Welcome to the mind of John Scott Ridgway. Beware falling rocks and angels.

YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENTER WHAT THE INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY CALLS THE 'WITTING.' The implication being anyone who doesn't know what is truly going on in the world is 'unwitting.' I have an academic/artist background that includes three books, oil painting, radio and tv... though mostly, I write on the web and give the words away. Better read than dead, I always say. I studyied military intelligence, cults, english, history, and philosophy, among other subjects that I took in my quest to have something to say in my work.... I am proud to say I studied under peaceful warriors, like Dr. Danial Stern, an icon in the sixties who hung out with the panthers, dealt with agent provocaters, spies.


Find me on facebook at john scott ridgway... there are two of me... one is active. I trust you can figure it out. Doing a lot of stuff there. Basically showing my daily trek throughout the dozens of papers I peruse while waiting in some bush, pr parked somewhere, you know, out stalking, or whatever, you know... hunting humans, maybe... but not in an illegal way. Really.

I urge you to try out my new Jesus, blog, too. He is nothing like you have read before. This creature from the planet Heaven is mistaken for an alien, a cult leader, a terrorist.... Military intelligence agents and secrets are thrown all over in this blog.... please spread my writing whereever forfree... The book is not just for Christians. I am almost an agnostic... I, Christ... will lead you to heaven, or at least give you a lot to think about. After years of getting mostly a's in college, I can at least parrot a few things you have not heard.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

shattered bits of me

I search for me in old photos of my flesh
look through what they made me
cars and houses and electric bills became chains
me me me

the me that becomes flossom on a white wave of culture
brain battered by advertisements and peer pressure
a whisp of smoke in a foggy night
shaped by the vagaries of the passing winds

me who feels like he naturally changes his hair style
as the fashions and fads pass through and puppet him

the me that may or may not be
that is this sometimes
sometimes that
the me subverted
loved and conned and despised

the me that becomes a snarling ape when attacked
or fucked
the me that I get so sick of

the me that I medicate into a painless nothing

the me I once meditated away
a buddhist entranced by a picture of a green woman
with six arms and a rich, mystical past

the me that cringes and cries out
the me that explodes on orgasm
the me surgeons cut open
the me psychologists poke with sticks and mutter over

the me defined and drugged
with the latest greatest elixer
sanctioned by the holy Physicians Desk Reference

the me that is contigent on time and place
the me that missed the amusement park Riverside
the me that missed the native americans and the herds of buffalo
the me that watches wars being fought every day of his life
the me that is a conflux of ideas and beliefs
myths and facts
bits of wisdom chaotically handed down by pop culture
religious fanatics and insistant friends just trying to help

that me who acts on the whims of an ape

the me who quietly remains true to a desire to survive

the me nebulous
ever changing
converting to this and that language game
playing by the rules of this and that
team/priesthood/self helo group/work environment
going from mythic figments to mythhic figments
just to have something to snuggle up to in the night

sometimes I lose me to a heirarchy
it shapes me like silly putty
until I became a money making machine
too tired at night to gather my thoughts
let alone invent a language game more suited to me
and mine

the me that my language creates and shapes and defines

the me that sometimes won't listen to anything that I say

the me that is misled by myths and lies and his own excuses

the me flowing through a dark and turbulant river deep underground

the me shooting un-noticed over my synapses

the me that is not me

me that only cares about eating and fucking and laughing
the me who's been around since man took his first tremulous step

the me that enters this page and stares back out
the me that will be this time specific voice

the me that could live on beyond
this me that touches and recoils

a me who exists only in the minds of others
a me who was a writer
whose 'touche' will come
when the language changes
and the last of my words are antiquated into the illegible

Their are endless kingdoms behind the passing eyes of strangers
cerebrial messes of this and that feudal structure
crumbling cathedrals and shattered personas
nordic hero stories of monsters vanquished
and maidens as spoils

The me they will bury and forget

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