Attend, digne?
Je vais googletranslater ca
Je voulais dire: mercie vraiement madame, nous ne sont pas dignes de vos louanges
I came into this forum with a very simple message: capitalism. I got caught up in, like, the bullshit. To be fair, I also needed this forum as a lifeline to survive some of the unexpected banalities of sobriety. All in all I can’t complain, I got my dollar’s worth. But now I’m off to chase the dream. Mangled as I am from this experience. Mangled but well, which would not have been the case otherwise, I would not have made it.
So thank you all.
You godless communist bastards.
Be well.
How was dinner?
CENSURT
what, is the dealla
shit aint fair I took the pills and still im poor
fuming down below just like a moor
fireflies get lost in me there is no door to walk through
no other side to talk to
im awkward I like chocolate
box that
unbox it
lock it, load it, rock it ride it, foxtrot Charlie
foxtrot Charlie Yankee Zulu
yankee zulu
x ray whiskey yankee Zulu
yankee Zulu
whiskey zulu papa
Romeo Quebec mike papa
foxtrot papa yankee zulu papa
Am I speaking Urdu
watchu all looking at am I a clown?
I got this shit down
which of these bitches out there now holds the crown
barefoot in the alley is my place
philosophy my race
im awesome in the ways that they’ve been waiting for to gaze upon
my posse is in space but not the type with laser guns
hazel buns in rainy streets and see through silk honey, milk, funny, tilt, lovely, spilt honey
spilt, milk, honey, silk
Hulk, make you pulp,
yankeedoodle in your skull
foxtrot Charlie Yankee Zulu
do you want to come to me or do I come to you
Yankee Zulu yankee foxtrot Zulu
Charlie zulu, rip it foxtrot Zulu
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qzo8fRwWHc[/youtube]
I’m not afraid of any man. Because I know men. I know how they work, what they can amount to, what they can do. There are rules to dealing with men, rules not agreed upon or decided but determined, as the patterns of a growing tree are determined. Of course, knowing these rules, like knowing the rules of chess, far from guarantees success. But I know men. Rather, the more common feeling I associate with them is frustration. As I said, I know what they can amount to, and bravery is the trigger that activates that gun. Alas, today, in short supply.
Women terrify me. They do not work with these rules. Now, in older times, this was not such a problem. The distinction was clear. But today, and I do associate this with the decline in the supply of the aforementioned, they not only continue not to operate within these rules, but simultaneously demand to be treated by them. Many men solve this by using the rules used by higher weak men on lower weak men: they are mangled, suppressed, coerced. Even these men, by frequency distribution, appear on the higher echelons of men today. The more apply the reverse: meek subservience, in pursuit of the avoidance of displeasure in their de facto superiors. Their augmented frequency corresponds with the decreased frequency of the term “pussy whipped.” Now, some may, and I am myself here included, prefer this to the erstwhile whipping of the female beast. But it is nonetheless a lamentable state of affairs.
For those like me, too practiced in the rules of men to feel compelled to pierce through the ways of the woman animal, things used to be good. Women were less concerned with being accommodated than with being attached to a man that excelled among men. There does seem to be a poetic coherence of continuity in now being compelled to gaze upon the contorted mind of the fairer sex and try to distinguish the motivations behind its operations. Whereas there used to be a dance involved, a poking and charging and retreating and testing and sharing knowledge in the ancient way of dancing birds, most likely due to the repeated mistreatment weaker men preferred to the subtleties of dance, this now is perceived as offensive and decidedly undesirable. Straight answers, clear contours, a transparent view of the machinations of a man’s mind, are preferred when not demanded. Failing this view, a reverse observation from the opposite vantage and following solicitous accommodation. Danger, so long the fertilizer of life, by usurpation of the unrefined among us, is now considered out-of-bounds.
