Monday, February 26, 2018

The interwoven truth of all things.

What can we say about
The exciting Concept of the truth?
The predominant, the religious reality of it.

Truth is Bruce Lee, wasting no motion,
Reading world philosophy
And studying abroad,
Then calmly pummeling interlopers
Into the soil of the fallen and failed coliseum.

The truth is lonely but rich and generous

The truth is not welcome in certain parts of town.
It dwells on the flood planes and where
The water tastes dangerous.
The truth is a levy that Explodes,
A skyscraper that is obliterated into dust
When mosquitoes bite it,
It is a bodyguard
Being given a direct command to stand down,
Is is a liturgy of Comic Book
Heroes repackaged
On magic film
For sad and lost adults
And their increasingly indistinguishable children,

The truth doesn’t flinch
Or break easily.
The truth regularly disobeys a direct command
But can’t be dishonorably discharged
Or executed for cowardice
Because only humans can be cowards,
And besides Truth doesn’t
Physically exist outside of the mind of GodandMan,
You silly purse-On.

The truth is not just a metaphor
In the minds of the presumptuous or
The old-fashioned,
Or the one meekly
Reduced to poetry.
It vomits violently with a cackle on
Most post-modern tropes of
its unknowableness,
and of the objective validity of multiple viewpoints.

It does not thoroughly enjoy
The long and meticulous essay form,
But doesn’t eschew it when
Things get hairy and demand
An involved sentence or two.

But the Truth is also
Unconscious, voiceless
Simple weights and measures,
Sober noble reasoning,
And the terms of agreement
For rational discourse
And critical, objective inquiry
That the human race has forged
For itself through
Millennia and tribulation
And suffering.

The truth finds its Level,
Even in the crookedest scenes
Or spectacles
Of Florida and Las Vegas and
Many olde university towns.

It is the perfect, pointed tool
Extended from the heart and mind of God,
Towards our fragile

yes the truth is a round table,
Where every Jew and Christian and Moslem
and Hindoo and Buddhist and Taoist
And animist and agnostic, humane,
merely philosophical
Individual that does not approve of murder and lies
Is welcome,
But more importantly,
Badly needed.
Atheists, though, can
sincerely go to Hell,
they bother me.

The truth is not pale, clammy
Gollum strangling squeakers in the dark,
Or being cryptic and clever with rhyming words.
It isn’t buried under a mountain,
Not that hard to find or difficult to face.
It is Frodo,
naive and decent,
Laboring beneath a burden
With only minor complaint,
And caring for his friends and family.

The truth is not permitted
Inside a CNN Town Hall,
It’s apparent.
It tends to sit at home,
Being globally concerned
About this and that,
Writing an essay for hours
Knowing it will hardly be read,
playing games and watching talkies
in order to deal
and pass the weirdness of this time.

But truth is
definitely much more than
The inexorable need of the
Narrow individual to be right,
Or righteous

The truth is our loyal,
privately, contractually secured protector
who rides shotgun
But is always in control

The truth is a hard,
Sharp sonic weapon exiting the mouth,
The sound of skepticism,
Followed by a soft,
Intimate drawing back in
On the tongue to
Meet the teeth,
And more.

The truth is sitting
In a corner alone,
Laughing and crying.
I keep hearing it is blind and naked, too.

The truth is in a dark basement
In a strange house in the middle
Of the evil desert,
One day away from starvation.

It is AIDS leaping fully formed
From the unfettered sadism of the cold war period,
to kill the fags
Of NYC and southern CA,
And the darkies of all the world,
First through shadowy “medical programs”
Involving injections.
Just as in Africa,
The continent,
And then eventually everywhere else,
through the act of love or pleasure.
Death through Life.
That seems like a truth,
As I suppose Jim Jones would agree.

The truth is 
Beranton J. Whisenant Jr.,
federal attorney,
Showing up dead 
on a south florida beach
near Parkland,
With no weapon
And a bullet hole in the head,
Ruled “suicide,” case closed.
Multiply this case
By a factor of
crazed mongoltude
And add willing
Demons called Hollywood
And public education
And collected news media,
And there is the Truth.
Lurking courageously in the internet,
Constantly embattled by attacks against its
Objectively pure and clean character,
called a crazy theorist of different things.

