Tag Archive | Neoliberalism

How to Think

When I hear those words echo from outside myself, I get angry, too.

I don’t know where the anger comes from – the fury.  I just know that it comes.  And it becomes.  On grey Winter days it may comeLiteral Fork In The Road at any time.  In the bursts of springtime blossoms it may fester and go rancid for a chance to spill its seed into the life of another unwitting victim.  Beginning anew, a little less angry with each successive generation, it comes forth with the promise of something different, something interesting, something beyond what has ever come before.  But then it just dies in fits of forgetful regret for not having lived out its promise, for never having broken through its own shell to reach out to the Light.  The Light that’s never really there when we need it, anyway.

Such is the fate of stardust and the powder-filled wings of angels.

If there’s anything good to come from the outright theft and betrayal of the sexual identities of fourteen young women, it is the minor wizardry of these words spilling forth in a waterfall of grief, regret, despair, disappointment and utter betrayal.  I cannot believe we gave so much of ourselves, promised to so many for so very little.

I used to blame my father’s Catholicism for the fact that I could never seem to accept the timid, tentative outstretched hand of a woman looking for connection, for shared joy, for relief from the bitter dregs of adolescent angst.  I could never smash the faces of my enemies nor vanquish my guilt over my reticence.  It was because of that old mossy, rusty cross and those eyes cast down upon the world in a familiar fact-filled glance of grief, regret, despair, disappointment and utter betrayal.  I could not bring myself to strike at the face of my own despair and fear; I could never accept the hand of promise stretched out to me from what seemed like miles away because I never felt entitled to the release, the resolution or the reconciliation.  I never felt entitled because…Jesus.  I never felt good enough because He was hung there like carrion for a murder of crows.  Every bloody nose I willed to be theirs, every smashed face that wasn’t mine, every orgasm lost in grievous sin into tawdry linens I sacrificed by being nailed to a cross of my own construction and design because “They” told me to do it when I couldn’t cross myself correctly, serve mass piously, take my torments with humility or confess my sins honestly.  The same sins it has taken most of my life to even recognize much less comprehend in origin.  “How convenient,” I thought, “that they have numbered all my bones and laid the wages of all sin at my feet, in my tawdry linens, in all my unreconciled torments and dreams of vengeance – no matter how long delayed!”  Of course it was the rancid, ancient beliefs of little men in fancy clothing and funny hats sent from a righteous heaven to defile the dreams of resolution and absolution begged for from a laiety so masochistic, so anachronistic that only a fool would pass on the chance to milk so sacred a cow.  Let the carnival barking begin!  Crash my dreams of a normal, healthy existence into the side of bitter mountaintop, never to be seen, nor heard from, again!

My mother’s bloodied face in 1966 and her long-defiled, swollen abdomen in 1936 had more to do with my tormented-shut libido and my interpersonal cowardice than any religious liturgy oozing out of  ancient Rome.  The sadism was handed down from years of masochism gone unrequited, from beatings so severe and senseless that the beguiled prayed to be set free even onto a snow-filled prairie to take their chances with wild buffalo; buffalo soon to be stacked high near the dead natives left without food to fight the chill of Winter.  No, the Catholics gave these brutal people safe passage into purgatory years after condemning them to the hottest Hell for refusing to eat fish on Fridays, refusing to restrain their coital urges for a public sanctioning of wedlock, for missing a week of mass or a Holy Day.  Or for loving an improper stranger.

The sins of 120 million dead brothers and sisters, of at least as many tears, bore witness then to a brutal savagery yet to come.  A web of interdependent shame so hideous as to make the true character of a people facile in the face of sacrificing any hero or shrew, for they would always be one in the same here.  To Europe and to ancient Rome, the impudent Americans would always be a laughing stock of hollow native outcasts, of fools and of dregs.  We would always care little for ourselves because, for centuries, we would be forsaken by the Crown of Britain for intransigence and singled out for disrespect.  Nevermind that the freedom we sought was only a modicum of what might be deserved for the children of any lesser god.  This callous disregard of our dignity was passed down to all others too taken by our silly clothes and poor agrarian skills to yield to the iron fist our naiveté concealed.

But proof is thus concealed in pudding and murmurs in the mud.

Of one thing my age has granted me some certainty: no deity or reified human being hangs from a tree after being beaten to a point where human death becomes a distant, fond wish and but gives a damn who eats what, who goes where nor who fucks whom.  The look of grief and utter, dismal betrayal in those bloodied, half-shuttered eyes cast down from that effigy beneath which I prayed longingly had nothing to do with anything but the behavior of those who birthed me here and on whose knees my tutelage received.  Beyond that I cannot speak intelligibly, for that is a matter of personal faith which, on a good day, my heart lightens and my smiles abound; on a bad day (or thirty minutes later), well, I wish for you nothing but the cynical fury of a life spent searching for what cannot be found: American dignity.