We, the obsessive, are being selected out. Perhaps nature has no further need of dancing stars. Perhaps a reckoning is in order, temporary or determining. A calmer view, a dispassionate manipulation of given paradigms with no particular investment in any, “keeping the peace,” is being selected for. How can one but allow it to happen, understanding its raisons d’etre? And yet, a brief glance at the ascendancy of communism clearly indicates that this is not a correction, sustainable as a “new normal,” but an apocalypse and ushering in of an age of destruction. The communist plant does not destroy by fire and brimstone like its enemies of yore, but in overtaking all from the inside in parasitical fashion, slowly depletes the resources of the ostensible host. The destruction is never live, as they say, but in retrospect. What proud Russian communist in 1930 could have possibly surmised the reduction of Eastern Europe to its present state? Or guessed at the millions lost to famine, concentration camps, exile and mass executions? Which could have had an idea of the disappearance of any intellectual, cultural or philosophic advancement in their corner of the globe? So, in the same way, a little danger for a little environmental preservation seems a small price, even a small matter, and its opponents of necessity mad or otherwise misaligned with sanity. To rebel over such a small matter, must of need reveal a deeper, darker, more sinister purpose, whether of simple insanity or malevolent intent borne, or even weakness of mind and inability to endure a more advanced civilization already de facto operating in the large metropoli of today.
Unable to strike a woman, or to join this madness, we play the hail marys, and generally thank God for having permitted us however brief a glance at the true extent of the magnificence of existence.
Foggy… Yes… Sometimes life is foggy. Maybe always it is foggy. When a thing happens, it is half hidden. When it is past, only the memory is half hidden.
“I don’t deserve a home,”
he said,
“Yes you do. I’m going to make you cry.”
And a thousand clouds passed over the sky.
“If I could only but come retrieve you. And thank you. You carry that burden- so well.”
But certainly there was some coherence, there, somewhere among the electrostatic impulses of the nimbi. Or, when lighting strikes, is it always out of a sheer wilderness? Is it free of any traces?
“I am depressed.”
An invitation for republicans:
There are not likely to be many in this communist cesspool, and however few are even less likely to follow these ramblings. But however, you have to start somewhere. This is an invitation to discuss Nixon and Reagan. Since my guess is most republicans today shun Nixon and love Reagan, I would think it would be as a sort of debate between Reaganites and me, a straight Nixon man. But these are not set rules.
So? How bout it? Let’s discuss it.
OK, I’ll play white.
Most people don’t understand the true meaning and deeper currents of the Nixon witch hunt. They think some guy spied on the democrat convention (oh yes, the unfathomably rich source of content that is!), got caught out by the media because of some high level cock sucker (not an accusation, the man called himself deepthroat, if the term cock sucker bothers you maybe you are a homophobe), and got pressured into resigning, short of impeachment only out of respect for the office. Never mind that both parties, including with evidence the Clinton campaign last time around, rutinely do this and with much more sophisticated apparatuses than Nixon’s soft paranoia half baked right hand men. Good men, mind you, and their lack of sophistication proves it. Spying on democrats was actually low on their list of priorities.
No, no. The reason they went after big N was the he was an actual president, a human being in command. He understood himself as a world leader, leader of the Free World even, and did everything he did with consciousness of historical consequence and the full weight of his office. It’s as if many republicans believe that the communists back then were different from the ones now. They were after him from the word go! But the thing with Nixon is primarily that, that his preoccupation was the power of his office, rather than… well, we’ll get to that later. Not only were his ideas and agendas keen, and his ability great, but perhaps his greatest ability was that he sorrounded himself with exceedingly capable men. His entire cabinet was made up of ultra nerds. And he understood the one overriding task of the president of the U.S.A., to deal with the balance of the super powers of the planet. Naturally he was highly paranoid of the media, because they were up to the same antics as they are today. Heck, he was so studious and serious about his work, that he had tape recorders installed so he could go over things and double check everything. He was the boss, the buck stopped with him.
He was such an intellectual and his worries so American, that honestly even the republican establishment disliked him. He was to global thinking, most republicans were split between the appeasers (democrats in red) and the ones who wanted to isolate the US and the world be damned. Nixon understood that this was a false dichotomy, that communists are expantionist by nature and withdrawing from world affairs was as good as surrendering Washington DC. Well, there were also the batshit crazy republicans who just wanted to ratchet up the tensions with the communists to the brim constantly, that actually wanted to and believed you could destroy a super power. And your regular dilletantes who had academic ideas that made no sense, like getting rid of small arms and counting exclusively on nuclear deterrent. Effectively making nuclear war the only recourse for conflict resolution. So you see, it wasn’t only commies that wantid big N’s head. Big N, first of all created China. some will say Mao did that, but Mao just had a backwater expanse of overpopulated land that wouldn’t even qualify for third world. It was because Nixon understood that the USSR needed counter balancing that he hired Kissinger to empower the Chinese, and basically For A Fistfull Of Dollarsed their asses. Short, of course, of Clint’s goal of having them destroy eachother as, again, Nixon had an unfavourable view of nuclear holocaust.
