Dilated Reality

To all those lyrically poisoning the persuadable ear of the commoner, and you know who you are, let me candidly clear up the roughness in the hearable noise that’s been born out of this societal mirage you have enabled the creation of.  The matter that keeps us lagging and thus catching up with progress is not one of difficult solvability, but rather obstinate competitiveness from all sides that are speaking on the behalf a concern, and it stems from the universal instinct to be the best, the greatest, the divine, spermatic cream shot that finds its way into the awaiting arms of conception. 

        Oh, what a scrambled issue this world has become.  The acres of ovulating soil crop but barren beliefs full of belligerent ignorance, for we’ve planted naught save the tumultuous reenactments of shallowly buried beefs that have never been resolved in the first place, and, respectably, they never will be.  Americans, fearsome, are beginning to again heed the suggested inveiglements of corruptness—the very same who are complicit in decalcifying the strength in the bone structure of this country in the first place: the collaboration of legislative hoodlums in Congress and all of their constituent benefactors—and the vindictive media outlets and press corps, can’t leave out those demented functions.

         But the story I’m to let you in on is not about me—not in the protagonist sense, but it is aimed to transfer the injustices carried out on every breeding capable being on the planet.  But, being that I am one, I’ll stick to the human’s deal in the mechanism—the veritable mortar muzzle that holds us all for ransom, demanding that we supply their daily agenda with a pragmatic one of our own.               

(Have you ever been the pestered recipient of forced subjections to religious acknowledgements?  Have you ever been cautioned to hush when it is your intention to speak?  Has anyone ever told you to put that gun away?  Has an officer of the law ever pulled you from out your vehicle when no seeable crimes or illicit scents were evident?  Well, if the answer to any of the preceding questions is yes, than the USG has an incredible offer worth sticking around for…)

The First Amendment, gees, quite the disquisition there, the Bill of Rights, I mean—the most transcendent scripture we’ve ever known, aside from Bible, right?  Well, for Arnold Millstone the most sacred of all permissibly evocable allowances in the Bill of Rights is a facet of the first one—at least it is right now.  See? Arnold, for the first time in his patriotic life, is an American with a grudge, a very valid grudge, too, for he has been wholly denied one of his most basic and appropriate rights as an American citizen: his right to peaceably protest against the government.

         Arnold was born in 1946, in San Francisco, and would later attend Berkley University during the late ‘60s—one of the most turbulent and colorful places and times to ever transpire on the ‘scape of U.S. grounds.  And amid all this was Arnold, walking with casually inept steps, confidently blurred in his travels down the maelstrom affairs and vagarious happenings going, increasingly, on.  Past all the phenomenally high-weathered folk, the growing class of gurus and hippies filled with poetic peace, spattered ubiquitously abound and were, in the eyes of many (the squares), severely disturbed by what they considered to be but merely perishable rubbish, roaming the Haight-Ashbury fairgrounds, minds bleached in colorfully tinged acid, like souls walking in lost directions, wandering for all eternity, in the subway lairs of Rothko’s Purgatory.  They saw them as nothing more then mere junk on the sidewalk—just kick it aside and walk by in a hurried rush toward the aloof environs of ‘model society.’  And lest we forget the activism for civil rights and the protests against the War in Vietnam—some graduating into violence.  “No.” said the oppressors.  “This is all too much to bear.”    And it is here—wincing through rioting shouts, plumes of gun smoke and misty fire hoses—that we really begin to see just how free we really are.

         The amiable spirit of the 1960s failed to make it though the ‘doors’ sought in the end, and for myriad reasons: one being that the keys to doors leading to illuminations had been filed down due to overuse and would now only open doors leading to addictions—and the ‘60s, now an extinguished roach, were flicked and given, as it were, to the gods.  But the most prominent reason the system won is because people, whether too drug-sung or just overwhelmingly disillusioned by events like the assassinations of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King in ‘68, gave in to the weighty moral hypocrisies of society.      

            And Arnold, in all the years subsequent this outcome, thought it to be rightfully so.  But Arnold, his ballot in the Nixon box, wasn’t just overtly a square, but, more importantly, he was part of that very silent majority that was the epitomizing doom of the ‘60s.  The people who wholeheartedly disagreed with any counter cultures, activist foundations or any other peaceable or violent advocators insubordinate of government mandates. 

           But what Arnold did not recognize then was their reasoning to abjure, because he thought they were coherently deranged.  And even though their minds were often seasoned with herbs and washes of enlightenment, their subversive antics were based on the principles of stringent morals—and whenever they would wield the honed sword brandishing human rights and civil liberties—the ‘given’ rights of an American citizen, the opposition would touché them with disregard of any in defiance of the government’s ‘authority’—and Vision sobbed and grew too teary-eyed to see anymore of the way.  The Monarchy in America has long outgrown its infancy, and is at the point where it’s too hobbled and crutch-clutching an entity to miss—especially when crossing such dangerous streets.              

