The Mounting Gravity of Cascading Calamity or, The Crippling Malady That Defines the Perpetually Poor


My apologies for the prolonged absence. This has been a hell of a journey— and that's a bloody understatement.

I sit in my travel trailer, purchased in October 2016, on the edge of Joshua Tree National Park, in an unincorporated burg on the outskirts of Desert Hot Springs, California, very near to my beloved mother's parents' spiritual home, Palm Springs. As this posting on, it is February 6, 2018. Depression and anxiety poison the human world. The bond markets 666 point crash a week ago has, as I anticipated a year earlier, begun the waggling pendulum swing of the bull market as it begins its spiral-surge from mania-driven impossibly infinite hydraulic lift into the leading stutter-sputter that any non-economist observer should recognize, after 2008, dot-com, and Black Monday, as the first thundering waves of a massive bubble burst and market crash. This will, if we are blessed, descend on us this July. This, while our biome crashes. We live under darkening skies. And we have never been farther apart from one another, and the obstacles to reuniting have never been more daunting.

My return to Coachella Valley six months ago was enormous relief after what has been a punishing, months-long ordeal even now I simply have no vocabulary for and— after enduring the necessary deprivations to support my 20 hour work days since my return, necessary to deliver this Ontology and its gifts of A2-consciousness and the endogenous technologies it reveals in you— I am too broken and fatigued to describe. What’s more, after investing the entirety of my life’s wealth (well over a quarter million) in this gift for your children, I’m so penny-starved that I am starving myself. As this work enters the shuddering markets, I am uncertain of its reception; facing those same markets from the prospective of employment under others’, distasteful you might imagine after completing a 12 year task of such magnitude and historicity as this, I am unsurprised my resumes and cold calls aren’t generating callbacks. Would that I could afford to register my truck and license myself in California— at least then I could drive for Lyft, or, heaven forbid, under Uber’s self-twisting pussy-grabbing thumbscrews. Having completed what I know to be the defining science and theory of our Age, and having given well more than all of myself to deliver it to you, it more than saddens me to report: I am not out of these woods. By a longshot.

When Maxwell and I began this odyssey August 31, 2016 (when Max was just a wee direwolf), I invoked transformation via self-sacrifice, and I invited spiritual kinship with those of our country most ground into the dirt by its injustices and inequities. I did so presuming I could "witness" from the safe remove of the scientist these human strivings and anguishes, and so carry these people's sufferings through pure compassion to the higher self, Atman, the center that is both precisely within and precisely without, the same center in all— as has seemed the purpose of my subjective experience since I succeeded in Awakening to Awakening in January 2016. I expected illness and injury; I expected that I could not expect what forms and to what degree these maladies would execute themselves upon me. Fate was more than generous in confirming that, like Jon Snow, I truly knew nothing. 

At least from the outset I was willing to try to begin from that premise. I humbly admit now I didn’t know how little truly I didn’t know— especially about the poverty and its sustaining contours— calamity, hunger, disease, and injustice. It is these four I learned, after nearly two years and more than 45,000 miles meeting so many Americans from the deranged presidential election to the present, that define the trap of poverty, regardless of skin color, greater than any bigotry of Republican origin. What’s more, I came to learn: most of the poor resent the frying pan/fire choice they must make politically; neither truly spares enough of themselves to hear anything from the poor about the causes of their maladies beyond what privileged they decided for themselves— and the poor— those causes to be.

As it turns out, something far more extraordinary, harrowing, and, yes, miraculous unfolded. I know not to what end— for, much to my ego and pain-body's dismay, this relentless bruising business of this scientific and moral Calling to witness has yet to end. One calamity has followed another; indeed, even here, safe in paradise at last, as my pain-body has relaxed, uncoiled from its long-held defensive posture, I awake to the sad knowing that the crunch in my lungs and plague of aches throughout tissue and bone and sinew are pneumonia. This says nothing of the ravages of HUNGER across the full domain of my physical continence in the wake of my sacrifice birthing this baby. I can honestly say after months of near-starvation, now less than a week at having returned to a semblance of regular caloric intake: I had no fucking clue what HUNGER truly is, nor what it does to you. And I do not suppose to grasp the depth of HUNGER after two short months; the larger body of the poor, truly the entire mass of the human body, has lived in HUNGER’S pit far, far longer than I.

My invocation that I should suffer as the poor suffer was successful— and, I am humbled to report, remains so now more than ever. 

Through miserable happenstance and mounting afflictions of random, indifferent chance, I became wholly like those I sought to witness. I inherited— or, perhaps earned?— the existential plague that stains them, and impairs every moment of their lives— so that, no matter how faithfully they apply themselves to it, every one of them is denied forever, sheerly by unending heaping cascades of miserable circumstantial errors and calamities, the fruits of the American Dream. Success myths contingent on vague notions of "hard work" mean naught when the fabric of one's daily existence is calamity after haunted calamity. Unfortunately, I did not also inherit the grit that sustains them, that so empowers them to persevere when all sense would register suicide to be the appropriate rational response to such overwhelming, merciless misfortune, multiplied against the utter disregard your society and beloved friends hold for the supposedly intrinsic worth of your essential human being. 

We the people, especially the current Left, have wholly forgotten that pack mammals share their food. This is no surprise given that neoliberalism has rewarded us amply to train us— via Classical and Operant Conditioning— to validate an even more prime mammalian edict: You don’t shit where you eat. This shortsighted and shameless, idiot violation of our mammalian vitality is precisely the violation of our nature that has served as climate change’s sustaining petri-dish of so-called consumer culture.

Fortunately as I write in the desert and reflect on my own personal perils of the prior eighteen months, I find that by choosing to face these tragedies privately, I have come to taste the practical grit that sustains the poor through their successive misfortunes— not so much the force of resistance against suffering and its causes the Left supposes necessary remedy, but the capacity to endure against the maddening relentlessness of it all, endlessly  piling miseries and insults on top of you and everyone you love— a precious strength in these tough times, indeed. This capacity, ultimately, is sustained by Faith— a true, vital Faith which Tolstoy and Dostoyevski named and extolled, and which the Liberal caste I have only recently come to disavow myself of openly disdains. These Liberals know not that the blessings of their privilege insulates them from the impossible burdens of the poor; it is only for these blessings of privilege that they are able to indulge abnegation of Faith’s utmost necessity as sustaining vitality when all hope is lost and suicide becomes a truly rational antidote to the despairing days that stretch between now and the grave. It is only because they have not traveled long and deep among the uncouth and unwashed white, black, and red poor as I have that they are able to deceive themselves that Faith is not alive and well, and that Faith alone is truly all that holds the last of the American tapestry together. 

I come, I pray, to the end of my journey and development of this work having discovered this amazing Faith as resonant, utmost Truth. More than my Ontology, more than its physics, more than the A2 consciousness and endogenous technology, it is the discovery of this vitalizing and sustaining Faith in my fellow American poor, and so in myself as I have j0ined them in poverty, that I have come to cherish as the single most humbling and defining reward of this journey.