Jimbaux was here like a chalk outline On the sidewalk waiting for the rain to wash away, wash away.
This week before Thanksgiving was a bittersweet week for me. It started with such promise; it also ended with promise, but it also contained some crushing news.
My long-awaited and long-delayed rewhoadification is finally happening, even after I had earlier this year given up on the possibility that it would ever happen, and here are some images from the entire week, as opposed to my usual habit of essays of pictures made entirely in one day; I may make this new weekly post thing a habit, and I am even toying with the idea of putting all of each month’s images into one post.
What Theme Is Here?
The famous Whitesnake song Here I Go Again, a song of my youth, would have been appropriate, and it probably will be appropriate once my long-awaited Rewhoadification post comes, but the emotional anguish that I have felt over having a huge door, the most inviting door that has ever been opened for me in matters of the heart, very slowly closed made me think of today’s song.
The dead can’t speak, and there’s nothing left to say anyway.
All you left behind is a chalk outline.
Yeah.
Monday The 12th
Anyway, here is something that I saw early Monday morning.
It was a good, promising thing to see, and, in many ways, despite the fact that you will soon see pictures from my actual DSLR camera, that grainy, fuzzy cell-phone grab is the shot of the week.
The horror underlying this optimistic story is that my reinstitutionalization is what makes this possible. Oh, I get to go home at night, and I get nice compensation for being a part of the problem of the coercive underpinning of society, but it kills me and kills you in the process, a more modern iteration of the personal-societal problem that I described in the spring.
Tuesday The 13th
I didn’t take any pictures (worth showing) on Tuesday, but I did attempt to reach out to someone I love.
Wednesday The 14th
I got this quick, not-worth-sharing grab shot at Terminal Junction on Wednesday morning.
That place is becoming less fun of a place to hang out, which is just as well, because I really need to quit this railroad photography crap.
It was later that day that I received some really crushing news.
Thursday The 15th – “What happened?”
I didn’t quit for long. On Thursday afternoon, I was out on the NS Back Belt by St. Anthony Street, where I saw a stopped or parked eastbound manifest train coming from the Union Pacific Railroad to the Norfolk Southern Railway. Walking around with a camera while wearing yuppie attire for the day job thing apparently aroused the suspicion of some local folks.
I like boxcars!
I also like cars that still have the logo of the Chicago & Northwestern Railway on them.
Some dude working on a house along Florida Avenue asked me if I worked for an insurance company.
“No.”
He then asked me if I was taking pictures of the train.
“Yes.”
He then asked, “what happened?”
I gave him a puzzled look and told him that I had no idea “what happened.”
What is wrong with people?
Let’s have a look at the head end and get out of here.
That’s really enough. I am so weird.
Friday The 16th
I nearly got killed by some assholes going superfast down Louisa Street. In some ways, it would be appropriate if my death came as a result of me trying to get a good train picture, but for this lame view of the Chalmette Branch train tied down and crewless at Louisa Street?
Yeah, no thanks.
Saturday The 17th
This gets personal. On Saturday, I went to a very special place for me, and I can’t really say more.
I feel like I am dying, and, if I must actually die soon, I must die near where it all started.
I hope that I leave more than a chalk outline.
That’s all for the DSLR pictures this week.
A Book That You Must Read
You really need to read the book; it’s free, with free shipping.
We must abolish wage slavery and take back what was stolen from us; at least the actual feudal landlords of medieval times felt some loyalty to their subjects.
End the barbarity, and end factory schooling, too.
Musings
She
I didn’t have to pretend to be someone I wasn’t around her. She knew. And she still accepted the freak who I am anyway.
That’s why I fell so fast and so incredibly hard for her. She was the first woman around whom I felt that I could be my true, probably autistic self, especially as she, too, was quite quirky. We had a magical, magnetic connection.
I helped her get out of a bad situation, and, now, some other man – and she – is benefitting from my intellectual and emotional labor. I guess that I should be happy for both of them, but, damn, it makes me feel powerfully lonely, the odd man out, and mainly due to wage slavery and the way it isolates people.
I hope that I leave more than a chalk outline.
The New Fuel Source
If I can stick this out, I might be able to earn my freedom in this plantation society in as few as 10 years, but I don’t know if I can stick it out. I hate being unfree, and, as I mentioned above, it prevents me from forming and building meaningful relationships, mainly because I am not free to be who I even am.
All of this makes me think again of Shawn Levy, who strived to life an authentic life in a way that comes across as having “failed” in life.
But, I am feeling a little bit more hopeful than I have in a long time, but there is a limit to it.
And it absolutely doesn’t have to be that way.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Jim