The truth can take any punch,
But rarely gets the chance,
Or has the need.
It dies young and lives forever.

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Sports and Jazz is gettin better alla time?

When it’s not being rigged, or perverted by occult ritual either by the Masonic-Mafia, or the unaffiliated mafia, or the number-fiending Archons themselves, basketball in the modern age is absolutely magical, marvelous, way more exciting than in past decades. The internet and its control-freak pappy, late military/finance capitalism, have improved the game immeasurably. These days, if a top-flight athlete is not actively playing their sport in a new-paradigm of unbroken, year-long seasons of official school-play, tourneys and extra-scholastic leagues, they are either playing the highly realistic simulations of the sport as a video game, or collecting the mass plaudits, perqs and social/sexual rewards of being born into this fanatical sports culture, and a lottery prize of a physique.

There are no more Dennis Johnsons or John Bagleys at the point guard position, at a high level of competition, R.I.P. Not even their younger versions, with that level of musculature and body fat. An overweight or underfooted point guard in 2018’s NBA is as common as a man of dignity with an Instagram account. There should never be enough time or space to allow for either in this insane, competitive, moral disaster center of a world. Show me your Instagram account and i will calmly be the judge. Artists who do not over-indulge themselves will be granted certain kinds of exception.

"Jazz isn't dead, it just smells funny." ~~Zappa

"Athletes are getting better all the time," people say a lot, i guess. They probably fancy this is more proof of humankind's great Darwinian arc of permanently inclining fate. It is no such starry-eyed case, i feel. Athletes get better all the time only in a half-confusingly relative sense: that is, when all they fucking do is play god-damn sports and are conditioned to think they are essential to society's smooth-running and happiness. Athletes get disproportionately better with the application of mind-fumblingly advanced technologies, also, yes. When the athletes of today are not doing the above three things, they are on Youtube studying the precise physics and subtle physical, in-game accomplishments of better athletes. This was never possible before the internet, for any athlete not in a big college or pro program. These reasons (joined with the intense work-out schedules and legal and otherwise drug regimens which are standardized parts of their involvement in organized play, now) account for the insane level of focus, shooting proficiency and sheer moxie of a player like Trae Whoever, for Oklahoma university, who as a freshman is playing pretty much like Stephen Curry already, and against much better collegiate competition than Curry ever faced. Accurate three point shooting is purely a function of obsessive levels of practice, and that's why it is the Modern Crucial Thing in (modern, technologized, obsessive capitalist) Basketball, where every banal metric, techno-advantage and dietary twist is employed in order to profit the ownership classes and their masterful social engineering schemes. Without which levels of profit and scheming, society might just implode, i do fear, almost. 

All of these advantages are enjoyed by the young jazz musician of today, too. We dont have as much very good real live jazz, but we have computers and a comprehensive ability to add to our musical memories and practice-time efficiency, through this technology. Or jazz musicians do, at least. 

When i see Damian Lillard i see someone who is a tremendous joy to see and watch, probably even for people who are not besotted with the pleasure and unreflective gladness of basketball and its mesmerizing, beautiful physics. He has what appears to be a complete mastery of all of his physical movements. He dribbles and places his feet and angles his body like pretty much no point guard i’ve ever seen; he is a perpetually taut spring waiting to hurt and embarrass you. He is the rare and precious phenomenon of the "athletic PG." “Dame” is a master of his own physical creation, an avatar of himself and the modern wave of the giant-killer basketball player speeding from out of the back-court, when he wants to and is not deploying cruel hesitations. It's not cliched to say that he is poetry in motion. Lillard has benefited in a drastic way from the modern mode of bread and circuses pro sports fanaticism, and all the methods and techniques which keep bringing this enterprise and crowd control measure into alignment with the gargantuan size of its political and social function. He's a man that didn't need source material or study, apart from Youtube and the basketball court. The guy is like 6'1", a known and planned-for notoriety in the flesh, and he scores 50 in three quarters against modern NBA competition, on 26 shots. If only all of our cultural heroes were such savants and so dedicated to their business or craft. 

