THE DUMBIFICATION OF MINDS

A Loitering Words Essay

There is rarely a meeting point between my Loitering Words persona and that of my ELT Vista self. The former writes with a chipped tooth, a leather vest, a jester motif, and a sly-eyed grin; the latter wears a blazer, or sometimes a black tie. Nonetheless, in this article— which may end up as a podcast, a rant, a performance, or a plea—I intend to bring both to the table, not to find a middle ground, but to come at you with both barrels blazing.

I write this post fully aware that slowly but surely, attempts will be made to shut me up. It is what always happens whenever someone challenges the gatekeepers’ favorite myth: that censorship is care and confiscation is a form of moral hygiene.

Today’s contention is the recent Australian ban on social media for children under sixteen—you know those post pubescent, randy teens, easy pickings and already labeled a “lost generation” by the vegemighty powers that be. The answer is always to take something away when you cannot control the message. No need for innovation, imagination, or investment. Just take. The political equivalent of grounding a teenager because you do not know what else to do. Take. Take. Take. Offer nothing in return … It’s the same old story.

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The Pumps Don’t Work

Dada Mad Porker

My Fellow Americans,
I’ll begin with the upshot.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear.
At the end of the day,
we are all human, 
and I pray to God that love will find a way.

I spent most of yesterday, July 13th, 2024, working on my next novel and writing a chapter about the history of a possible future civil war in the United States of America, especially it’s effect on Florida. Of course, it is hypothetical and just conjecture. However, like my other writings, it is mostly based on true events. That is the nature of fiction, but also poetic license and freedom of speech. 

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Let Them Eat Cough Cake

At times, it seems as if the whole world has become one giant furry-esque Disneyland. Denial is rampant and “turn the other cheek” often means looking the other way. The Internet is crawling with the failed, offering their poor experience as “life coaches” and hawking clichés they have gotten out of a one-dollar book of quotes. Why? Because the Internet is also filled with desperate dreamers—and all the snake-oil-selling sharks can smell blood in the water.

Today, professionalism, experience, initiative, productivity, and creativity mean very little in a dehumanized business climate that more so values the bottom line, politics, or follow-me aesthetics.

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The Last Grasp for a Gasp

Dada Angstus by Jay Leonard Schwartz - @jschwartz63 - Collage Art

The Last Grasp for a Gasp

Deeply lost in the woods in the unsettling comfort of your grasp.
The misunderstood remain elusive, purposely so …
and, there but before ego, grace falls in serpentine gasps.

The window will turn seasons again in a few moments.
Stay tuned—the show is about to begin!
A cast of characters scatter the dreams, laid out like serpents.

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Radio Silence (Static, Crackle, Pop)

'Dada Ministry Of Social Disorder' - Jay Leonard Schwartz

It’s a shame that all relevance is lost
in the to-each-his-own,
taking for granted the lost-in-translation
and the solipsistic lies we tell ourselves.
And in a world desperate for a unified sense of belonging,
we stand alone and wax indifferent about love.
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Otherwise, Other Lives, Other Lies

Trip The Light Pretentious - Jay Leonard Schwartz

Otherwise, Other Lives, Other Lies

What we’ve known will always be,
even when we choose to forget.
It’s not about the silent distance
or the march of balanced offset.

The hour approaches
… and the dawn grows dark
…. and the eyes remain unspoken.
The “in a minute” lingers
… as the flame runs from the spark,
…. and the woke sip the lethargy of the moment.
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To Each His Own

To Each His Dada | by Jay L. Schwartz @jschwartz63

To Each His Own

Why do we cast our eyes from one to another …
but only to those who nod in kind …
with eyes averted …
from what is common among us?

To each his own …
Oh, what a world …
Oh, what a world …

Hate finds objectivity …
an equal opportunity pervades all.
Tears are subjective …
seeking comfort in the cognate.