          But just this year, in March, Arnold looked back upon pandemonium of those times and saw, for the first time, via his mail, the country beneath its synthetic veneer.

(“And now, coming to you straight form the House of Representatives, please give a warm welcome to your host, Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi.”

“Thank you, thank you – all House and Senate and other constituents of the U.S. Congress in attendance, and all U.S. citizens viewing from home, watching this special televised quorum – we have a revolutionary ideal to present you:

“For years people have been over-paying for their peek at the Vision—their dreams of America.  If you take a better look you’ll discover that you’re staring straight into the hopelessly voluptuous vortex of a kaleidoscope. All these unwarranted allocations added on to your bill.  The simple admission of the word ownership is enough to entice any seeker of an amicable American lifestyle, in the terms of societal normality, to buy in.  But it has become hostilely clear that the truth is as about as real as the 1919 World Series.  Your freedom is a trust fund that you pay into – and if that branch folds, so does your entitlement to those funds.  Well, worry no more. Congress has developed a way to bypass the hysterics that have plagued the true deed for so long now.  So stay tuned for the proceeding, and find out how millions of people are living the way the have always desired to.  And now, back to you Madam Speaker…”)

         What happened to Arnold was simply a regular truth that plagues the majority of citizens in this country on a very regular basis: a notice from his insurance company, claiming that they were not in any way liable to cover the expense of his pancreatic cancer treatments.  The intricate semantics of their denial, I do not claim to understand—but that’s because they’re not meant to be understood—billowy reflections.  My forte isn’t to lope around the reams of intolerable paper known as ‘information’ pamphlets, trying to figure the percentile mumbo-jumbo that they strategically and cunningly font to convey their denials.  What I see is the cupidity—the greediness—the deceptive tactics.  It seems that a lot of people, all the aforementioned demagogue conglomerations, are looking to discredit President Obama every slender opportunity they can pry open.  But, as much as they assert that what they say is in the interest of the American people, the reality is that they have nothing to say for us, and they keep only their own interests at thought—and though I support and voted for Obama, I am well aware that he is, in the end, a politician, but his stubbornness to back down is very reminiscent of Bush’s vetoing madness—only his intent isn’t cultivate implications to sequester foreign grounds, enabling leisurely ways to install the crude enforcements of fossil methods.  The scary thing is that, if we don’t script a different act, the rest of the world may begin to view us as unnecessary weight.  “Dump ‘em.”

        Now, don’t feel me wrong, I’m not trying to propagate here, but I am under the firm belief, call it an intuitive notion, that if we choose evade this or any other alternative act, the curtains are going to close at some point.  The biggest argument they can condition is that President Obama’s plan is tactically mal-functional, that health care reform is undoable because Obama’s plan would hinder the virility of America’s already disquieting economic ghost town.  I even saw a commercial about the flaws in the health care in Canada to weaken the Presidents campaign for achievability of his plan.  The Canadians have nothing to do with us–they are the same as phantom arms–just focus on Katrina.  The other thing I find interesting in their opposing arguments is that they say government will end up controlling health care. Well, if you ask me, they already are in control health care—there’d be no argument otherwise.  So what’s really going on?         

(“You know, ladies and gentlemen, there have been a lot of people who are finding themselves stranded within this economical quarrel.  People are so indomitably unwell and doing way beyond what they have to do to live marginally–so stretched in their personal budgets nowadays that even the rudimentary payments of livelihood seem impossible to achieve.  I can identify with the rest of you, being that I am proud a grandmother of six.  And I can truly imagine what all of you are feeling—if I try really, really, hard.  But worry no longer, ladies and gentleman, for tonight we have with us a man who requires no introduction: six-time Senator of the Delawarean Way and current Vice President of the United States Joe Biden…”)

         Arnold, a former member of the National Guard, expected to be given the respect of the country he defended and called the insurance company right away, thinking that they’d actually care.  The insurance company doesn’t morally qualm with a conscience—solid is only their intent to capitalize, and they could care less whether or not you’re a veteran or not.  You, Arnie, are just another mere claim number to them.  Nope.  It shouldn’t be surprising, not in a country where thirty percent or so of its homeless citizens are war veterans—but, well, Arnold is not one who’d know that; he’s a ‘get a job, ya bum’ type of guy. 