In his own way, on the mere but lovely physical plane, i'd have to compare Damian Lillard to the blazing, ultimate genius and gift from the heavenly beyond, who human beings know and revere as “Clifford Brown.” Except that only the mystical can in the end fully account for Clifford's magical brilliance and haunting perfection as both musician and trumpet virtuoso. But they're both transcendent in a way that does only come through an obsessive and in some ways selfless dedication to their art. Clifford subordinated his time and life and body and face and respiratory system to the playing of the trumpet, a beast of a bastard of an instrument that takes no prisoners, ever. For almost his entire "formative" stage in life, Lillard did nothing but perfect his body and balance and instincts, in order to play the most difficult position in all of sports, in my opinion, hands down. He went to a mid-major school and therefore in getting there had to compete against basically the entire nation of 6'0 ball-handlers who were very good at ball, which is a lot of young men, under current, weird circumstances.

Please enjoy this Clifford Brown recording which requires its wholly unique, inadequate write-up and gushing bladder of praise and fulmination, and please also enjoy Lillard's fantastic display of skill and killer instinct, and his general role as apotheosis of the qualities which make one a motherfucker and a terror on the court. It had been well over a year or more since i heard this classic recording of Brown and the Max Roach quintet, featuring yet another titan of music, Sonny Rollins. Brown’s solo, inventiveness and technical genius on this song are just past all need for and usefulness of literary expression. It will make your sad mortal heart glad indeed. Try to find the best quality recording of the tune that you can. This one sounds a bit muddy and threadbare to me. Clifford Brown’s tone, alone, is a unique form of physically uplifting beauty all to itself. Not to speak or glow of those musical ideas of his that stun and even humiliate any serious, professional musician to this day. If i had to choose---and saying so is saying a very great deal as far as this sort of thing or evaluation goes---i would be strongly tempted to say that this is the best and most brilliant Clifford Brown solo, ever. Making it perhaps the best jazz solo ever recorded.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Ryan Lochte is Totes a Transvestite, and this essay did not intend to read well or easily, please accept my apologies.

(At times like these, it may be revealing to ask ourselves why the hue and cry over this Ugly American Narrative of the bumptious second-fiddle social media monster of US water sports vandalizing a gas station, and lying and spazzing about it in what is now and recently and suspiciously customary imperial racist policy for tourists, et al. Why has this become arguably the most important story of the big grand story of the International Olympics? But let’s not speak any more of athletes.)

I'm almost glad that the great majority of people atop the hierarchical nation-state heap---that is, us, (we stupidly and unimaginatively continue to call this bloc "The West" when in fact the distribution of capital/power along super- and inter-national lines is arranged in purely elite, internal class ratios, and so therefore the more important story is one of elite, pan-global, arguably filial-genetic factionalism and not ethnocentric/national power blocs, if i am making myself clear, let us hope. There are some very awful plutocrats and oligarchs in China, India, Africa, and Thailand, it is well-documented. Unbounded capital/power is sovereign) I say, i'm almost glad so damn many of us are hopelessly asleep and incapable of being roused by anything other than sports spectacles, social, commercial and spiritual onanism, and meaningless sex with other mostly brainless bodies. Because, because if folks began doing some greasy thinking, studying and dialoguing, peering into the present as well as the past and themselves, there might be a pandemic of hopelessness or mean spiritedness that makes this "developed world" of narcissist zombies trapped in puberty somehow preferable.

Mention should be made of my stern opinion that criticizing wealthy and privileged humans for their political and intellectual nescience/ignorance/laziness is not exactly unfair just because, as is often crowed in their defense against these awful attacks from my Negative Nancy kind, a fair or even lion's share of their energies are consumed by making a living and loving their families and enjoying their lives. Because fuck all that petty and incorrect calculus: we are amazing creatures and there is plenty of time in our lives to develop greater, more altruistic, more creative, more curious angels in our better nature. So then, fuck off with your narrow, self-justifying rubbish view of this salty criticism and angst, if such is your way of seeing these sentences. Never return unless you’ve been made more corrigible, more agreeable to my way of seeing the world, probably once your kids have moved out. 