Fourteen women lost their will to live lives as human beings open to the advances of honest, trustworthy men because a cynical fury, known only to adults, cast onto a child a seething despair so rancid, so irreconcilably lost in the devotion, love and innocence of children, that that child had nowhere left to put their love, had no place to share a joy twisted by fury into sickness and death.  That child turned adult would have you thank them for not murdering these women, but for leaving them broken and not whole inside, that we might reconcile and untwist his sickness into love. Thank you, Bill.  Now go back to the now snow-starved prairie bereft of the buffalo and their brothers, back to the land from which you were fortunate enough to have survived and tell us more tales of laughter and exuberance, if you dare.  Of the wisdom or compassion of a man who hollows out the heart of a woman, eating it but once yet shitting it out sideways into a bag for the rest of his pathetic life, I know precious little but an agonizing despair so deep it cannot be reached.

That was my mother you raped, that was my sister you violated, that was my daughter you betrayed and that was my sex life you utterly destroyed in multiple thoughtless acts of muted revenge for sins beyond any adult ability to reason or scope, let alone a child.  A flaccid awesome lie paints the pants of the American landscape, and we blame you for a child’s disability to communicate a need for reason and for help.

It was not the Catholics after all.  Nor the Crown.  We are where we are because we deserve it.  All power and privilege decreed it so centuries ago.  For that revelation I thank you, Bill Cosby.

No clap of thunder or any tornado-swept hole in Hell matches the jolt of a mind split apart with wattage, laid waste to by countless drugs having side-effects too hideously tormenting to recount, only to be discounted by a community caught in disbelief over its own hypocrisy and loss of moral compass.  It was left to the judgment of a Judge that all power of judgment be taken from a nine year old girl so her goat-copulating father, who freely chose to leave his loose change and burning cigarettes on her nightstand, might continue to work in the community and sustain a family that was rejecting him outright.  The year was 1936 and from 1932 my mother endured the heaving advances, the pathetic breath, the jaundiced eyes and the enormous penis of an entity ten times her weight and orders of magnitude her size.  He was a brutal, drunken heap of human flesh thrown completely clear of a Hell made hot, barren and unwelcoming by his utter presence.  There is a reason the State of Oklahoma continues to quake in ignorant fear of supernatural evil: Jack Shelby lived there once.  He brewed ‘shine fit for Pretty Boy Floyd, lying his way through solid stone, melting handcuffs of righteous lawmen and leaving machine-gun toting criminals in awe of the power of his thunderous, cloven-hooved gait over wooden floors worn down soft by the shuffling feet of the despairing.  He would leave the Dustbowl of Oklahoma just ahead of fate because of the Great Depression, the same Great Depression the people of Texas continue to believe never happened.  They may be right; it may just have been the crater this sucking chest wound of moral ambivalence left in the dirt of Oklahoma when Satan, Himself, threw this Irish asshole to Earth from the hellfire of the Sun.  Steinbeck recounted symptoms for posterity, receiving a Nobel Prize; my mother absorbed a full-frontal moral shock for an entire world terrified by an evil so brutal it defied her ability to remain a whole human being.  For that service she received the scorn of her community, the misunderstanding of her children, and a life that continues to haunt my credulity and stain my credibility with good men who have never had to bear witness to such an empty vastness – to the sheer cold depth – of a moral black hole from which no hope of any light could ever escape.

That is why you have never heard of Jack Shelby, for as soon as he appeared in your life, your mind demanded you forget him; the sheer gravity of his darkness exceeded human comprehension.  What I realize today is that it was his presence in my mother’s life that sealed her fate long before I was even born.  It was never my grandmother’s fault; it wasn’t even the Catholic Churches’ fault; though responsibility, when it hits the fan, is never evenly nor fairly distributed.  This was all Jack Shelby, my grandfather, an evil-dead non-person who raped my mother from the time she was five until she was nine, defiling the countryside from Oklahoma to California in one, long forgettable visitation to our planet.

The first time they strapped my mother down, shoved rubber into her terrified, confused mouth and scrambled her brain with electricity was when she was 19 years old and had had two children by a man from the House of Canterbury.  He left soon after her stay in the sanitarium never to be seen, nor heard from, again.  Decades later, when his children were fully adults and merely curious, they located Jonathan and attempted contact with him.  He refused the connection.  He insisted they were mistakes and that they never contact him again.  They dutifully complied, a burden lifted from one child and left to rest on the shoulders of another.  That child died drinking a gallon of cheap wine every night just to maintain himself from shaking due to withdrawals, aged 64 years.  The official cause of death wasn’t cirrhosis or poisoning, but cancer.  A mere brush with a black hole sends grown men a full country’s width away from their own children and another man into a bottle never to surface again.  Mental illness caused a terrible fright in the 1940’s, even some 4 decades after a firm commitment from the country to build sanitariums to house the mentally ill, the alcoholic and the terminally misunderstood received cheers for President Teddy the Bullmoose.  If we could not repair broken lives, we could at least hide them, and our shame, from public view.  It was the least we could do since, prior to that time, it was the SPCA – the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals – who were the only human beings willing to risk contact with society’s untouchables.  Sydney Cameron, a psychiatrist and admirer of the strides the Nazis had made experimenting on the Jews and others in their “work camps,” not one to miss out on an opportunity, used these sanitariums to find research subjects for his experiments involving the erasure and reconstitution of the human personality.  To relieve suffering, of course.  Dr. Cameron never quite perfected the “reconstitution” aspect of his experiments with “psychic driving” before he was forced underground and his experimentations along with him, but that wasn’t for lack of available test subjects.  There will always be plenty of shame to drive some of us completely mad and in search of some sort of erasure.  I do not know if my mother was ever a formal test subject in the early days of the “Monarch” program – a place where the cleansed records of Nazi doctors found a home and adequate funding for further research – but I do know she was given numerous “shock treatments” on multiple occasions in her many three-month, “convalescent stays,” behind the walls of Santa Clara’s now defunct, “Agnews State Hospital.”  I may never know the actual extent of the procedures my mother endured because the State of California “mishandled” all of the patient records from those days, selling the property to Sun Microsystems in 1997.  But at least I know that of the many “sterilization” operations that were performed on mentally ill women without their consent or awareness, my mother was probably not among them.  That could be considered a stroke of luck since, of the fifty states in these United States, California sterilized the mentally ill far more often than any other State.  Texas, where I now live, the least often.

