t h e • k a r m a ⌁ p e a r l • w r i t e r

     There are no shortages of terminology when you don’t need them. Yet, it has ALWAYS been apparent to me, when it comes to subtlety or shades of meaning between similar occurrences, ideas and/or concepts - their nature, implementation or needs of sanction can be worlds apart. The danger here should be implicit - yet is often absorbed into the negative space, itself, of a vocabulary so lacking. Often, these gaps between meanings and definitions, like the difference between say the theory and practice of Magick - can be used to an advantage, yet most often nefariously so. And for that example, we need step no further than the arena of our current day politics and the cry of ‘Socialism’ as a sham and shamefully misappropriated scare tactic. The false or incomplete idea of a thing once set in the mind of a population, will regardless of its practical purpose, occult ALL aspects of its functionality. And then the very word representing that thing, itself, is radically or re...

     If one did, say, reduce the apparent dysfunction of one's life into a consistent set of variables upon which played out the same misery again, and again, how then could such problems NOT be labeled as an addiction?      Alternately, in the absence of such proof would the refusal to consider oneself an addict remain eligible for being defined as anything but insanity?    Does anyone have a Valium?    Note: While this above very simple antidote (thanks for valium, btw, Becky) does imply a rather direct, if not finite, connection between terms that I, personally, cannot say at ALL times must be reasoned together (dysfunction, addiction, an addict) even though they are indeed demonstrated as real and intertwined things.        

     Sadly, as true as it might be, I have never seen myself much more than a tourist, here, among the shattered hopes, lost dreams and broken promises of those seeking recovery. A process, which in my mind begins at birth and continues daily until at long last that bright shining moment comes and it's time to lay it ALL down. And that one luxury, guaranteed, is afforded everyone, over & under insured alike.       Many of us, who, in the time it takes to die, know that life does literally flash before one's eyes. Those last thoughts, images, or impressions are the memories you keep before being gently guided across the void, dragged down into hell, or, low and behold, as it were in my case, spit back out a bonafide Devil's reject.      The commonality is true, as I've discovered among those deemed as yet unworthy of their final reward, there persists a certain abandonment of the fear of death. And that translation can be difficult...

       A writer's job is to tell the truth.       And it would seem here we run into problems right off the proverbial bat. The truth, as I see it, is just that––just as the truth you see––is true. Or true to you. The problem should be apparent. And if so, that's usually 51% of the battle. Yet, if one is still flailing without measurable success on grasping a sense of reality, and keen on denying me my own, then how do we sort this out? Perhaps a change in job description would help.      A writer's job is to relay only facts.      And if to whom those facts are relaid remain predisposed to the same tenants of rational discourse––any evidentiary finding of fact, by shear definition, is incontrovertible. So now it's case closed and problem solved, right? No? So, if it's NOT quite yet time to start singing, "Good-Night Irene" what then is the problem?      A writer's job is to understand the problem....