When i go about in public, and especially among the college student hive i'm forever attached to, my main impressions are of two things: Fear, and Sensualism. The (existential) fear, which is too broad in its origins and strangely delicious to discuss here today, manifests as insecurity, the furtive avoidance of eye contact and of observing sundry acts of basic social decorum. Also it manifests as a confusing, plummeting level of individuality in dress and physical modes, with most everyone unrecognizable in class, personality, and purpose, as a result. There is only slightly more variation in fashion among these youths than is found among fraternity men. There’s either a pallid pragmatism of uniform-looking dress or a straining towards what we can sadly, dully describe as edgy hipsterim. Lots of tattoos, yoga pants, T-shirts and athletic apparel. Men traffic in more accessories than is very seemly, becoming more preoccupied with aesthetics as the fierce competition demands, and indeed are being accused of having more effeminate qualities, legitimately or not. There is a lot going on here, i suppose, some of it seemingly contradictory, and i sense i’m able to explain this all with greater nuance or insight, but i don’t wanna. The other main impression i get, of distracted, unintellectual sensualism needn't be commented on, and the idea that it would need to be explained or proven makes me queasy and irritable. The visible results of these two psychological traumas or states seem to overlap here and there. I can't safely say whether the lads in hot pants that yet sag affectedly around their asses are trying to be sexy...or meekly hip and in conformity with current style, only. Either way, it's regrettable and childish dandy-ism and even a conscious breach of the social contract, like every well-shaped young female scholar sashaying to class in leotards and thinking this does not harm societal productivity, or even maybe offend people or basic moral or just academic notions. Anything to be comfortable, or hip, but never one to the exclusion of the other. Nobody is wearing onesies or overalls, which are practical and comfy. Still i wouldn't be surprised to see adult toddler couture coming soon.

Yes, I'm almost glad...Because what would happen if these hyper-sexed future captains of poo-pantsed industry were to get hold of difficult and uncompromising information? Information about the hidden hands which disproportionately affect human destiny, or the sometimes difficult to comprehend proofs of human evil enshrined in The Casual Motherfucking, God-Damned Way Things Are? Perhaps they would simply not be able to comprehend it. And we’ll likely never know. Where this nonsense construction known as The West rather badly fucked up was in posturing that usurious monetary policy and the right to show your yolo ass at any time in public were natural, desirable expressions of human freedom, or would not create global trouble or spiritual voids. Using nukes excessively on Japan, invading and butchering Vietnam for corporate kickbacks and to consolidate control of opium centers, and creating AIDS to cull undesirable human communities were also extremely suspect decisions that we will fuck to forget. I mean live to regret.

I'm almost glad for smart phones. Though they're like easily operated nuclear weapons in the hands of blind babies, blandly, metaphorically speaking.  

P.S. William Shakespeare, the actual author, never existed and anyone who thinks he did is either a foolish moron or unburdened by even basic amounts of inquiry and research into the very, very important Elizabethan/British Empire/Anglo-linguistic subject of "the great bard." He's more of a psychological operation, or a golem, or a tulpa, than a man. Or maybe you feel that one 17th century fellow, alone, coined hundreds of words that are still in use today, with many of them quite clunky and impractical. Maybe you also feel that an illiterate man can write The Shakespeare canon, tickety boo.

 P.S.S. I’ve revised my opinions on the following, for the record: There are no huge underwater cities off of Southern India, nor inexplicable temple complexes submerged off of Japan, worth excavating or understanding. The looting of the Baghdad treasures of mysterious ancient history were spontaneous, and unconnected to clandestine state activity. The comprehensive, well-organized thefts were not consciously allowed by the invading power and its clever sponsors, despite their reputation for insane greed and suppressing knowledge of Mesopotamian prehistory and its semi-secret occult marvels. Freemasonry and the fact of a Jesuit Pope talking about baptizing aliens are subjects just as worthless to know of and consider. All of the crop circles are hoaxes, and tribes or races of giants never existed. There are no legitimate questions as to the verifiable authenticity of the first moon voyage in 1969. None a’tall. Darwinism and Smithsonian outfits are, combined, God. The Kennedy men were simply expert at angering particularly effective types of lone nut, or weren't such great pilots. Paul Wellstone had an innocent aero-plane accident. Trump is as real as Obama's birth certificate. Objective, absolute truth is an antiquated and quaint pre-modern conceit. Shame on you and your arrogant toddler’s mind to think otherwise, or to disagree with any of the preceding ideas. You should hang your incompetent head and have more faith in the professional classes and their degrees and fine salaries. 