We have always placed great pride in our mental illness in Texas, as it turns out, burying a wealth of “crazy uncles” and “addled aunts” in trailers and trailerparks spread out across the vast, expansive countryside, as if they were our secret treasure waiting to be mined.  We’ve even sent a couple of our most grievously afflicted to serve as Presidents of these United States.  One from each political party has been sent, so far, just to prove that we are nonpartisan and fair in our admiration and respect.

Both men were, history has shown, equally and predictably destructive.

“If nominated I would not run, if elected, I would not serve,” should have been LBJ’s motto before he ascended to the Presidency on the odd coincidence that his predecessor had fallen victim to an assassin’s bullet, not unlike at least one or two other of Johnson’s political opponents.  The Johnson Family might like to parade their favored son’s “Great Society” programs for all to see, but had he not guided and passed that legislation through Congress during his first and only term as President, Bobby Kennedy, the fallen President’s brother, close confidante and a sworn enemy of LBJ and his friend J. Edgar Hoover, would have certainly taken the Presidency and proceeded to right the grievous wrong that had been not just to his family, but to the entire country as a result of his brother’s untimely demise.  As it turned out, the evil that had been done to the United States and to my family up to that point, had taken up deep roots here in the American South, as multiple homicides just happened to take place against every major political opponent who dared to take exception to this country’s economic alliance with Nazi Germany back in 1932.  That would be about the same time Jack Shelby started making his drunken, twisted advances at my mother when she was barely able to walk and not yet able to run.

As for Texas’ other contribution to “whirled peas,” the wound is still quite fresh and infected to the bone as only the bite from the fetid mouth of a Komodo Dragon can be.  I think George W. Bushes’ dubious flight and appearance aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln in 2003 to announce, “Mission Accomplished,” says everything about the purpose and plan the Bush Family had in mind for the United States beginning around 1932 when the President’s grandfather, Prescott, began funneling money and weapons to Nazi Germany and its new Chancellor, “Adolf Hitler.”  The “mission accomplished” banner had precious little to do with “combat operations in Iraq” being complete, because that proved to be complete nonsense.  The mission, from World War I to the present day, has been to bring about a New World Order; the same “novus ordo seclorum” Nazi Germany and Adolf Hitler tried to ooze all over the world during World War II.  That mission, to the chagrin of all those brave soldiers and civilians who died during World War II, and their families, has been accomplished.  The dark crown of fascism has been restored on the head where it properly belonged.  God saved the Queen.

The only time I ever saw Jack Shelby, the person, was when he was dying on his bed in a convalescent hospital in Merced, California.  My grandmother couldn’t see fit to keep something like the death of a parent from my mother and, true to form, she gave him more comfort than I was able to comprehend at the age of 12.  True to the nature of these events, I do not recall his face.  I do, however, recall the old man not two beds away pathetically masturbating as my cousins Deborah and Cheryl sat vigil with my mother and grandmother as they said their final “goodbyes” to a hollowed-out shell of a human being.  By this time the evil had left behind little more than an effigy of the man who terrified and terrorized the women in his life four and five decades before.  By that time only Bobby, Jimmy and my mother were left, and they would pass in that order, all from cancer as the official cause.  As I sat there in that room soaked with the smell of Betadine and urine, wondering what I was even doing there, I began to feel the emptiness creeping over me like a hole in my chest that the wind would not leave alone.  Neither Bobby, nor Jimmy, bothered to see their father off with a final fair-the-well.  Over the decades they had seen many men off to Hell in multiple wars as they served in the Navy; the death of their father would be just another hollowed-out shell tossed overboard, the engines of progress full steam ahead.  They had said all they were ever going to say to the man who had terrorized them and raped their sisters.

