F-450, Into Thy Hands I Commend My Spirit

Life wasted on nothing.

And then comes the end.

Each day, we get up, take care of the few necessities, and then do nothing of consequence. After the make-work, we return to sleep. Thus, every day becomes an abbreviation of life.

We repeat the pattern day after day. A few of us die, more are born.

Our combined activity amounts to *history.* This academic label lends the collective behavior a gravity it does not deserve.

The milestones of history are only concentrated episodes of the individual’s pointless pursuits. Wars, for example, are only the violent taking the nothingness by force.

The kingdoms of earth are built upon sand. The Amerikan empire is the latest, which now threatens to collapse upon iself, due to the bankruptcy of her finance economy.

What is the great accomplishment which organized human behavior can boast? Walking on the moon?

Fortunately there were no native peoples there for the invaders to exploit. . .

The space men congratulated themselves, planted a flag (how utterly provincial), performed a freemasonic ritual, hit a golf ball and then returned home with a few souvenirs.

A generation has passed since this *giant leap for mankind*. . .

It was nothing. . .it was nothing. . .time has proven it was nothing.

But maybe if we go to Mars? It might be different? Maybe there’s ice! Maybe even bacteria! We’re saved!!

As I scribble these notes on a piece of paper, to be perhaps turned into an electronic jot, it is a little past 9 pm on a July night. It isn’t dark yet—the assaninity of Daylight Saving Time. It is 80 degrees. The window is open. All the windows in the neighborhood are open. I can hear the boy next door crying, the mother and the father arguing.

I look out the window:

The row of Amerikan council flats—picture Agrestic after it has been through a trash compactor. . .what a physically and mentally unhealthy way to live. . .crowded together, *neighbor* suffocating *neighbor.*

Ha ha ha. . .I remember a girl from years ago, weeping for the animals in the slaughterhouse. . .the poor creatures, packed in those little pens, she lamented. She herself lived in a high rise apartment building and was just as neurotic as a factory farm pig.

I once told her it was my dream to live in the desert, with no nigh boors within sight. Oh, I’d go crazy out in the middle of nowhere, she replied.

I look out the window:

The parking lot full of shiny motor vehicles—the poor drive like the upper middle class. . .but they eat hot dogs and send their children to public school.

The shouting father storms out, cursing all the way to his F-450—what a preposterous machine! What possible reason can this angry little man from the little flat next door have for such an abomination?

I remember a day or two after the little man brought his motorized mutant home, I saw him and his family returning from a grocery store. . .and the few bags of food scattered all over the titanic eight foot truck bed. The goods must have crashed around back there with every stop, turn and pothole. . .the cans of pork-n-beans were dented, the loaves of white bread were smashed, the jumbo-size bags of Doritos were flattened, the two liter Diet Cokes were shaken into bottle rockets. . .

What does this monster truck mean to this angry little man?

The monster is from his dream, which he does not understand is really a nightmare. He has dreamed his life away. He dreams of material and social status. The monster truck is the evidence of his dream. I have this object, therefore the dream is true.

Thou fool, your monster truck will end up in the junkyard, and you will have to begin again. Your dream will ever remain out of reach. Your dream is of material purity—nobody ever dreams of a house with dirty walls and loose toilet paper rollers, of a car with a cracked windshield and a busted air conditioner. . .but that is all the dream will ever bring, will ever bring.

I look out the window:

Here comes the mother, chasing after the angry little father. . .she shouts:

I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!

He is, he is.

They abuse each other there in the parking lot for a minute, until the angry little man drives off in his beastly truck—like some tiny dot head riding atop an elephant.

As the mother returns to her flat, she looks up, sees me looking down upon the scene. She glares at me—apparently it is a crime to sit quietly within my own four walls and look out my window. Apparently it is a crime to not look away as the neighbors violate the peace and demean themselves in the parking lot.

Yes, lady, I saw it all, I heard it all.

And He saw it. . .He sees it all. . .He sees the lives we throw away.

Think about all of the dead. All of the billions of dead. Pile them together. Make a mountain range of them. Then look for Adam, Noah, Abraham, Joseph, Moses, David, Mary, John the Baptist, Paul, Justin Martyr, Martin Luther. . .

Even if I missed a few, it’s still just needles from a haystack. . .

All the rest, all the rest of us—nothing.

The Almighty brought life into being—its meaning, therefore, derives from His will. Those few named above labored in service of His will.

The rest of the elect [the invisible Church] so compromised with the world, the flesh and the devil, the cause of Christ would have been harmed—if such were possible. They tolerated inquisitions, crusades, usury—all the ugliness of the counterfeit Christians [who form the greater part of the visible church]. The elect should have branded them as heretics and cast them out.

A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump. . .

Thus we have the lump that is Christianity today.

As for those outside the church, they play life the way children play house.

Look at them. . .pretending their pathetic posturing means something. From their wars and ideologies down to their smallest enterprises and dysfunctional personal lives—waste. None of it mattered, none of it earned anything eternal, except their own shame. All of it outside God’s will, and thus it must be burned as the rubbish it is.

I look out the window:

Darkness now finally, mercifully brings down a curtain on another day’s bad performance. . .