Don’t you get smart, bub. All you are permitted is a series of endless and unresolved "questions," because they are the signal and seal of a mature, realistic, empiricist western scientific mind that needs to get to bed on time because of work in the morning. The truth is relative because of the inherent dignity and multiplicity of human viewpoints. No hard answers or basic physics for you. Your ass looks amazing in that sausage skin number.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

For St. Nich.

I know a man
named Nick
who deserves a simple poem written for him and
it goes like this.
The big blue empyrean,
the canopy of dreams overhead,
the canvas on which all
human wonder and distraction and hope
is colored by clouds
and their silvery mad groping intestines
of silver, blue, and those values in between, which we labor to annunciate and label,
this is our blessing and our redemption.
Always there for us.

As bold glorious monkeys, it is our birthright.
i know Nick and i
in our separate, distant
unanthropological ways
do gaze up at it,
our heads inclined towards theoretical happiness
and proofs contrary to heavy concrete life down here,
we give thanks and
for the spectacle and substance of it,
shower generosities
and good will upon others.
It's for the relaxed godliness of the unknown and unknowable sky
that we behave as we do,
with sincerity, and sass, and kindness.
With an effort to reach the mystery of us and
gentle readers everywhere.
Meanwhile my coworker
directs an infinite series of digital,
miniature tanks and canons, against other well-mean
Ing citizens, amen.
The mobile wargame of life.
Thank you, Nich.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

In diffens of Milenniyulls, or, So-so/ciety

You ask them something,
you get a subtle broadside of snidery,
a tone between
annoyance and haughtiness,
with a lazy stop at contempt
for the stupidity and
poor technological savvy inherent
in your question,
or in any question at all.

You will die of starvation,
like one of the ancien regime in an oubliette,
waiting for them to say
"please" or any other of
the weak-minded civilities
which were cherished by
our formerly social species,
once comfortable in its skin and its sense
of communal decency.
They're as jackals who will
eat until they die from engorgement,
rather than suffer another cur a scrap.
It seems their whole lives
lay grim and terrifying before them, 
as a succession of
stampeding black fridays:
Life is now bloodsport.
In their hearts they are fierce freemasons
and dangerous gangsters,
and not unproud of it.
They learn very well
from their elders, as any
new wave of youngsters do:
Highly competitive they are,
but so easily distracted that
no contest with them
is ever fair or desirable.

Civility and manners
either frighten them in their anxiety,
or are seen as a network of booby traps
to avoid if one wishes to be known
as the most important thing,
for which we lack a precise term,
apart from that precious
amerikan brick of a word, "cool."
It seems that
opening or holding
a door for someone they
do not wish to have sex with
is to them a saintly act,
a victory over evil or the animal-headed
ancient alien theory gods
whose mythology they are nursed with now,
and so they stand there,
door held,
jackal faces declined,
frantic with the delayed need to swab
and fondle their phones,
eager for
the life-sized
trophy of themselves to be awarded,
for supererogatory altruism.

Cool is so crucial that Sorority bitches don't even
look different from regular women anymore.
There is a mass merging
towards a marketable and
sexy bacchanalian middle.

They hear little
but the narcissist claptrap
of their own nihilist thoughts,
because their ears are stuffed with
audio tech
and shady music
of the kind we refuse to describe here
beyond noting
the rubbish spine
of repetitive,
digitized, dirge-like open satanism jutting from its smelly ass.
An awful croaking in the mud
is their dead music.
...Ideas echo pointlessly
in the cavern of their ego-powered minds,
because they learn to value nothing
but what is practical and most modern.

They have heard of
a thing called Nein-eleven
but the numeral set implies
math or troubling
cerebral work, so
they believe they flee from the figure,
but eat it calmly
for all six meals of the day,
in reality.

You have never seen such
excruciatingly self-conscious bodies.
Thews upon thews
rippling, asses thick
and fecund with BGH and
insoluble lattes.
The body-type index
has ballooned at both extremes:
quite a few now are as fat as
the King's prized cattle,
while many others worship themselves at the gym
and dispense the luxurious pleasure
of their hard bodies to
all, from their elastic clothing
and muscle shirts.