To each his own …
Oh, what a world …
Oh, what a world …

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Snakeskins

This old snake has shed many skins.
He can not take them back.
In fact, he has no desire to.
Was the old snake comfortable in his old skins?
Yes, sometimes for a while,
but in time they grew old,
lost their vitality and betrayed him.
And so, he slithered away from them naked.

Old acquaintances still ask,
“Where have you gone?” and
“What is this new look of yours?”
They spit “We hardly recognize you anymore!”
They grew so comfortable with this or that old skin of his
that they took it for granted.
But this old snake understands all too well;
it is just his old skin they want, not him.
And so he answers “That was just an old skin.
It is gone and I am born anew, again.”

Some say the snake is just a trickster and a fake!
The snake says “No. You mistook me for my skin.
But it was just my skin not my nature.
I have always been just a snake.”

The lesson:
Never chew over dead skin; you will get skinned.
For skin, like clothes, makes neither the man, nor the snake.
In fact, this old snake isn’t even a snake!
He is, after all, just a cool cat and a Dadaist-cum-Sartrist!

Personal Pinpoints of Merry Lights

Merry Very Dada - @jschwartz63 - Jay Schwartz

This post is very personal because life is ultimately about the collection of personal moments we hold so dear. These treasured memorable instances of self-connection and self-awareness are all we have, and all we will ever to take the grave. If we were Christmas trees, such memories would be our twinkling lights that give us color and character.

Step into my background for context. I’m an American; I live in Greece. I’m originally from Miami (Florida), or more specifically Westchester and some temporally conglomerated junction of Bird Road (near the old trains tracks), Coral Way, Galloway Road, South Dixie Highway, Dadeland, Coral Gables and all the old haunts I still visit in my mind from time to time. If you don’t know Miami, these places have nothing to do with Miami Vice, South Beach, Art-Deco or Calle Ocho. I’m from a period time when neon signs flashed brilliantly in the looming darkness along a two-lane corridor of rushing four-wheeled headlights causing horizontal blurring streaks across falling dusky skies of electric blues and burnt oranges.

But this post isn’t about Miami; it’s about Christmas, self-actualization, self-awareness, self-worth and all those personal selfies we hold so dear. It’s not just about the blues and oranges, but also the punctuated reds and greens that grew out of early images of black and white. Continue reading

Dada Ausfahrt

'Dada Ausfahrt' by Jay Schwartz (Dada Bloq Productions)

How does one make a Dada Ausfahrt? Blend the following ingredients together: friendship, Christmas, exorcism, a psychedelic rock jam, balloons, farmer blockades, Lord Byron poetry and dada. But first, one must go to war.

Yes, it’s a dirty old shame that inner and universal peace is won only by waging war with the universe. At least, this is what happened to me and how I eventually created my new film, Dada Ausfahrt. I kid you not.
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Substitute Sales

'Dada Sale' - Jay Schwarts
‘Dada Sales’ – Jay Schwartz

“Substitute Sales”

I have no peace of mind.
I have no piece of mine.
I have no peace of mine.
Substitute rooms for sale …

My dreams have become bothersome,
both in fact and in fiction.
They betray me with the truth;
a false reality I denied long ago.
Substitute coffee for sale …

And what am I to think of love?
The most loving remains unloved.
The zealot slowly bleeds to death
of ruptured rapture.
Substitute hearts for sale …

There is chaos in the world.
You know it. I know it.
We like to think saner heads will prevail.
Bullshit.
Substitute moons for sale …

Everything must go.
All sales are final.

Sol But No Rhythm

Snow Jaywalking
“Sol But No Rhythm”

For the first time in months, I sat on my balcony,
in my woolen clothes, and drank in the Sun.
Sol … but no rhythm …

Please understand,
I am NOT patient; I am stubborn.
Please don’t confuse my smile for my defense mechanism.
An inner storm always rages; it is a force of nature.
I cannot control it … but it is who I am.
And yet, I am too stupid stubborn to come to terms with it.