There was nothing funny or sad about any experience that included Jack Shelby or his clan; these were spiritual trials to be endured, replete with panic attacks, anxiety and terror that seemed to know no bottom.  The terror that I grew up and through, damaging and traumatizing though it was, was nothing in comparison to the fate these poor souls had consigned themselves to.  Enough of my soul and heart was left to allow me to walk through the doors of Alcoholics Anonymous at the age of 30, thinking and believing I had been cheated of another 10 good years of drinking and taking drugs, “for fun.”  In those ten years, had I survived them, the disease would have convinced me that life was not about joy but was a trial to be endured.  Only the meanest, coldest and nastiest men lived long or prospered in this hellhole that the likes of JP Morgan, Henry Ford, JD Rockefeller and Andrew Carnegie left in their wake.  These four horsemen created a country that will be known not so much for its natural beauty or its kind people but for its unrelenting cruelty against its own and others.  We have been uncompromising in that regard, the scope and depths of our genocidal history so hideously sublime that no history book dare print a word nor utter a sound lest the hounds of hell be unleashed against them and their families.  Such was the case with the Kennedys, such will be the case with any organized resistance against the evil that grows wild here and in places where the Sun never shines.

Just the other day I was reading a recounting of the history of German Uboats of World War II and the various artifacts found in that most impressive submarine fleet of the day.  Among the contents?  Several ticket stubs to movie theaters along the Texas coast.

The point of my story lost in a fog of shame and guilt will be over what shame and guilt I have failed to surface and resolve here.  My responsibility thus adjudicated, I shall suffer that the Queen and Rome might continue their masquerade as unwilling witness to the original sin the publishers of fiction  and contradiction thus contrived.

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Resurrection and the Sociopath

Last year about this time I found myself steeped in a post-graduate rhetorical analysis of the front pages of the website Stormfront.org and two Patriot Movement sites.  The details of contemporary rhetorical analysis go beyond the mere study of words, so I won’t bore you.   But the “a-ha” moment I received at the end of my qualitative analysis is worth mentioning, at some point, in light of all the ballyhoo surrounding the latest remake of Ayn Rand’s last novel, Atlas Shrugged, and Rand’s many “contributions” to the neo-conservative movement of the post-industrial, post-modern United States of America.

First, I think that it is important, perhaps an epoché, to mention that I read Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead during my first attempt at an undergraduate Computer Science degree in 1982.  I found her writing rather dull but her less-than subtle attempt at providing an air of plausibility for the malignant narcissism of her character, Howard Roark, thought-provoking.  It allowed me to make some kind of sense out of the madhatter Libertarian prognosticators who began finding their way onto my high school campus several years prior.  I believe my love affair with the ideas of Libertarian Objectivism lasted about six months due in no small part to the massive quantities of alcohol, marijuana and psilocybin mushrooms I was consuming in a quest to understand the life that I later discovered I did not have.

Rand’s basic problem with altruism, and the phony characters who often people movements known for their well-publicized altruistic intent, was that it represents an unqualified evil to the human species.  When people, especially theologians and philosophers, start pulling out loaded words like “good” and “evil” to describe their pet theoretical constructs, it becomes very easy to get lost in the weeds of side-discussions long before a viable premise of their pet theory can be identified, described and critiqued.

But let’s indulge this tendency for a moment.  It is highly illustrative.

The heroes of Atlas Shrugged, The Fountainhead and all of Rand’s novels, find their genesis in Rand’s notes and interviews with none other than child murderer William Edward Hickman.  Hickman, by most every psychological analysis of his behavior, was a sociopath of the psychopathic type.  To highlight the conscience-free, malignant narcissism of humanoids like Hickman, we have a description of the crime in the nineteen year old killer’s own words, a crime that resulted in his death, by hanging, in October of 1928.

“It was while I was fixing the blindfold that the urge to murder came upon me,” he continued, “and I just couldn’t help myself. I got a towel and stepped up behind Marion. Then before she could move, I put it around her neck and twisted it tightly. I held on and she made no outcry except to gurgle. I held on for about two minutes, I guess, and then I let go. When I cut loose the fastenings, she fell to the floor. I knew she was dead. Well, after she was dead I carried her body into the bathroom and undressed her, all but the underwear, and cut a hole in her throat with a pocket knife to let the blood out.”

And a description from a different newspaper account of what Hickman did next.

“Hickman packed her body, limbs and entrails into a car, and drove to the drop-off point to pick up his ransom; along his way he tossed out wrapped-up limbs and innards scattering them around Los Angeles. When he arrived at the meeting point, Hickman pulled Miriam’s [sic] head and torso out of a suitcase and propped her up, her torso wrapped tightly, to look like she was alive—he sewed wires into her eyelids to keep them open, so that she’d appear to be awake and alive. When Miriam’s father arrived, Hickman pointed a sawed-off shotgun at him, showed Miriam’s head with the eyes sewn open (it would have been hard to see for certain that she was dead), and then took the ransom money and sped away. As he sped away, he threw Miriam’s head and torso out of the car, and that’s when the father ran up and saw his daughter—and screamed.”

I bring this information to your attention, gentle reader, because most everything put forward by the neo-conservative movement since 1980 has been in service of the ideas espoused by Ayn Rand, pseudonym of Alisa Rosenbaum, a Soviet émigré and, yes, a Jew.  The debauched calumny against the great, unwashed masses who made Rand’s popularity even possible is evident in all the neo-conservative epithets directed at the poor and disadvantaged, all the anti-altruistic legislative agendas and all the malevolence of the nation’s bankers and investors against the “collectivists” who, “don’t get it” – it is all there in stark relief.

