Who would have thought it?

who would have thought it?

who would have thought,
that aldous huxley,
and the “conspiracy theorists”
from the past two decades
were correct when they predicted
digital dystopia yielding mass surveillance,
control and monitoring of all people?

who would have thought
that cash would one day
no longer be “king”,
but instead become outlawed
and replaced by
digital (and traceable)
transactions?

who would have thought
that health history, treatment
and records would one day would
be digitalised,
and thus subject to hacking by
those who do not have our
best interests at heart?

who would have thought
that vaccination ID-cards
could one day be required
for domestic and international
travel —
and this despite vaccination
officially being “mandatory”?

who would have have that
the conspiracy theorists of
the past couple of decades
who warned of “chipping”
were right; but that they just
did not understand that a
physical chip was unnecessary?

who would have thought
that just because you are
called “paranoid”, it does
not mean that you are
— in fact — not being
followed; or being
monitored remotely?

who would have thought
that just because you are
called a “conspiracy theorist”
it does not necessary follow
that everything in a so-called
conspiracy theory is false,
or fake news?

decades ago, it was predicted
by “conspiracy theorists” that
one day we would beg to be
chipped, vaccinated, controlled
and monitored — for our own good;
that we would one day exclaim:
“Chip me baby, chip me … good and hard!”

who would have thought
that the conspiracy theorists were right
when they warned that those who refused
to go along with the scheme would simply
have their chips turned off — relegating
them to a life of being homeless renegades
without access even to basic necessities?

now, who would have thought it?

millions did, and warned against it …
but few listened — until now.

Silence = Death.

«Secundo fluctus» (Second Wave), 60 x 50 cm., oil on canvas, 2020. The theme of this self-portrait is the impossible dream that is never finally achieved — no matter how much success we or others may think we have achieved, the dissatisfaction is always there. That has been the plight of most artists throughout human history; and it is no less today — for artists, and for non-artists. The tremendous Saturn-influence enveloping us at this time insists upon the renewal of our dreams, our motives, our ways of seeing, acting, living … imposing a heavy reality check upon us all. It is not all negative from an overall perspective, but it takes a higher degree of ingenuity, creativity, and persistence in order to create the much-needed and long-overdue New Consciousness. This dark expressionist self-portrait entitled “Second Wave”, provides a subjective inside-looking-out acknowledgment of the present experience. The intention is to document the thick muddy gelé of fear + careful hopefulness that we are all enduring in this Winter of darkness. The observant viewer will note that the face is itself a mask, as is the masking Darkness.

(Poetry, photos and painting by Adam Donaldson Powell)

art by Adam Donaldson Powell
AN EXTREME SCI-FI NOVEL, where conspiracy theories are played out to the max; co-written by a Norwegian, an American and a Russian

REVIEW BY DR. ISAGANI R. CRUZ, THE PHILIPPINES:

The Tunnel at the End of Time is a masterful symphony of languages, religions, cultures, and literary techniques, all journeying to one inevitable destination: the individual wrestling with self. Covering our most human to our most divine urges and activities, the poetic, science fictional, experimental, even cinematic book leads us through words to what is beyond or behind words: the inscrutable mystery of our own being or, more precisely since the book revels in Emptiness, our non-being. In the process of stripping away the several skins that we use to protect our inner selves and to keep us from exercising our freedom to live a full life, the book also comments on writing itself, turning itself inside out, so to speak, so that we are forced as readers to become the writers themselves, merging our selves with theirs without meaning to and without remembering the meaning that we wanted to find, finding ourselves apparently in the future but actually in the present, or even more precisely, in the past, as time stops for us. In the end, the future humans, aliens, and angels turn out to be really us today, as we find ourselves aliens within ourselves, alienated not from the world as lesser writers would have put it, but from ourselves, as only the truly alive realize, perhaps as only angels really know. For those less inclined towards philosophy, the book offers gripping suspense, continuous action, and provocative scenes; the narrative scaffolding, however, is there only to lead readers to deeper levels of reading. I recommend this book to everyone honest enough to admit that we do not know ourselves or that we are not just nothing, but perhaps even Nothingness itself. Have fun, but be warned!

– Isagani R. Cruz, Professor Emeritus, De La Salle University, Manila

DON’T ASK …

“Don’t Ask”, oil on canvas, 40 x 40 cm., self-portrait.

“Art should comfort the disturbed, and disturb the comfortable”.
— Cesar A. Cruz

DON’T ASK …

please don’t ask me how I am;
you can’t really expect
me to be any different
than I was yesterday.
we’re all really quite normal –
me, myself and I, and in
spite of our narcotic state can
be up and down simultaneously.
and don’t look at me too long;
I despise those “I know
how you must be feeling
eyes” and concerned tone.
why must you always misconstrue
the way my gaze avoids yours?
my anti-social disposition is
intended to protect you from us.
no — it doesn’t help to
speak slowly, pronouncing
each word with the sweetened
diction of a nun or nurse.
I honestly can’t tell you how to
act, for I have trouble enough
getting us to agree about
how we’ll shield you from me.
it’s really best to let me volunteer,
lest my unbridled demons unleash
their flame-throwing dragons to singe
the delicate threads of your own ego.
and you, so footloose, must avoid looking
back into the darkness whose glittering
maze of mirrors encapture those who poke
their noses where they don’t belong.
go ahead — ask me how I am …

(poem and oil painting by Adam Donaldson Powell)

 

Requiem.

REQUIEM.

Once fresh air is

Now pungent

With the odor of

Desiccated seashells

Picked nearly clean

By eloquent predators

And the opportunists

Who are never

Far behind them.

Perched swallows

Look on with fear

And disbelief at

Seagulls gliding, then

Careening too far

Inland, their hysterical

Laughter a parody of

A sonata appassionata

Against a now-barren

Landscape devoid of

Romanticism and

Common decency.

If one listens closely

One can hear a requiem

For a milder Age that ended

All-too-abruptly – it is

A solemn dirge describing

The endless journey of

Displaced souls desperately

Trying not to see or hear

While carefully guarding

Their most prized possession:

Hope that there is more

Meaning to be grasped

For he who holds out

Beyond the bitter end.

bowlofshells