You have never heard such
at once
confident but insecure talk:
Brainless, laced with invective, filthy
words, and the latest
degenerate copycat slang
which each financial quarter
sounds more like violent
from an under-served junior high.
"Savage" this and "killing" and "smashing"
and "crushing" that.
Measurably worse than
previous generations,
they're drugged on pheromones
and hale youthful vanity.
Half are numbed or excited on behavioral meds.
They cannot read poems.
Poems do not make sense and are silly.
The reading of such dead forms,
they suspect, may cost
them money in the long term.
Instead, their minds are infested with
and notions that are
valued only for their currency and sharpness.

They are sybarites and aesthetes,
but not the good kinds.
Their pleasure
is an embarrassment and a pain to the world.
Their art is Culture
and their culture is popular,
and it is slop.
It's formed of self-adoring capitalism's
bloody sloppy seconds.
This explains late rap music and Tindr and
certain kinds of EDM festivals,
and the oceans of ink
covering their flesh.
Perhaps they perform
so diffidently and
awkwardly while standing in the many lines and
queues of civilization because
they are aware that modern life
is one big shuffling coil
towards an absurd end,
with never
any longer a comment on this absurdity.
Where is the profit in reflection.
Stampedes and rock slides don't reflect.

We have done a right fine
job squeezing these
poor, frightened
Attack Lemmings into
the sausage-skin leg-wear
that both male and female
slouch and prance about in.
We shoe-horned them into their shallow and
malformed selves,
by our neglect for our own
souls and for the soil of
fertile human belonging:
which we called Society..

nothing grows here but cancer and
yes, still,
the sick infant of hope
in ....
some tough to imagine future where
all this madness, deceit, and cruelty
is cleaned away.
Everything may not be ok.
we don't choose
our bodies or our minds,
but we choose what to do with them,
don't we.

Thursday, March 10, 2016

Just a bit more Scribbling on the Philosophical Substance and Origins of the term “Conspiracy Theory.”

I'll state here for the record an axiomatic truth of the modern era, if not the ages: "Conspiracy Theory," as the broad intellectual discipline or area of inquiry has blandly been dubbed by the CIA and the National Security State, is the only fucking game in town. If you draw a distinction of any seriousness between what we call "politics" and this above-termed intellectual discipline, (some of my chums and I cut its clunkiness down to "C.T." but it doesn't please me much more) then you've missed the point and the boat and are drastically behind the curve. Because there's just no solid evidence that conspiracies, as such, should be separated, or Can be separated from the grim business of human politics, governance, etc. Because piracy and cons-piracies get the job done, see? Ask Abraham Lincoln. And if he replies, ask him a more trenchant question, like what do you think of your Secretary of War, really? And how do you feel about the Jesuits, or about central banking? Ask him if he is disappointed in his bodyguard, who was assigned to protect the only entrance to the president’s theater booth, and yet somehow took a break from his post at the most inauspicious time.

 One of the greatest tricks the devil ever played, I've heard repeatedly, was convincing us that he isn't "real."

One of the greatest devices ever fashioned by the cognitive and social engineering wizards of our society---and they put great stock in linguistics, language, and symbols, be assured---is the term "conspiracy theory." This is because it neuters critical thought; it defuses and neuters rational, proportional, objective thought. And it tries to smother political dissent in the cradle. We've been methodically trained to believe that the world is for the most part a mass of events that are on the up and up. (The “lone nut gunman,” who eliminates major political actors, and nowadays masses of innocents, being the only definable, permissible aberration, and one rapidly becoming the status quo and thus an oxymoron, curiously. Check your newsfeed, there’s another lonely gunman.) The Digital Age has taught those who are trying to pay attention that Nothing could be further from the truth. Clandestine acts seem to almost always be more effective than above-board ones.

There is no legitimate philosophical reason why the term "conspiracy theory" has the relevance and traction that it does in our time, outside of the prominent fact that political conspiracies themselves do truly exist in abundance. It's of absolutely no consequence what type of conspiracy we are talking about, or, as is most often the case in this land and time, Not talking about. No centralized committee or unelected agency has any right to manufacture and proliferate a phrase that demonizes focused, calculating, sober analysis of things; of collective human events. This reductionist and mind-numbing phrase in question shares a kind of genetic illegitimacy with the term "anti-semite," insofar as it is very commonly used, in the form of a crushing catchall brickbat. Quite often when either of these terms are used in modern politics, the party using them is not acting in good philosophical faith. They are making baseless character attacks. They are saying they are uncomfortable with another party's arguments. They are burrowing down past reason and careful, moderated thought and trying to poison the soil and the root of the so-called discussion. It's total war with this ridiculous Operation Mockingbird term, it is a salting of the earth so that nothing can be done to solve matters or grow anything of value. And maybe the most crucial thing to understand about the fallacy, the mindless tautology that is this phrase, is that it simply would never have been able to exist and breed as well as it has, if it was not nurtured and coddled by the field of journalism, held to be so integrally important to what we are said to be inhabiting: a democratic society. Here is where we once again proclaim, Fuck Journalists and the devils that infest them.