“Sorry, Mr. Millstone, but your bill has been turned over to Medicare.  And, if at all, we’re obligated to cover only a percentage of the difference.”  “Wait a minute here; I pay you a deductible of over two grand a year.  How come I’m not covered for this?  How in the hell’s that possible?”  “Sir, your bill was well over and beyond the threshold that your premium allows—if you didn’t have Medicare listed as your primary insurance we would be obligated to pay a larger portion of the allocations—”  “How large a portion? How much of it would ya pay?”  “Sir, I don’t know, but since you’ve enrolled in Medicare Part B they need to assess the bill first.  Until then—”  “But I use them for doctor visits, and I hardly succeed.  In fact, the only reason I picked up secondary insurance in the first place is because Medicare won’t fulfill all the payments for my long-term care.”  “Mr. Millstone, this is something called coordination of benefits—”  “Well, wait, if Medicare pays a certain portion then it is up to you to pay the difference, isn’t it?”  “Yes, Mr. Millstone, but, as I told you before, we’re only responsible for a certain amount of the residual payments; it’s not up to us to endorse the whole of the sum.  The bill’s entirety exceeds our responsibility, normally up eighty percent, and any moneys we are responsible for will be reimbursed to you.”  “What?  Lady, I need that money now.  You guys gonna pay off the interest if I’m turned over to collections? … Didn’t think so.  And if I payoff the amount that’s listed as being above the threshold, then shouldn’t the rest fall under your company’s management?”  “It doesn’t work that way–”  “Of course not–that’d make sense.”  “The claim has already been turned over to Medicare.  We can’t do anything with the bill unless you talk to Medicare and find what it is they’re willing to pay—”  “Wait … Wait a minute … I gotta talk to ‘em?  Why not you?”  “We will, sir, but you must request the paperwork from Medic—”  “Forget it!  I’m payin’ you bandits and getting near nothing for it.  So, just—never mind!”     

            Arnold hung up the phone with the force of vile, indignant disdain.  (What the hell kinda BS is this?  Why do I have insurance if they’re not gonna pay nothin’?) 

          This was a magnanimously uncouth treachery to him, and vain elements of heartfelt disrepair were too incapable of placation, for the shock was set at a conquering and writhing and insufferable voltage, as there was no way that he’d be able to cover even the minimum payments due to the fact that he spent so much on other treatments that his policy didn’t cover—as long as his insurance would pay for the major treatments—like chemo, then he’d barely get by, and hopefully, he thought, he could get himself back on track.  But such an endeavor was impossible now, the HMO governing his Medicare refused to cover certain treatments because they said they were not of any benefit to his health problems, as tests showed the cancer to be progressively worsening.  When he was informed in his phone call to Medicare that they were culpably required to handle less than one third of the payments it had inherited, that’s when Arnold decided to implement his right to protest, letting his lawn grow to what was not received well by his neighbors, as it was as considered an unacceptable height.  This was to symbolically proclaim that the ground on which we live has a woven thicket of weedy, unopposed complications stammering one’s step along the paths of freedoms.  In the center of his lawn, stout upon a bland brown blanket, he posted the stance of a large garden gnome in the manifest of Uncle Sam, and shrouded over the statuette’s red, white and blue top hat-clad head, a ski mask—overtly this was to call the government a thief.

            The reaction induced by this kind of protest was unaccepted in the neighborhood in which Arnold lives, for his neighbors view it to be a spot on what their concept of American is—for they are of the high-class status of San Francisco inhabitants, the wealthy—and the battle to ensue was one of mutilated qualities.               

(“Thank you, Madam Speaker.  And thanks to all of those in attendance or watching from home.  Let me ask you all something:  By show of hands, how many of you are trying to scale some kind a financial obstacle?—Wow, nearly everyone.  Folks, I know.  This is a serious mess that we’re in; the caducity of the whole thing.  Well, everyone, I have an offer for you…”)   

“We’re gonna have to enforce that you mow your lawn, Mr. Millstone, the people in the neighborhood have been growing highly resentful of the slovenly appearance of your property.  They threatened to petition if you further with your refusal to do so.”  “Well, officer, let ‘em petition then.  I have just as much a right voice my contempt—and I will continue to.  Now get the hell off my property!”

            We have a certain fantasy in this country that we feel need our adherence in society—and the wealthy apply the stickiest, viscous glue in order to keep their model standing sturdily on the land.  The idea that we could ever be in anymore trouble than we are now does not satisfy me, and anyone who is satisfied has either something to gain or have been repeatedly told that they have something to loose, but where we are due has nothing to do with health care, it is something that, throughout history, we have continually misunderstood, and it is something so valuable—Truth.  And you’ll not get it from the chimes of media or congressional voices.  To open a wound in the societal clause I am about to refute, let me first quote Henry Thoreau to stab through:   “I repeat the testimony of many an intelligent foreigner, as well as my own convictions, when I say, that probably no country was ever ruled by so mean a class of tyrants as, with a few noble exceptions, are the editors of the periodical press in this country.  And as they live and rule by their own servility, and appealing to the worst, and not the better nature of man, the people who read them are in the condition of the dog that returns to his vomit.”