So I think to myself …
“why hide when you can simply masquerade?”

Forever the cat, dreaming he was a dog.
Forever the dancing baton in a requiem.
Forever an undressed window looking out into the foreign.
Curtain-less.
Shameless.

Soul but no rhythm.
Poisoned by white tempo …
with increasingly fading vision …
and the buzz of white noise in my ears.
Not even sure when my heart skips a beat or two,
but surely it must …
Death, always advancing, never seeking an element of surprise.
And me?
Too stubborn to accept the calm before the storm.

A misappropriated cliché:
That which doesn’t harm you, kills you.

Soul … but no rhythm …
Why aren’t I Miles Davis?
A better question yet …
Why aren’t I Jay Schwartz?

The Call Center for Existential Obscenities

Dada Obscenity - Jay Schwartz

You have reached the ‘Call Center for Existential Obscenities’.
Please hold.

When only the obscene can be seen, taboo fears require puritan counter-measures.
Indifference fuels the irrational and the self-absorbed.
The helpless mutates into a victim of necrotic tendencies and can no longer transmute.
– If you would like to ‘call for help’, please stay on the line. Continue reading

Dada Dentistry: Stereoscopic Trans-Dental Meditation

Dada Occlusion - Jay Schwartz

Stereoscopic Trans-dental meditation is  …
what happens when you drill into both sides of my mouth; life bites; art bites back.

My art becomes a temper-tantrum.
Clueless observations make for subjective guess-work.
Our ethics have been perverted by environmental occlusion.
The economics of our societies lead to psycho-dental trepidation.
Requiring an anti-inflammatory, life goes on.

But MEANwhile …
The hipster takes refuge in subliminal advertising.
The avant-garde spit new life into prunes.
Fashion-martyrs have become functionally obsolescent.
The law is lewd.
The lascivious are saints.
The humanist is old enough to care less.
The artist no longer watches TV.
The muse sleeps at the office.

A senile poodle defecates in room full of bibles.
The hierophant beats the dog with a mop.
The Antichrist is a rube.
The harmonica playing flautist is flayed alive.
Death has become a born-again chocoholic.

The truly political have been prefabricated.
The conservative eats a hidden taco and revises history for attention.
The liberal’s heart bleeds out … again.
The anarchist is a racist.

The hurried are prodded to wait.
The content are forced to want.
The cultured cultivate no pearls.
The elite munch on champagne flutes and sleep naked on canapes.
The poor digest their worries.
The immigrant is a small-world-traveler.
The toothless smiles the most.

No one knows the truly retarded
… but everyone has an opinion.

Do you know me the way I know you?
Probably not; you hardly know me.
Life goes on.

And in the END …
The loved and loving wait for the departed beloved.
Art regurgitates what nature can’t stomach.
The hierophant is dead.
God save the queen.
Everyone is an American.
Daedalus was not a dadaist, nor was he a dentist.

[Subliminal Advertising: Only Dada Venduza can bring a SMiLE.]

An Outing Of Vanity

Dadaman (jay Schwartz)‘An Outing Of Vanity’

Forgive me vanity for I have sinned.

Those who know 12-step programs are wont to say “just be honest and tell your story” and you will be heard and accepted. OK, so here it goes:

My name is Jay Schwartz. I am a 52-year old American who lives in Greece. I’ve spent most of my life pleasing others at the expense of my inner-peace and have created havoc and chaos in my existence, and in those of some others as well. Continue reading

Cocktails With Reality

Dada CommuteCocktails With Reality  … just another play in one part

Cast: Artie, Biff (the stiff), Cupid, Dada, Frank, Gaius, Hark (the angel), & Popcorn  

ACT I:

– Narrator:

Meanwhile, on the edge of a cafe rooftop …

-Popcorn:

Live and learn and become stubborn … because reality, sanity and fulfillment are neither found in Judeo-Christian work ethics, nor are they found in western or eastern pop-psychology cliche. They are only found in the pursuit of happiness and with self-actualization.

