance a shadow of a dream?
Before the motivations of weighing and accounting's for the benefit in every situation day to day things and activities seemed real, solid and permanent. Could that fleeting recollection that now occasionally arises spontaneously in the deep unconscious that blooms so temporary a smile be based on a false memory? Was the snippet of fading memory that is now not what they were then, who now acts only with everything pre-planned, was that person then unreal or is the memory and the occasional and fading smile a fragment of a dream?
Imaginary lover's unreal. We never walked joyfully together oblivious to the dangers, hidden motivations and coming mercenary accounting's. Imaginary lover's unreal. A dream in a dream of a memory.
fiction
edward w pritchard
How can we be expected to have and vividly recall racial memories of our distant ancestors of tens of thousands of years ago walking about the Savannah or scavenging shells and mussels for survival at the ocean side when in fact we can't remember a lover now so changed who a mere twenty or thirty years ago acted so different towards us? Were they once authentic and spontaneous or was it imaginary, never happened, and is this remembrance a shadow of a dream?
Before the motivations of weighing and accounting's for the benefit in every situation day to day things and activities seemed real, solid and permanent. Could that fleeting recollection that now occasionally arises spontaneously in the deep unconscious that blooms so temporary a smile be based on a false memory? Was the snippet of fading memory that is now not what they were then, who now acts only with everything pre-planned, was that person then unreal or is the memory and the occasional and fading smile a fragment of a dream?
Imaginary lover's unreal. We never walked joyfully together oblivious to the dangers, hidden motivations and coming mercenary accounting's. Imaginary lover's unreal. A dream in a dream of a memory.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Boethius in Folsom Prison
Boethius in Folsom Prison
fiction
edward w pritchard
Editor's note- Pritchard often uses the future hate of intelligent machines for mankind, which is a project of his tortured imagination, as a metaphor for " the gods". Boethius was a philosopher, once happy and successful like Job [ from the bible] who, he, Boethius wrote " consolations of philosophy" while in actual prison waiting to be tortured and dismembered by the authorities for his imaginary crimes against the state. " the gods, or fate, you see eventually torture us for our imaginary crimes caused by normal living by our death. "Fulsome Prison" is a song written and performed by Johnny Cash which succinctly expresses the theme of our angst for our "sins" and our acceptance of our guilt in four enjoyable verses.
Boethius in Folsom Prison
Camera pans in
Boethius sitting on his bed rubbing his right dislocated shoulder with his left hand
a far off train whistle is heard
a thought is expressed in Boethius tired eyes [ he is thinking as usual about how they were kill him in the end, what method of final destruction will be used to finish him]
since it is a train I hear I deduce I will not be thrown to the sharks as sharks do not inhabit the prairie where the train track is laid across
but there are many large rocks strewn about the prairie and the guards who are lazy may simply pile boulders on my chest until I expire from the weight, or they could make me push a large boulder up a steep hill until it rolls back over me
smiling Boethius begins to sing
" if they freed from from this prison if that railroad train was mine, I know I would move it on a little farther down the line"
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
Editor's note- Pritchard often uses the future hate of intelligent machines for mankind, which is a project of his tortured imagination, as a metaphor for " the gods". Boethius was a philosopher, once happy and successful like Job [ from the bible] who, he, Boethius wrote " consolations of philosophy" while in actual prison waiting to be tortured and dismembered by the authorities for his imaginary crimes against the state. " the gods, or fate, you see eventually torture us for our imaginary crimes caused by normal living by our death. "Fulsome Prison" is a song written and performed by Johnny Cash which succinctly expresses the theme of our angst for our "sins" and our acceptance of our guilt in four enjoyable verses.
Boethius in Folsom Prison
Camera pans in
Boethius sitting on his bed rubbing his right dislocated shoulder with his left hand
a far off train whistle is heard
a thought is expressed in Boethius tired eyes [ he is thinking as usual about how they were kill him in the end, what method of final destruction will be used to finish him]
since it is a train I hear I deduce I will not be thrown to the sharks as sharks do not inhabit the prairie where the train track is laid across
but there are many large rocks strewn about the prairie and the guards who are lazy may simply pile boulders on my chest until I expire from the weight, or they could make me push a large boulder up a steep hill until it rolls back over me
smiling Boethius begins to sing
" if they freed from from this prison if that railroad train was mine, I know I would move it on a little farther down the line"
end
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