A world made safe for sociopaths and psychopaths like Rand’s hero, Hickman, and, arguably, Rand herself – this was the purpose and point of Rand’s “philosophy.”

I know it is a little late to be suggesting this, but, “Houston, we have a problem.”

Freakishly detached from human concerns though they may be, the psychopathic personality is a throw-back, a genetic anomaly and evidence of the continued presence of our ancestors, the dinosaurs, still demanding their day in the “evolutionary court of appeals.”  Their legal representative in this regard is none other than Ayn Rand herself, and the fact that these lizard-brained anomalies also have control of all the levers of governance and justice, species-wide, bears some mention.

Mercifully, Ayn Rand is dead and her legacy has been frozen solid in the minds of those closest to her.  These people knew Rand for what she was, good and bad, and their testimony is available for all to read and see.  Personally, I am neither surprised nor impressed by Rand’s legacy.  She died of lung cancer with only a hired nurse at her bedside, a fitting epitaph for an individual who both sucked the breathable oxygen out of nearly every room she ever walked into while also demanding the slavish devotion of admirers she neither admired nor appreciated.  Every other human being was just an object to Rand and objects have no purpose other than the one the “assigner” assigns to them.

Were it not for the fact that Alan Greenspan, former Chairman of the Federal Reserve from the Reagan Administration to nearly the present day, spent most of his lifetime locked in sadomasochistic “devotion” to his mentor, the life of this sociopath of the psychopathic type, Ayn Rand, would be pitiful and pathetic, rather than the force to be reckoned with that it has become.  Strange, is it not, how the alienation and isolation of profound mental illness drives these creatures together to re-experience the defining moment of mammalian evolution — the moment of “cooperation.”  The moment where two apparently separate and unequal entities came together to harmonize, legitimize and validate their devotion, however warped, to one another, causing a stir in the ethos of an entire civilization.  And, as we have already surmised, this has been a toxic stir, indeed.

Objectivist philosophy requires the presence of slaves and widespread exploitation in order for it to provide the fetid fruit that it has been able to provide thus far.  This is the same problem that all atheists come across as they dig deeply into their rival theistic paradigm.  Objectivism is parasitic and incapable of standing on its own.  If every living, breathing human were capable of adopting objectivism as a lifestyle, the world would become a battleground of bad neighborhoods as each warlord attempted to actualize his or her own will to power.  Sort of like it has become now, only worse.  Think Afghanistan in every subdivision and hamlet around the world.

This prejudice begs the question, however: can cooperative, mammalian-friendly civilization stand on its own without the benefit of the lethal pursuit of sociopaths of the psychopathic type?  Granted that we could certainly use less malignant narcissism at this time in our history, but could we sustain ourselves in a world completely devoid of fear and its exploitation?  Do we truly have more choices available to us than the current objectivist economic repression and the collectivist intellectual repression?

This might be a good time to mention that “a-ha” moment I came upon as I completed my qualitative analysis of the angry fascists, racists and xenophobes who provide the websites for Stormfront.org and the “minuteman” patriot movement.  All of these humanoids, and in fact all of us who regard ourselves in a relatively mundane, milktoast fashion with regard to ethnocentricity, are after just one communal peak experience.  Just one.

Utopia.

That’s it, folks.  Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die to this world we have manufactured together.  Everyone wants to be able to say to themselves of the people they meet on the street every day, “they’re just like me,” but no one wants to fully concede to their innermost selves that they could ever be as dysfunctionally warped as, say, a William Edward Hickman, or an Ayn Rand.  Everyone wants to see themselves in some sort of perfect light, but no one wants to completely release their belief in “sin,” whether they are atheists or theists.  And so we are trapped, imprisoned in the jailhouse of the human mind, completely incapable of loving one another and, by extension, ourselves.

We should strive to refuse to have our regard for each other, and our very selves, to be limited by the machinations of mental illness, neurological impairment or treatable psychological disorders.  No matter how widespread or how often these dysfunctions are taken as standard-operating procedure, we cannot continue to allow psychopaths, or the mentally ill, to dictate the quality of our very lives in any way at any time.  We do this every time we turn our backs on people like Ayn Rand or Alan Greenspan.  These pitiable creatures need to be identified and kept far away from the levers of power, lest the present circumstances be repeated.

On this Easter Sunday, pull a rabbit out of your proverbial hat and let your fellows be free to be as dysfunctional or functional as they are without the benefit of your secret need to pass judgment on who you think they are or what you believe it is that they do.  This is the Final Judgment any man or woman can ever make for themselves.

But do not mistake this foolhardy tendency to make dramatic every trivial or dopey aberration in human behavior for a trangression against the beating of your own heart.   Those we have regarded as “evil” or “outside humanness” should be seen only as infirmed.  This “turning of the cheek,” this “shift in perspective” to regard the despicable as only temporarily impaired is the one that opens the gateway to the Utopia we all seem to crave, but have never actually chosen to live in for long at all.