Next in line for the hotly deserved fucking, and nearly as important in its role of solidifying the political importance of this noxious phrase, is Academia and its first-born, fat and arrogant homunculus-child, History: As It is Taught. The main reason why i am devoted to alternative politics, or para-politics, as i prefer to call this limitless area of intellectual inquiry into sociology, history, philosophy, and generic "politics," is because i am preoccupied with and quite interested in Objective Truth and justice. No puny term that appeared like overnight magic in the journals and newspapers and television news broadcasts, and also just like one mass, academic, national belching after meals of Kennedy flesh in the late 1960's, can ever cause me to change my thinking, or my natural interest in pursuing a knowledge of the reality of things, as they are. We know people by their words as well as their deeds. Those who sneer and pooh-pooh and make use of this gibberish phrase that was designed explicitly to dumb us down, have done what their masters have decided they should do. It resembles the reflex of a scared, caged animal, the way they plop right down in a mud puddle and are seemingly pleased to believe they’re having a healthy, responsible bath. It knows, through coercion and culture and cruelty, no better. They've shamed themselves and shirked their natural human responsibility to try to think clearly and use that huge, noble brain.

You can wisely, safely discount the things these types of people say when they are pretending to argue with you in good faith, if they even pretend, at all. Defenestrate them and their insincere conflations and sour looks. For years it's been my sad opinion that the only good thing resulting from Nein-11 is that it flushed out into the undeniable open the people who are terminally asleep at the wheel. Those who don’t wish to be troubled by logic, physics, probability, causation, and quite honestly, the thing we call “morality.” It exposed those among us who cannot think for themselves, or are just too timid and comfortable with the way things are. The way things are is morally objectionable to all moral beings. Neuro-linguistics be damned. State-mandated and -controlled education and their anti-intellectual trickery be triply damned.

The god-damned phrase doesn’t even make sense; it has no valid, intrinsic merit or meaning. You can have a “conspiracy,” and you can have a “theory,” but marrying the two in the tedious and obsessive way that our society has is a forced hybridization. If you have questions about making pancakes you are not derisively called a “pancake theorist.” God forbid if you make empirically supported observations on how pancakes can't be made by smashing human babies together into a paste and frying them in virgin goat-lard. America coined this poisonous, brainless phrase simply because it is the land at the tip of an evil spear: it is verily the land of conspiracies. Yea, you shall smell hogwash and deception all over this awkward verbal two-step, and go forth and denounce it. In the picture atop this note, you shall also just make out a look of worry in the furrowed brow of TX governor John Connally, who is officially recorded as having at first declined to sit in the limo that day.

And here is an amateurish riddle for you, unaffiliated with any university and unfunded by any agency, and to answer it you may again refer to the image Fixed above, of the King of the Sun and His Bride of Earthly Beauty in their final parading moments in Dallas, TX, on the plaza where the first Masonic Temple in that city once stood:

“What is clad in black, and Always looks back, and to both sides, and forward, and as a rule clutches handles on carriages of State, but is Late, late, late...if not simply Absent?”

Sunday, January 24, 2016

2016 Pre-dictions, as first appeared on Facebook, with one personalized addendum.

1. Clever people everywhere will finally fashion new terminology to describe their old, threadbare emotions and also their mildewed, inadequate political notions: their many staid dictums, misapprehensions, unifying theories, scabby formulations that smell of Professor Father’s logic, opinions on the predictability of Pearl Harbor, generalized schools of thought and such. Our current, devil-worshiping form of Capitalism is listening in, however, and so this new terminology is discovered and, the public is told, sent to an island prison. In reality, the terms are tortured and dismembered, but for use in snuff films that fetch an obese price in Panama, Tel Aviv, and the UAE.