His other main task was attempting to resolve a disaster of a war that he inherited and very much hated. For all his admiration of JFK, and he did have it, he hated the actual idea of war. Not because of a weak belly, you understand, but he viewed it as a lack of diplomatic ability, a weakness in applying pressure and using the US’s vast military power as a threat rather than a hammer, as just that: a weakness. JFK, and I am pretty sure this is also how Nixon saw him (economic matters aside), was a hot head. Who can forget the incredible fuck up and dishonor of failing to defeat a few half starved Cuban college kids. A hot head. In Nixon’s head, if you went to war, you had already fucked up. He would have much rather let the Vietnamese go at it, and use the conflict some how or another to apply pressure and gain ground in the global tug of war with the commies. But there you went, he had it. And having it, and being an american with his dick on, and his conscience on, his goals were two (which he tasked Kissinger with): to allow the US an honorable exit from the situation, preventing disgrace, and to prevent genocide in south-east Asia. Of course, once the witch hunt was succesfull, the US lost honor and exited in great disgrace, and the genocides (plural) happened.
Now, you may disagree with this, but Reagan was a son of the communists. Let me explain. When the commies in the press and everywhere were succesfull, not only Nixon but the whole intellectual apparatus he had set up in the state, of competent geniuses aware of their responsibility, were forced out. Rumsfeld and Cheney were relatively low on the power ladder, but the decapitation of the Great Republican Beast ended just above their level, making them effectively the highest ranking surviving republicans. They ushered in a new era, which led directly to Reagan: an era of beauty queens. A real Man, aware of his power and responsibilities, was vulnerable. You needed to be someone that could survive a well funded and organized campaign of discredit: a beauty queen. Reagan, then Bush sr who was still a beauty queen but gave republicans the feeling of going back to “seriousness,” but now seriousness as a fashion trend instead of a fact, and even this cost him a second term. Even that piece of shit Carter, communist scum, may he burn somehow horribly, lost his second term for lack of beauty queen. As we all know, a beauty queen’s task is two-fold: to be appealing, but also to appease all of her handlers, direct or indirect. The buck never stops with a beauty queen.
Now, this is an exageration in the sense that Reagan did many great things. Even though he did it clumsily in ways that would have made Nixon retch. Like keeping communism out of central America and keeping it somewhat at bay in west Africa. And he was also a great salesman for capitalism. But he was not a Man. Also, it bears mentionig that Rumsfeld and his disciple Cheney understood this new game well and kept themselves in command of the republican intelligencia even up to Bush jr. They were’nt bad guys. Just, well, let’s just remember that Nixon didn’t really consider them bright enough for any responsibility of consequence (the reason they survived the witch hunt).
Then after Bush sr, the beauty queen game only ratcheted up: Clinton, Obama. Neither capable of an individual thought or decision. But, you know, Clinton played the sax and Obama smoked weed.
Another thing big N was aware of, was the need for Europe to ascend with honor from the ashes of the World Wars, but also and very importantly, aligned with the Free World and absolutely free of communism. This wasn’t something he wanted to force, and in fact that he didn’t is a big reason his agenda didn’t pan out (like so much else, the greater reason being the witch hunt, aka the castration of the USofA). To him it was obvious that Europe and the US were friends, at least England, and considering the vast, vaaaaaaaaast amounts of money given, given to the europeans along with the vast, vaaaaaaaaast and very expensive military support, all blank checks essencially, they would naturally want to do this. He never fathomes that the Europeans actually had the gall to feel insulted by the supremacy of the US, and would rather sell their buttholes to communism than acknowledge that they would have become a third world bunch of ancient ruins without her.