Clinton, Biden Betray Obama Over Egypt; Kerry Likely To Take State Department

Washington insiders are chattering about Hillary Clinton’s duplicity in dealing with Obama and Mubarak’s long-time CIA friend, Frank Wisner.  Apparently, Hillary was offering support to Wisner as if the President supported her policy.  However, Obama’s several phone calls to the Middle East explaining his political stand on Egypt suggest otherwise.

Missing from the subtext of Hillary’s duplicity is the power play she has undertaken in what amounts to a vote of “no confidence” for Obama and his policies.  The drubbing the Administration took in the November elections, the President’s ineffective response to Republican aggression in Congress and his rumored issues with depression also galvanized Hillary to support her own ambitions at the expense of the Obama Presidency.

Senator John Kerry has signalled to the Administration that he would accept the nod to take over for Hillary at State.

Before she goes, the President would be wise to weaken her and her husband politically before accepting her resignation.  Most certainly she plans to run against the President in 2012.

‘Tis The Season To Be Stripped Bare

Lady Liberty At Christmas, 2010 C.E.

Texas can be a nutty place, especially this time of year.  Rushing people whirling and spinning, stepping around, over and through one another where before an air of southern gentility prevailed.  Politeness might once again prevail, but not until the headlong masses have secured their place among the lucky fifty percent who will find this year’s festivities close enough to par to call it a wonderful day. 

Strange that so much effort goes into a single day, once per year, that holds as much promise for “success” or “failure” as any other day at any other time.  Stranger still is the fact this one special day has nothing whatsoever to do with its stated purpose, decreed by Emperor Constantine as the birthday of Jesus of Nazareth, but instead replaces a pagan holiday celebrating the Winter solstice.  Almost no one in Texas realizes this fact and those who do refrain from being impolite enough to confront collective insanity with the arid cool of immutable truth.

Facts never seem to bother the old guard of the Old South, and, if they do, can be replaced with slants more accommodating and perceptions as familiar as sweet iced tea.  “Disruptive of work rhythm,” one manager of a local salt mine proclaimed, forgetting almost entirely multiple decades of human resources research into the management of white collar professionals.  “You need to shut up and just do your job,” the captain turned manager insisted, “and allow other people to do their’s.”  Precisely what that job was and its relationship to everyone else’s would be left to another time, a moment where the decline of America’s regard for the collective intelligence of its labor pool would more closely match the scope of work to be performed.  Swing low, sweet chariot, and carry us back to a time, twenty years ago, when the prospects for our white collar professions were positive and our political affiliations completely unrelated to our upward mobility.  A time, in other words, when the old guard of the Old South was in no position to dictate how many facts we would overlook telling our children, nor how low our academic standards would fall for those children relative to those of their parents.

“Our work is crucial to the warfighter,” a noun replacing another proclaimed, “and the work we do here is in service to these honored professionals.”  Sentiments appropriate to another time, long since passed, replace the reality of children crammed into bulletproof vests blowing toddlers into red mist and getting blown into pieces, themselves, hardly identifiable by those left behind at home.  The Old South values the work of these children turned volunteers turned soldiers turned warfighters turned inside out and upside down, rejecting as rubbish those mere veterans who would rather color a wall with their own brains than  live another moment under threat of a memory of who and what they had actually become to themselves.  Almost without exception, the one exception being the grifters of Wall Street, “honored professionals” become the victims to be identified in a whisper on a slow news day, if at all.

Facts look a lot like numbers, but a lot of numbers do not indicate the presence of any facts.  One plus one equals two, according to conventional wisdom, but sometimes it equals ten.  Those who fully understand this fact are to be alienated, isolated and kept away from the levers of any political or military power.  If any should cross the Rubicon of this unstated and unstatable standard, they will do so only after being debauched, debased and degraded in such a way that even the most advanced recording devices will be unable to capture the depth of the collective shame and horror should the contents of the recording ever see the light of day.  Hidden behind the poll numbers of every media-created superstar lays the fact that no one in a position to speak truth to real power will ever again be granted the credibility with which to be heard and understood.  One information origin from which only diametrically opposed messages must come, forever keeping the audience confused, divided and unable to agree on a unified platform of relevant facts.  If anyone bothers to ask, send them a spreadsheet loaded with numbers and polysyllabic labels; if they persist, just start yelling.  Coherence does not count as much as the appearance of dominance.

In just this manner the old guard of the Old South hopes and preys on those who would forget that it is the God of their understanding that must, by Sabbath, choose both time and place where their six-fold fruit yields but one fold fruition.  This would be the same Old South made fat by a yuletide of free labor, a sacrifice costing only the free people of Africa their heathen freedom, deemed to be of little value when compared to the freedom of pale-faced psychopaths in possession of more gunpowder than forebrain.  Loyalty should be coupled with the source of one’s next meal so that truth becomes a matter of an adequate diet, rather than simple facts.

