Archive for December 16th, 2014

And Yet I Ride

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And Yet I Fly

Killed Me

Don’t think that life is somewhere over the rainbow. What you’ve got right now, with your family, your friends, your house: this might be as good as life is ever going to be. Life is not happening on the other side of the rainbow. We are on the other side of the rainbow.

—rabbi Shaul Praver, upon Shabbat, for Noah Posner

I’m not mad. Because I have my agency to make sure that I use this event to do what I can to do whatever I can. I want to make sure that my family, my wife and my daughters, are taken care of. And that, if there is anything I can do to help anybody, at any time, anywhere, I’d be willing to do that.

—Robbie Parker, father of Emilie Parker

All the guns are going to go. That’s where the nation is going, it’s inevitable, and people will be much happier once they get there. In the meantime, all initiatives that arc that way should be supported.

The guns, they are done. They are instruments of living in Fear. And Fear is over. It’s no longer necessary. It is a product of the lizard brain. The brain is bigger Emilie Parkerthan that now. The lizard brain peaked hundreds of millions of years ago. Its day is done.

The guns are going even from the police. Back in the 1970s, when the police militarization began truly getting out of hand, Ken Kesey incarnated a lightbringing piece in which he saw that the police need to “lay down the gun.” That’s going to happen.

And there won’t be any guns in the nation’s military. Because the nation won’t have a military. America is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico. And so no military is necessary.

Her eyes are so big. So blue. Emilie’s. The dead girl. Extinguished in Newtown. Pictured above. Her eyes. There is all and all there. How could they ever be extinguished? They are far and wise and penetrating and they could all so truly teach and how the fuck do we go on.

Killed me.
She says.
You killed me.

In the early reports, two years ago, on the 14th of December, out of Connecticut, I was struck by this:

Connecticut is reaching out to other states to help with autopsies because they don’t have enough medical examiners.

There was no shortage of people with guns arriving on the scene. There never is. But for healers, Connecticut had to go out of state.

That is precisely the opposite of the way it should be. Wouldn’t it be nice if there were always a surfeit of healers, always on hand? But for folks with guns, a call would have to go out to other states?

That’s what’s coming. The age of the warrior is over. Old, and totally in the way. It’s the era of healers now.

Already happened.
Already happened.
Already happened.

All the guns are going to go. Guns are finished. Humans don’t want them anymore. They are an appendix of the age of the warrior, which is finally fucking over. We are in the age of the healer now. Killing is done. We are now about living.

People who live the requisite number of years experience, and therefore understand, that the child moves on from the parent. And then the child of that child, since become a parent, moves on from there. And so, we are, in this way moving on, from the killing-place there. From, and to, a place, where there shall be no guns. No killing.

We know this, because we’ve been to the mountaintop. And we’ve looked over.

Meanwhile, so what, if there is, in some retrograde knuckledragging country called “America,” a “Second Amendment”? Some sicko word-cluster saying that any and all can get themselves a giant kill-me? Like how you killed me. Killed me. Emilie Parker. Killed me. Noah Posner. Killed me. You killed me. Killed me.

And the thing makes no goddam sense. Killed me. The amendment. Killed me. It’s like it was written by a wino. Killed me. You’d get a flunk, if you heaved it into an English class. Killed me. To wit:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

The thing is a mutant. Killed me. Retarded. Killed me. There was like, maybe, a bridge, once planned, constructed between clauses, but the thing was, before it was ever finished, blown up, like the The Bridge On The River Kwai. Killed me. It makes no sense. Killed me.

And whosoever wrote the thing?

Old dead white men. Dust for more than two centuries. Who had never seen a light bulb. Who conceived not of the automobile, much less the space shuttle. Who were unacquainted with germs. Who were not altogether unconvinced that if someone went Bad, a sulfurous demon upbubbling from Hell should be blamed. Who abjured noahbathing, because they believed that immersion in water could prove fatal.

Benjamin Franklin, regarded today as a sort of super all-around genius, strongly recommended that his fellow Americans cleanse themselves solely through the method of shedding one’s clothing, and then standing naked in the faint breeze passing between two open windows.

Eons would pass between baths for this water-fearing fellow. If the historical Franklin were at this moment to come into your presence, the stench would prove so overpowering you would run from him like Richard Pryor with his body on fire.

Franklin also kept his nephew chained to the floor of a barn for the last 30 years of his life, as such was then considered the most “humane” treatment for the mentally ill.

For more than 220 years, people in this country have retarded their evolutionary development by continuing to suck at the shriveled empty teats of bewigged bath-fearing ignorant old white men long ago dead as the dust of the ground.

No. That’s finished. We sing, now, our own song.

In The I

His weariness with things was frightening; it smacked of obliteration, a wall of anger and fatigue that felt as though it might sweep him into nothingness. Worst of all was loneliness.