He had all sorts of plans for free trade agreements and treaties and strengthening of ties for vast mutual benefit. But the communist hatched European Union idea (which he didn’t even oppose!) was already in full swing. He still could probably have finagled it. But, you know, the ultra sensitive secrets of the dnc were comprimised. And even England turned her back on her friend, nay, her saviour, her Jesus Christ himself.
Is it a coincidence, my gentle audience, that all of Europe and Great Britain are now run with the beaurocratic methods of old East Germany?
As a PS, one thing I like about Boris Johnson is that at least he departs from the East German style and shifts to the beauty queen paradigm, which at least is Free World aligned, if inferior to a more Nixonian paradigm such as a certain Great Man To Rival Augustus now attempts to upgrade and bring back.
Let’s take it down a notch.
We are all allowed to dream, aren’t we? Racing a car down a mountain highway. The night breeze. Sails on a calm sea, all blue. Salt is in the ether. Rocks rolling down a dusty cliff, a few plants protruding here and there. Stuff, things, have existed for a while.
If a tree makes no sound when no one hears it, that is like saying peaks only rose jagged like into the sky less than a million years ago, which is sacrilege.
Some eyes light up in the dark with, the slightest hint of moon.
Does the Moon speak? It must. It says ages, scrolls upon scrolls of very formal and very private proclamation. It cannot be revelation, for it takes a lot of silence to hear it. But it is loud. The moon is stern, more so than the Sun or even Saturno. Severe. Severity is what it takes to drag the sweetness of ages. To relate.
Can the moon care about the opinions of a life of a few decades? We do not talk to it. Her. Him.
Crickets. Crickets sing to the Moon, wolves only pine. No, wolves announce. Aye. There is a formal start, a formal denouement and a formalissimo close. Heros are beckoned by the Sun, but it is the Moon they hear as they enter the travails of greatness.
She who speaks to them. Her voice they are stunned to listen, yet stunned is not the right word. Like paralized, but without fear. Or a deeper fear, a fear of the bones, a fear that celebrates. “If I must be sacrificed to you, it is a good sacrifice.” To lie with the little insects of the night, in the soft soil.
Covered by worms. Bones are made bare by her. Even when covered by flesh. She beckons them to feel the wind. To feel death, as a living thing. for the celebration of the Moon’s long conservation of sweetness, through the ages, of which humans are a blip. We, also, are recorded in the Moon’s annals. She sings softly.
With the power of an impaling stag. With the piercing of the sharp edge of a breeze. Salt in the bone. Leaves on the salt on the bone. Swaing to the immortal rhythm of death. A dance. Life is a dance. Is it not? What other attitude is appropriate to the knowledge of death? Of oxygen in the air?
Crows, but seagulls too. Perikeets are shy. But they hover, and listen. Bellow some overhang, with walls of leaves. They listen and gather the information, for the day, for the glorious flight. They listen, they are awake. Like the shamans, the guides of old, who gather herbs in the night, disappearing and appearing like ghosts with a rhythm all their own, a gift of the Moon, but is it a gift?
They make a tea, at that magical minute that you did not know until the cup was handed to you. Suddenly the stars came into sharp focus, and their millenial duty is understood, like the pebbles are understood, and the impermanence of the moment, for which their initiation trained them.
That is why the cycles, erratic from any objective view, but somehow not seeming.
They don’t care about you.
They follow the Moon’s edicts, and hers cannot be called caring.
It cannot be called a gift, a privilege certainly.
The Sun stains the horizon.
And the eternal mystery of life is revealed. As you walk away, dazed, blessed for a few months, you realize you are only a turist, and the crazy (crazy?) shaman is a resident, studious and diligent. One day he will die. He will be lost, and frazzled hair. The Moon consumes absolutely. Can it be called a gift?
He is like the rocks in the night, on the cliff overlooking the sea. Is the salt a gift? Are the corroded plants of the coast blessed? In that moment, in the night?
The waves ask the question, as they crash onto the rocks. Melodiously. The melody of questioning.
For a real question cannot seek an answer, only itself, the same happy question, over and over.
That is why they are residents. They listen, and they will let the Moon consume them, happily. Though the Moon erases happiness, for her feelings are older.