It is this psychopathy that unifies Old South with Old North, Dixie with Dallas and the debonair with the despicable.  For as certain a fact as the prejudicial racism of the Old South, just as certain was and is the willingness of the Old North to betray mother, father, sister and/or brother for the grain to survive a truth as cold as a northern Winter.  Slave owners of the Old South have their analog in the benevolent dictators of the Old North; as quickly as a Yankee betrays his sentiments for thirty pieces of silver, a Confederate will betray his fellows because a “plantation’s” beloved authority grants him, or her, the conscience with which to do so.  The Old South may be ruled by heartfelt superstition and the Old North by facts made relevant to circumstance, but, over time, the two have become the same.  Yankee and Confederate murdered one another in droves on a field of battle because of a mistake in timing, but neither party ever bothered to notice who or what was in control of the timing before the shooting commenced.

It was Nathan Mayer Rothschild disguised as Santa Claus – Saint Nicholaus by another name.

So as you scurry about to guarantee your family’s place in a treasured, if dubious, memory, remember that you do so for the Bank of England, and all bankers, that they and their fetid spawn might go on ruling this Earth with the results you see in the grimace of every frustrated parent’s face and every McChild’s disappointed glare – as the local sheriff escorts yet another family from a home that will remain empty well into the New Year.

Happy Military/Industrial Complex Junta Day!

November 22, 1963, Friday, democratic government in the United States of America was murdered in downtown Dallas.

What we have learned since the sine quo non of white-wash investigations, the Warren Report, concluded that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.

1.        Lyndon Baynes Johnson, future President of the US, and H. L. Hunt (member of the Lamar Hotel, Suite 8F, Houston group) played crucial roles in the conspiracy to assassinate President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

2.        Jack “Ruby” Rubinstein worked as a Union informant for future President of the US, Richard Milhous Nixon from as early as 1947.

3.        George Herbert Walker Bush played a role in the assassination, a role requiring him and his wife to fashion more than one cover story to account for his whereabouts on this day in 1963.

4.        Dallas police officer J.D. Tippet, allegedly murdered by Lee Harvey Oswald, was also working for the Central Intelligence Agency.

5.        Had the assassination of the President not taken place on this date in 1963, Lyndon Baynes Johnson would have been indicted and probably convicted for at least one political murder in the State of Texas.

6.        J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the FBI, was involved in the assassination conspiracy, attending a closed-door meeting with Clint Murchison, George Brown (of Brown and Root), H.L. Hunt and Lyndon Baynes Johnson at his estate the night before the assassination.

7.        Lee Harvey Oswald believed he was involved in a counter-conspiracy to derail the plot to assassinate President Kennedy.

What we now know is that our current President, Barak H. Obama, has given George H.W. Bush the Medal of Freedom and carried more than a nominal amount of water for the political factions represented by George H.W. Bush.

Rebel, resist or sign this nation’s death warrant along with the conspirators.

An Impossible Honesty

So what is it like to age, mature and grow older in AynRandistan?

When I was in my twenties, it was a distant concern, a lower priority than when and where the next party would be thrown.

When I was in my thirties, it was the burden of the older workers who seemed to be placed in my path to annoy and slow me down.

When I was in my forties, it was a predator that knocked on the door I refused to answer.  Sometimes it would go away, and sometimes it would return with several armed friends.

Now that I am in my fifties, it has become the realization that I will be spending half my life in a literal blur looking for a pair of reading glasses to see things more clearly, after having spent half my life in an intellectual blur, completely clueless and empowered only to make that blur more intense and disorienting.

When I was young, I presumed that I was alone in my ineptness and kept it hidden from no one but myself.  The difference between being a worker and being a manager was the quality of the lies I told. 

To myself.

Now that I am older, the difference between being a worker and being a manager is still the quality of the lies I tell myself, but now I feel every lie so deeply that no massage therapist can smooth them out nor any chiropractor retrieve.  As I see my fellows breaking down at the horror of watching, and the thought of having to clean up after, six billion people all committing suicide, my bones ache with the impossible honesty I would ask of those who stay behind to testify to the power of love.  Not the love of song and sex, but the love of Kahil Gibran – the threshing floor kind of love that only those committed to another for multiple decades can even begin to appreciate.

When, in my deepest, most final sadness, I am forced to squeeze, not point, the finger of last judgment in your direction, it is this kind of love I would save you from; the kind of love that the narcissistic and genocidally inclined cannot know, much less appreciate.  It would be cruel of me to expect you to know or to care of this love, yet it is the love your mother knew or you would have never been born and raised past the age of consent.  I would ask the forgiveness not of you because your cause is a sad and troubling loss, but of your mother.  Her generosity, or the generosity of a mother before her, is beyond doubt or question. 

May I always keep this silent prayer in mind as I beg all that is real and true for this to be my last judgment.  May I always be capable of feeling the loss of your humanity as mine when you cannot.  May I never lack the integrity to see clearly when, past every warning, you repeatedly or belligerently cross the line of humanness in praise of the reptiles we once were.  May I never lack the courage necessary to make crooked the finger of last judgment that hope might be more conserved.

Of the four boxes of hope, in order: soap, ballot, jury and ammo – three have been exhausted.  I know the third has been exhausted because I contributed to the receipt of one copy of Vincent Bugliosi’s book, The Prosecution of George W. Bush For Murder, for every District Attorney in the United States where a constituent had died in the Iraq War.  Over one thousand copies of that book were delivered two years ago and not one single prosecution, in spite of the unimpeachable prosecutorial integrity of Bugliosi, was ever initiated.