There were times when he was capable of rejoicing in himself as a singularity—a man without a 6265_12story, secure from tribal delusion, able to see the many levels. But at other times he felt that he might give anything to be able to explain himself. To call himself Jew or Greek, Gentile or otherwise, the citizen of no mean city. But he had no recourse except to call himself an American and hence the slave of possibility. He was not always up for the necessary degree of self-invention, unprepared, occasionally, to assemble himself.

And sometimes the entire field of folk seemed alien and hostile, driven by rages he could not comprehend, drunk on hopes he could not imagine. So he could make his way only through questioning, forever inquiring of wild-eyed obsessives the nature of their dreams, their assessment of themselves and their enemies, listening agreeably while they poured scorn on his ignorance and explained the all too obvious. When he wrote, it was for some reader like himself, a bastard, party to no covenants, promised nothing except the certainty of silence overhead, darkness around. Sometimes he had to face the simple fact that he had nothing and no one and try to remember when that had seemed a source of strength and perverse pride. Sometimes it came back for him.

—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate

Fuck

Have I None

It used to be taught, there in the law schools of the United States, and as a very cornerstone of The Law, that “it is better that ten guilty persons escape, than that one innocent suffer.”

As expressed by the English jurist William Blackstone, in his 1760 Commentaries on the Laws of England.

Or, more stellar yet, and Dick Cheneyonce perfidious Albion had been dethroned from them American shores: “it is better 100 guilty Persons should escape, than that one innocent Person should suffer.”

As was so said, in 1785, by Benjamin Franklin.

Now, of course, this loftiness all mostly applied only to white people. More specifically, white male propertied people. But still.

But still, all that—even for white people—it is over now.

Because Darth Cheney, former vice-president of the United States, confronted with the fact that some 25% of the human beings his administration had subjected to torture, were, in fact, innocent, of any and all crimes, he, Mr. Dick, has brazenly and repeatedly stated, that he is “more concerned with bad guys who got out and [were] released than I am with a few that in fact were innocent.”

Who has—he, Mr. Dick—when confronted with that 25% figure, when asked if perhaps that figure were “too high,” “too high” to condone the torture of innocents, no matter what the “benefit,” has repeatedly said: “I have no problem as long as we achieve our objective.”

And so. It is okay. To torture people. Even if one of every four of the tortured, is innocent, of all, and everything. So long as it shall “achieve our objective.”

This, quite a galaxy, far, far away, from “it is better 100 guilty Persons should escape, than that one innocent Person should suffer.”

The Cheney-type people—the people of Fear—have always been against the Enlightenment. Which was a white European movement of the 17th Century. That sought to dethrone harsh, rigid, clerical/monarchial authority, in favor of toleration, individualism, liberation.

Now, I don’t predict shit worth shit. Never have; never will. I have never really had any of a faintest idea how you humans might roll, much less slot, the ball round the roulette wheel. But even me, I must admit, I completely reeled, when I realized the release of the heavily-redacted BurningTheWitch-300x252500-page summary of the 6000-some page Senate Select Committee on Intelligence’s report on “the Central Intelligence Agency’s Detention and Interrogation Program,” resulted in the utter extinguishment, at least in the United States, of the Enlightenment.

Because (and from this we cannot turn away) 71% of Americans approve of torture—at least to “achieve our objective”—while 52% believe it is more harmful for the US to confess to engaging in torture, than the 29% who believe it is more harmful to actually engage in it.

Which means that, where Americans are, now, today, in 2014, is back in the 1500s.

Seems there has been a sort of time machine. That has hauled en masse Americans back some 500 years. To the time and the lands where suspected witches were tossed into a body of water. And if the witch floated, she was indisputably a witch. And was then hauled out of the water to be lashed to a stake and set on fire. While, if she sank, she was not a witch. “Tough titties,” as the Secret Service these days is apt to say, if, back in those days, in proving her innocence—in sinking—the witch drowned. At least The People—then and now—were safe. And, besides, if she really and truly were completely innocent, she never would have come to the attention of the authorities in the first place. Right? Right. Been bound and gagged. Tossed into the wet. Drowned. Frozen. Slapped. Struck. Punched. Beaten. Hung. Shackled. Hooded. Waterboarded. Rectally infused. Killed. Murdered. Tossed into garbage dumps. Driven insane.

But Darth: he say it all all right. So: it all all right. Even if it mean. We be beings. Five-hundred years, rolled back into the past.

This, here, lost in the way-back-when, is where Americans now are.

Bringing new meaning, to the final words of the Great American Novel, The Great Gatsby:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I have always had a lot of feeling for the right and wise and true thing that John Mellencamp once said:

People are really involved, and rightfully so, in their own lives. You can’t say anything negative about people not being informed, because they don’t have time to be informed. It’s a hard world to get a break in.

This is absolutely true.

But, we are having a problem here.

For, these days, even if people wished to become informed, they can not.

For from all and every of their news-feed, they can become informed only that the former vice-president of the United States says absolutely that there was no “torture,” that anyway any alleged “torturing” of innocents was absolutely necessary to keep the nation safe, that true “torture” is cabined but to “what the al Qaeda terrorists did to 3,000 Americans on 9/11,” and that, if through torture, the fuckin’ witch don’t burn, then the goddam bitch should drown.