– Biff (the stiff):

What time is it?

– Hark (the angel):

God watches the clock but takes cares of him/her/it/___/self (ves).

– Biff (the stiff):

Time to get back to work.

– Popcorn:

The time is not ‘now’. It never was, relatively speaking. Live in the ‘now’ because there is no time like the present.

– Artie:

For the artist, time is not a commodity; it is both a resource and part and parcel of an energy-renewal cycle … so is money.

– Biff (the stiff):

I’m late, as usual. And, I’m getting shorter.

– Frank:

Life is less about ‘what you make of it’ and more about finding a balance between what you want and need to do … and what you can bring to the world to help and encourage others to do the same.

– Cupid:

Screw you! The fuck you know …

– Gaius:

I can be honest in telling you that I’ve made a mess out of my life trying in earnest ‘to do’ the right thing … and also in trying to do the ‘right thing’ by people who are more part of my problems than the solution.

– Popcorn:

The long and short of existence is not found in ‘making ends meet’. There is no ‘means’ in ‘the end’.

– Biff (the stiff):

Oh happy day! The end is nigh! Curses! I’m not sweating enough …

– Gaius:

Some people are brought into this world only to make others happy … but others would rather live in misery and dump on the ‘happy makers’. The tragedy: having the devalued existence of a clown that everyone kicks as he passes by. Fuck all you bastards! LOL.

– Artie:

There is nothing sadder in life than ‘wasted potential’.

– Dada:

Life is a dada commute. Time to transmute!

– Biff (the stiff):

Will someone please bury me?

– FINIS –

EPILOGUE:

– Hark (the angel):

What is it you don’t get? Life goes on until it doesn’t. FINIS.

– Dada:

Viva Dada! Roll the ‘take no’ credits. 

Dada Gothic: Accommodating Commodes

Dada GothicAccommodating Commodes

Oh Accommodating Commodes…
My, how you have reconciled your fate.
Conditioned to forgive and forget
so that you may be visited again by bum dignitaries
and crowned with their indignities.

Where is your individuality?
– long ago flushed out and smothered
with the loose vowels of holy rhetoric
by those up on high …

Do you take heart in knowing that at the tail end of your existence
you will have dutifully served your function …
without cracking under the excretion of your karma?

What is this righteousness you feel
in extending a policy of laissez-faire to the derrière?
Perhaps you fancy yourself a grand pedal-stool of sorts …
a throne in the company of the elite …
… a noble, yet humble, reflecting pool to moonbeams?

Oh accommodating commodes …
Alas, there is no virtue in self-repression.
And in the end, … I must confess …
you are just full of crap.

Not Dada: The Charade Parade

Charade ParadeWhee! A Charade!

Life’s parade goes on in the streets below … and so each day we rise … and step back into the costume we have woven for ourselves out of the tattered pieces of our psyche and circumstances … some borrowed, some stolen, some just created from scratch to suit our prefabricated identities … and most bought on sale.

We learn to move, but we are conditioned to march. “Step quickly to the pulse of a silent beat or be trampled”, a bullhorn screams in our heads, “Left foot, right foot…”.

Most ignore the broken bodies of would be hand-walkers staining the gutters along the route. The odd streaker is quickly censored. Cut to a commercial.

Life goes on; move it or lose it …

Note: This is not ‘dada’.

The Gist and Jest of Jazz and Death

'Summertime Jazz' by Jay Schwartz“Over all, I think the main thing a musician would like to do is give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things that he knows of and senses in the universe.”
– John Coltrane
 
“I am not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”
– Woody Allen

 

As a writer and someone who tends to ‘feel and think’ his way through life, I have certain subjects I often feel compelled to write significantly about since they intensely stir the very core of my existence. Today, I’m referring to jazz and death – the former with love, the latter with fear. Time to connect the dots.