            No doubt of it; and in allusion to this quote extracted from Slavery in Massachusetts, which was written in 1854, the absoluteness of its truth today is still iridescently seeable in the condescending sanctimonies found in every form omnipresent media, cluttering up the air and satellite waves and the serenity of eyes sockets.  It takes not much for their filth to pervasively sully the ennoblement of a promising thing, for taken much too seriously is the word of the liaisons choiring for the pantheons of these bias echoers.  Their intentions are insidiously repressing to the ones who encounter their unappealing rations of slop, and malevolent hot air compressors sputter sweltering fuddles of steam from many valves, easily promoting the ado and contempt of those who are already sweating.  The media, the press, the legislative people who are supposedly our lobbyers are nothing of the sort.  Their tact contains little info and is expressed in a manner that suggests that disaster is immutably afoot.

            But their main tactic, after they fill you with fear, is distraction—with BS that doesn’t matter, going well beyond the conclusive point to ensure a public frenzy.  This truth is clearly highlighted by the recent death of Michael Jackson.  It amazes me that every other famous person who, coincidentally enough, perished within the same time period as Jackson, were all doted with a cause of death a day or two subsequent, but for some strange reason they can’t figure out how Jackson, the most popular of these other well known people, died.*  I wonder why that is?  To keep you focused on something that commandeers naught save ridiculousness maybe?  No doubt the man was someone that achieved great things in his field, but his viable prominence in music’s history doesn’t mean the rest of world has shutdown.  I’m just waiting for a custody battle, something to that effect, to arise; this could very well be next weight they’ll add to the bar, because they know that people, the heavier the situation gets, will watch.

__________

                 *It was found weeks later that Michael Jackson was murdered.  Oh, how can it get any better for the media-agenda?

            Another shameful embellishment of media outlets are their own ‘shame on you’ campaigns, where they exploit a person who has been treated unfairly, in one way or another, by someone—all to bolster, through propagation, their outlet’s ratings.  These segments are proclamations to the viewer that they are on your side, when what  they truly want is nothing more than the allegiance of your eyes and minds, and, in the end, that is what you give them when you fall under the impression that what they are doing is sincere.  For acts such as ‘rescue’ assure the viewers that someone is looking out for us.  But, in the sheerness of actuality, it’s the other way around.  And of Obama’s thoughts on health care, one could retort by claiming that it’s the same thing, for rescue is not certain, but maybe it’s a step in the right direction.  Just remember that the ones against this bill are the very same people who didn’t impeach Bush when he declared war without their congressional consent. 

            Arnold thought about resorting to using this kind of media campaign to aid his affair, but, after some arduous thought, came to realize that it would bring hypocrisy upon his protest, so he opted to poise his declination of this notion and, with his principles bore, chance sinking with it.

            But, aside from the ominously concerned sounds that woke him from out his slumber at 1:30am, it was little surprise to him that people took it upon themselves to mow down his personal dissentions.  He didn’t even bother to go outside and stop them, what good would it have done?  They want what they want, and an overgrown lawn is too awful a blemish to ignore.  And the police, well, they didn’t care.  To them it was acceptable to ‘clean up’ the atrociousness of the yard, like it was some kind a civil service.  But this simply relays the message that lies at the very heart of this essay: we are denied our rights when the wealthy majority feels as though it will be foisted to suffer a loss, like the apathy proposed in Arnold’s unappealing property, the loss of the ability to ransack the common piggy banks—the insurance companies, would disturb the neighborhood.   

          So, you see? You needn’t know the intricate details to understand the motives, but knowing your rights is key, and Arnold, now suing the City and Police Department of San Francisco for an award that would more then cover his medical bills for standing in the way of his rights, finally understands what all those loony, drug-festering hippies were doing in the 1960s, insofar as to know that the evocation of the rights they sought use of were often overruled by people whose richer-status issues were deemed to be more important.

         But what comes into effect during Obama’s tenure, this momentary reach for convalescence, will mean nothing, for the people of this country and world will forever wage and dedicate their breaths to catching up with the air, for any idea worth thinking about produces its followers, its advocates and its gardeners, tending to its growths assurance.  But when the beholders and the enablers of the idea’s grandeur cease, the time ceases with it.  And what waylay in the fade of an era are the views of many sides—but only one view can be dubbed the virtuous new truth of the realm, and the fares through battles for peaceful equanimity in the world and fairness to all citizens, these quests will forever continue.  So try not to get sick.

(”To rent your own piece of liberty, have your credit cards ready and dial toll free: 1-800-373-3366 … That’s 1-800-373-3366 …  Sorry.  No CODs.”)