2. Interested and mentally active types in certain isolated pockets will begin to research world and human cultural history as if they could bravely think for themselves. A narrow stratum of credentialed, so-called historians will discard their asinine training and vain pedagogical models, and discover the phenomenon of Most major historical transformations having come as a result of connivance and conspiracy, often undertaken in places called “groves,” and “lodges” or “backrooms,” not to speak of “state-run child brothels.” They will also miraculously locate information on World International Freemasonry and the ancient mystery schools and religions from which it depends. Freemasonry will be admitted to be one and the same, virtually, with Hebrew Kabbalah, (which, in essence, predates Judaism, as such) as the Masons themselves know and write about openly.

3. We will somehow squeeze in a return of a Mahdi or Messiah or an Anti-Christ or two. Sequels and puerile cinema will proliferate, of the animated and super hero variety. Count on 95 per cent of filthiness, rubbish, and occult flim-flam-fakery in all these developments.

4. All the monumental stone phalluses everywhere will come alive at once and a great mystical shower of Osiris-powered life support fluid will fill the skies of every land. It will be blamed on global warming, instead of the obvious and logical sorceries that surround us at every turn in this modern age which fatuously claims to have banished God, demons, magic, and the Devil, in favor of nuclear deterrents, analgesic opioid pills, and easily collapsible Manhattan skyscrapers.

5. Some number of sinister books will be published, codifying cynical and jingoist philosophies that will lead to newer, ever more flavorful forms of imperialist bloodshed in the service of much darker Izms, on which exactly no books will be published. The sinister books will appear and be lauded in all the right journals and universities.

6. Lots of mind-numbing propaganda supporting obstinate and morally unsupportable belief systems. Crucial mysteries go unsolved, every day. Occult Hollywood will continue to impishly foretell of weird and generally deadly public Scenarios such as mass shootings, the snuffing out of somehow symbolic celebrity personalities, and, of course, mass casualty events to be blamed in every erroneous case on some other people or religion than those which authored them.

7. There will be an uncertain tottering in the confidence and arrogance of this dreadful cryptocracy that runs the world, if erratically and seemingly under the duress of factionalism and the contrary efforts of slight but measurable forces of Human or Godly Goodness and Virtue. These will be perhaps minor blows to the sure-footing of the evils currently enshrined in the human order of things. But we will be able to identify them and we will all swell with pride if not participation. Little, quiet, private battles will be waged in millions of chest cavities and minds and dreams, against wickedness and villainy and the debilitating effect on the human soul of professional year-round sports leagues that sublimate warfare and train us for easily provoked limbic fevers against The Other. Etc.

8. Kristaps Prozingis will win ROTY and cease growing except in areas of general human excellence. Etc.

9. Children will become more like materialist mad dogs devoted to sensualism, self-seeking, and the love of technologies that do and encourage almost everything universally wrong. Adults continue to become more like children. Adults will get even more disgraceful forms of plastic surgery than have yet been devised by our sick, infantilizing, soulless armies of priestly doctors. Adults will increase their consumption of the briny piss of the pan-sexual demimonde of Madison Avenue and Hollywood, and will finally certify and announce that the piss is ambrosial quality. The fluid will be marked up beyond the reach of the huge lower classes, which event will naturally create a cultic need among those classes, for the expensive piss. Knock-off brands and lines of fashion referencing the Olympic piss will then be spawned. Perversely related to all this scheduled, piss-drinking infantilism, The Predominant ethical issue of our time will keep being ignored so that its implied, institutionalized criminality may continue without any fussing or trouble. Which is to say, the use of children for the pleasure and compromising of powerful human beings all throughout world governments and high society, everywhere, will continue to be permitted and sanctioned by the state, and slowly, larger society will be conditioned to accept this through various insidious modes of pedophile and gender-confusing cultural programming. The Dennis Hastert, Tom Delay, Caitlyn Jenner and Jeff Gannon brand of moral relativism. None of the above is good, unless one is into that sort of thing.

10. Cthulhu and The Kraken and all their kind will return from the depths and other shadowy regions to give us a full upbraiding. 

11. I will personally fail at something in a conspicuous, flailing manner, and it will be widely observed. I will succeed at my Great Work, and it will be as well-and widely-regarded as a silent fart in a communal old person's home, or facility, or holding pen, or whatever you prefer to call it.