Please note that this essay is not the big magnum opus I plan on writing one day on these topics, but merely my attempt to broach related issues of an existential nature (breathe, breathe, breathe). In fact, I’m quite aware that in all likelihood I will probably never write what I’d like to, since I’m mindful of the fact that any attempt to do so would fall short … simply because jazz and death are both larger than life. Moreover, descriptions of jazz are just as elusive as rationalizations of death. Most literature provides the gist, but misses the jest. That’s where I come in.

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Free Dada Riot

'Dada Hero' by Jay Schwartz Dada is like your hopes: nothing.
Like your paradise: nothing.
Like your idols: nothing.
Like your heroes: nothing.
Like your artists: nothing.
Like your religions: nothing.
-Francis Picabia
 
“In those days we were all Dadaists. If the word meant anything at all, it meant seething discontent, dissatisfaction and cynicism. Defeat and political ferment always give rise to that sort of movement.”
– George Grosz

 

How often do you bang your head against the same wall? Why is it so hard to learn some lessons? Why are we addicted to stupidity and denial? Why are we suckers for flights of fancy? Why do we allow our egos to get the best of us?

These question are easily answered, but require large dollops of mind altering ‘faith’ that are not easily swallowed. In fact, by nature our egos detest blind-faith in anything. So instead we moan, groan and bitch about life and learn to mentally masturbate ourselves into insanity and denial.

Now, no one said life itself was easy. In fact, no one said anything of any nature! We arrive in this plane of existence with no guarantees. We have no receipt for the deeds of past lives; we are born with a clean slate. Our whole lives are ahead of us … followed by our inevitable deaths. Whether we will be granted another ‘go’ on the carousel of life is a matter of speculation … especially for the blind leading the blind.

In the meantime, God (fill-in this space with of your choice here or enter ‘not applicable’ if you are an atheist/agnostic) gives us different talents, abilities and proficiencies to help us get by in terms of finding happiness and maintaining our sanity. Yet, we regularly misuse or ignore these capacities, preferring instead to enslave ourselves to a system we call ‘the establishment’ that sucks away on our life force on a daily basis. This ‘golden calf’ keeps us distracted from what’s important in life, while it encourages us to look over ‘there’ to what we are ‘without’, rather than over ‘here’ to what would constitute as ‘within’.

Yet for some, questions persist …

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Dada Bing Dada Boom: The Art Of Human Ineptness

Dada Payload by Jay Schwartz“What we call dada is foolery, foolery extracted from the emptiness in which all the higher problems are wrapped, a gladiator’s gesture, a game played with the shabby remnants… A public execution of false morality.”
– Hugo Ball
 
“Dada aimed to destroy the reasonable deceptions of man and recover the natural and unreasonable order.”
– Hans Jean Arp

 

The other day I found a large dead cockroach laying upside down in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the post office. It was a variety of which I had rarely seen in the years I’ve lived here in Salonica, but very close to the type of palmetto bugs that are the norm in Miami, where I was born. I had no idea how it had gotten there, but I nonetheless had the distinct feeling it must have fallen from the sky. It certainly hadn’t mailed itself to Greece.

The sight of it took me off guard and I pondered its possible existential meaning for a few moments before I continued down the street towards a distant bus-stop. While riding the bus, I thought about the life of a cockroach … and its end, whether by poisoning, being cannibalized by other bugs, or falling victim to a crushing flip-flop. I confess trying to find some Zen-like answer for its sudden appearance in my life at that particular moment. In truth, I never found an answer, and in fact I still have no idea why I even feel compelled to write about it in this post.

It was just one of those insignificant transient moments in life that shake you to your very core. In the words of ‘Billy’ Shakespeare, however, it was really just ‘much ado about nothing’. Yet, even today, it’s still hard to just let go of the significance of that ‘unprocessed’ moment … because it remains an insult to both my ego the super-ego. (Note: the id conscientiously objected to comment.)

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