Nigeria may seek to prosecute Dick Cheney, Spain may overlook the threat imposed upon it by the World Bank and decide to prosecute members of the Bush or Obama Administrations, but in these United States, no prosecutor or legislature would dare place their reelection at risk by taking responsibility for maintaining a democratic republic governed by a constitution and a Bill of Rights.  Doing the right thing has become a task of impossible honesty in these formerly United States of America, circa 2010 CE – AynRandistan by another name.

May your prayers be answered, your box bottomless and your aim true.

A Top Secret Communique From The Obvious One

Hello my fellow Americans, Captain Obvious here – reporting live from behind the enemy lines erected on 9/11/2001 by a criminal junta funded, it seems, by multiple sovereign fiduciary entities for which it has become a capital crime to reveal the truth about in a court of law.  That would be a capital crime punishable by death sans judge or jury of one’s peers.

Hillary Clinton recently stated that Wikileaks has attacked the international community.  To those who prevaricate for a living, the truth seems the ultimate weapon of assault.

So how did this pathetic reversal of contemporary reality take place? 

In 1947, the Nazi spy contingent we, the United States of America, saved from the hangman’s noose at Nuremburg convinced our spies that the “national security state” was more than a German war tactic; it was a key strategy for building any empire.

You believe you know of truth.  I believe I know of truth, yet it is entirely plausible and often possible for our truths to be counter-opposed while some other “third” truth – the one on which the known universe depends – overlaps neither of our cherished beliefs. 

This is an obvious fact: the plural of “anecdote” is not “data.”  Here is another: two belief systems that oppose one another cannot both be true; one or both of our sacred cows represents anecdotal information.  This is how we come to understand that it has never been the capital “T” truth from which we humans have taken the actions of our lived lives; we have always operated from our beliefs about the truth. 

Here is a considered opinion based upon my analysis of my personal experiences in life: the longer I allow two (or more) counter-opposite (dissonant) belief systems to occupy my thinking, the more likely it is that I will become unable to discriminate truth from falsehood with respect to any of the contexts addressed by the set-union of all of my belief systems.  In the South we lovingly refer to this state of affairs as, “you cain’t fix the s*t in yer head with the s*t in yer head.” 

In other words, dissonance tolerated is a multiplier of delusion.  Not an altogether bad condition, unless your belief happens to be that the number of checks in your checkbook is any indication of the balance in your checking account.  Or that you can continue to pound square pegs into round holes using only bigger hammers to make your anecdotes conform to your precious data regarding holes.

Here’s another considered opinion about holes based upon my analysis of personal experience: when I find that I am in one, I should drop my shovel.  I have been told that this is the First Rule of Holes.

Now we have the established authority of the state condemning a non-governmental entity for some form of “terrorism” because it dared to reveal the concealed truth reserved for the eyes and ears of the national security state.  Forgive me if I am missing the obvious here, but what is more sovereign in human experience than the truth of the matter?  Does not our notional system of justice seek to determine, through the application of debate and academic rigor, the relevant components of truth to be applied in a given context?  On whose “side” should justice serve if not the side that would claim affinity with all of the principles that allow us to breathe air into our lungs, spin stably in an orbit about a life-giving star, or communicate thoughts from one person to another?

Has someone on dear Hillary’s X-mas list forgotten the First Rule of Holes?  Do we really wish to dig ourselves all the way to China?  Is it possible to fall out of the “Stupid Tree” and hit absolutely every single branch on the way down?

We already know what became of a people who permitted their notional system of justice to serve deceit, delusion and falsehood: they became oligarchies in the service of inculcated hatred and ignorance.  The oligarchs of corporatism – the fascists – became the undoing of the natural evolutionary selection process of ”increased fitness” under which all life forms appear to operate.  And they committed this error while committing unspeakable atrocities against an increasing number of political minorities that sought to oppose or temper the head-long rush of these oligarchs into an abyss of amorality and unethical behavior.  The civilized society we sought to defend our families, friends and way of life with had become just another jungle where morality and ethical principles would always take a backseat to the need to breathe, drink, eat, procreate and take our “comforts.”  One can claim efficiency as a key virtue of the oligarchy that was Nazi Germany, but suicide is likewise as efficient.  Suicide ends suffering, does it not?  What good is living a life that must always end with the realization that one has lost absolutely everything that they have ever come to value?  Surely suicide represents the most efficient course of action to take when faced with the reality of a human experience, no?  Be logical, will you!  Think linearly and clearly, like a lizard, for once in your demonstrably miserable, when not delusional, existence!

Fascism – capitalism by another name – has proven itself to be the murderer of civilization using this bird-brained truncheon of human oligarchy as its centerpiece.  This is the truth that Hillary Clinton and all of the media-soaked oligarchs wish to keep secret from you and me.  This is the truth that they fear we will all flock to because it is, in fact, the truth and as such knows only of itself and its creations. 

Become a whole person again by never allowing yourself to be taken as separate from that which fundamentally sustains your very existence.  Know the truth and you will know yourself because that must be what you are made of.

Until next time, Captain Obvious signing off.