They, the American people, trying to draw Truth from all this, are awash in that world, latterly described by George Orwell, in “Looking Back On The Spanish War:”

I remember saying once to Arthur Koestler, ‘History stopped in 1936’, at which he nodded in immediate understanding. We were both thinking of totalitarianism in general, but more particularly of the Spanish civil war. Early in life I have noticed that no event is ever correctly reported in a newspaper, but in Spain, for the first time, I saw newspaper reports which did not bear any relation to the facts, not even the relationship which is implied in an ordinary lie. I saw great battles reported where there had been no fighting, and complete silence where hundreds of men had been killed. I saw troops who had fought bravely denounced as cowards and traitors, and others who had never seen a shot fired hailed as the heroes of imaginary victories; and I saw newspapers in London retailing these lies and eager intellectuals building emotional superstructures over events that had never happened. I saw, in fact, history being written not in terms of what happened but of what ought to have happened according to various ‘party lines’ . . . .

This kind of thing is frightening to me, because it often gives me the feeling that the very concept of objective truth is fading out of the world. After all, the chances are that those lies, or at any rate similar lies, will pass into history . . . .

The lies of the Cheneys, foghorn blasted across all and every, are already passing into history. Just as Orwell described. There was no torture. Even if there was, it was justified. Even unto the drowning of the innocents. Because all The American People were kept safe. And anyone who complains, should most probably have been drowned, or flamed—bitchers—with the witches.

That 71% of Americans approve of torture—at least to “achieve our objective”—while 52% believe it is more harmful for the US to confess to engaging in torture, than the 29% who believe it is more harmful to actually engage in it, says, I respectfully suggest, to any serious person, that any serious change, is not going to come from any “political” process . . .  in which the likes of Darth Cheney, for the foreseeable future, shall always be allowed to hog the microphone.

Both Orwell and Arthur Koestler, two intensely political men who even, back in the day, took up arms against fascism—back when “fascism” actually meant something, other than just a stupid flaccid term of abuse for somebody who disagreed with you on the intertubes, or maybe took your parking space—both eventually understood that, as Koestler, writing in a long essay called The Yogi and the Commissar, put it:

Neither the saint nor the revolutionary can save us; only the synthesis of the two. Whether we are capable of achieving it, I do know.

As a commentary on that, and on other portions of Koestler’s essay, Orwell wrote:

That is to say, the “change of heart” must happen, but it is not really happening unless at each step it issues in action. On the other hand, no change in the structure of society can by itself effect a real improvement. Socialism used to be defined as “common ownership of the means of production,” but it is now seen that if common ownership means no more than centralised control, it merely paves the way for a new form of oligarchy. Centralised control is a necessary pre-condition of Socialism, but it no more produces Socialism than my typewriter would have itself produce this article I am writing. Throughout history, one revolution after another—although usually producing a temporary relief, such as a sick man gets by turning over in bed—has simply led to a change of masters, starbecause no serious effort has been made to eliminate the power instinct; or if such an effort has been made, it has been made only by the saint, the Yogi, the man who saves his own soul at the expense of ignoring the community. In the minds of active revolutionaries, at any rate the ones who “got there,” the longing for a just society has always been fatally mixed up with the intention to secure power for themselves.

Koestler says that we must learn once again the technique of contemplation, which “remains the only source of guidance in ethical dilemmas where the rule-of-thumb criteria of social utility fail.” By “contemplation” he means “the will not to will,” the conquest of the desire for power. The practical men have led us to the edge of the abyss, and the intellectuals in whom acceptance of power politics has killed first the moral sense, and then the sense of reality, are urging us to march rapidly forward without changing direction. Koestler maintains that history is not at all moments predetermined, but that there are turning-points at which humanity is free to choose the better or worse road . . . Koestler calls for “a new fraternity in a new spiritual climate, whose leaders are tied by a vow of poverty to share the life of the masses, and debarred by the laws of the fraternity from attaining unchecked power.” He adds: “if this seems Utopian, then Socialism is a Utopia.” It may not even be a Utopia—its very name may in a couple of generations have ceased to be a memory—unless we can escape from the folly of “realism.” But that will not happen without a change in the individual heart.

The individual heart beats because of the Desire of dark matter to incarnate into individual consciousness, from the undifferentiated collective unconscious cloud.

Of course, as soon as we incarnate here, we realize the mistake. Which is why all infants, instantly, birthed into this world, cry.

We then seek—at once—and again, to bond. First with mother, then with friends, then with lovers, then with our own children. The loneliness we know, from the fellowship we once knew, is so vast. So vast. Indescribable. Unendurable. Cannot be borne.

Heigh. Ho.

Nobody home.

Meat nor drink nor money have I none.

Yet shall we be merry.

soul, a soul, a soul cake
please good missus a soul cake
an apple, a pear, a plum, a cherry
any good thing to make us all merry
one for peter, two for paul
three for she who made us all


When I Worked

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