Month: April 2014

The amount of hate I am seeing expressed against Bundy is grossly out of proportion to his alleged offenses.  As just one example, there is apparently a “Cliven Bundy must die” Facebook page, which the people running it say does not violate their policies.

First, he is clearly no racist.  If you look at the full text of his comments, what he is expressing is sympathy and empathy.  The fact that he has been painted as a racist shows clearly that there is NO ROOM in our current cultural space for actual, meaningful, useful, human dialogue.  There is NO ROOM for treating ideological others as human beings with a right to life and to their own opinions.  Quite literally, they are subhuman Untermenschen.

And tax evasion?  The Secretary of the Treasury–who is in charge of the IRS–cheated on his taxes.  Dozens of IRS employees cheated on their taxes, and still got bonuses.

What this thing really shows is how effective the propagandistic control is that the complicit media have come to exert on the feeble minded, among whose ranks regrettably are most of the graduates of our allegedly best universities, and many of the people who teach in them.

I will suggest the following test to any Power Elite reading this: see how quickly and seamlessly you can transition this hate to affection.  How quickly can you get the same people calling for his head to congratulate him?  It would be interesting for both of us to watch.

Large segments of our populace appears to me fully willing to operate within a fully Orwellian universe, where truth is mutable and subject to change on a dime, and conformity to the dominant narrative the only enduring social imperative.  It is sickening to observe how many of these people think of themselves as independent minded, and capable of the exercise of reason; how ARROGANT most of them are.

So the Clippers owner is banned for life from the NBA and fined some non-token, but also not particularly onerous sum.  Big fucking deal.

Chances are, this year more blacks will be killed by other blacks than the KKK killed in its entire existence.  Many of them will be teenagers simply trying to live normal lives.

Chances are, nearly all blacks in this country will receive horrible educations which almost guarantee their failure in life, despite the ready availability of an alternative–charter schools–which have been PROVEN to improve their outcomes educationally and professionally.

Chances are, most black kids in this country will grow with a father who is either distant or absent entirely; and a mother who is barely making ends meet even with government support.

Chances are, most kids out there today will grow up in fear, lonely, confused, ignorant, and with no plan for life, no direction, and little hope.

Chances are nearly half of them will wind up in prison.

Fuck you NBA, and fuck you, you piece of shit race-baiting cynical opportunists.

Nobody cares, REALLY, for those who suffer in this country.  They are tools, to be used and discarded at will.

Who is really hurt by Sterling’s comments?  Any black his mistress might have invited.  Who is not hurt?  Anyone capable of mastering the kindergarten jingle “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

Ah, my superpower, regrettably, is seeing hypocrisy and evil.

Watched this movie tonight.  At the end, listening to the balalaikas, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and nostalgia.  I walked into the theater feeling a bit sad, so small wonder it ended that way.  I like to sit close to the front, so nobody can see me if I cry.

[You know that old cliche–I laughed, I cried?  That is emotional house-keeping, and to be pursued and valued].

Anyway, I decided this movie, in the end, was about nobility and love.  All three main characters, M. Gustave, Mustapha, and Agatha, are alone in the world.  We never learn Gustave’s story, but one can reliably infer betrayal, sadness, and perseverance.

What all learn, is to love work, and to love others.  These are the only loves that matter.  All three forge identities, selves, and are rewarded, for some period of time, with a sense of integrity, dignity, decency, and belonging that notably were absent from the rich people with whom they interacted.

Gustave died for Mustapha.  That is nobility.

Anyway, I just started bawling.  I had to wait until everyone left, then take a different exit and put my sunglasses on immediately.  It is still triggering me now.  And that is a great thing, a wonderful thing.  Crying makes you stronger.  I am very tough, physically, and emotionally, but I want something more.  There is a current of energy I want flowing through me, and the only way I can bring it in is to learn to interact with, dance with, make friends with, all emotions.

And I felt, for a brief period, an overwhelming sense of compassion.  And I thought that you cannot, cannot, cannot be usefully compassionate if you are afraid of the pain and suffering you see around you, and in you.

As I whine about, seemingly constantly, being nice and being compassionate are two different things.  When Mustapha said his family had been killed, he did not offer him sympathy: he offered him friendship.  That is how you do it.  And compassion, often, consists in watching people struggle, watching them fight their own fights, and hoping they win.

It occurs to me that, while it is not difficult to point to the fallacy of appealing to authority, appealing to “science” is presented, is transmogrified, from an appeal to concrete, fallible human beings to a method which is perfect in principle.  For the reality–men and women with psychodynamic histories, cognitive flaws, hidden greeds and lusts–it substitutes something abstract and something perfect.

“Science” becomes the Pythagorean Theorem, and if enough of the people who “do” science agree on something, it is presumed to be right.  One cannot even dip one’s toes into the issues on Darwinism or Global Warming without getting “science” thrown back at you.

With regard to that former topic, I am reading a book on the topic.  Were you aware that not ONE example of speciation–of one species becoming another–has ever been recorded, either in modern observation, or in the fossil record?  Certainly, in the fossil record there are similar fossils, but nothing reliable can be inferred from them, any more than if a monkey and human were buried next to each other and dug up a million years from now.

Within bacteria, in particular, you can create multiple generations daily, and do so for years.  What is seen is variation, change, adaptation.  But not speciation.

I felt, reading this book, like I had stumbled onto a murder scene, where the wrong person had been arrested.

I feel the need from time to time to remind any readers I may have that I sometimes say things without knowing why.  That has been particularly true in some of my last 4-5 posts.

Many intellectuals like to say foggy things using big words and big concepts and be thought intelligent because they are unintelligible.

As I say often, I like to think of myself as a thought worker, the equivalent in the intellectual realm of a construction worker and architect.  My end goal is clear, actionable thinking, expressed clearly.

But my method is exploration, and sometimes you have to say something to even begin figuring out why you said it.

There is in all of us a deeper Knowing, and to contact it you have give it a ceremonial place at the table, space to talk, respect.  You have to invite it, and then listen.

Excellence and Beauty.  Mars and Venus.  Both are heavily conflicted in my astrological chart, so it is my duty and opportunity to develop them; my homework assignment, if you will.

Nascence is “beginning to exist or develop”.  Can we not, accurately, say that Western CULTURE ceased developing perhaps 100 years ago?  That science is a thought form that can master nature, but not reach deep places in the human spirit, in whose very existence our cultural elites have ceased to believe?  Have ceased to experience?


If my work had a slogan, it would be “We can do and be better.”


The thought of the possibility of progress is the first step, the first move, in progress.  If you complacently assume you are all you can and should be, you will not even perceive the work you can do to improve, much less actually do it.


I have on my wall a saying from Boddhidharma: “All men know the way, but few follow it.”  In our modern age, that would likely need to be modified to: “Few men see the way; fewer still follow it.”


It all starts with bad metaphysics.  


In what does “progress” consist for most of our intellectual elites, our graduates of Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford?  It consists in furthering their visions of SOCIAL morality, social “justice”.  And it consists in individual perfection only in the quantitative realms, which is to say life extension, and increased cognitive capacity.  The Singularity, which is seemingly a mania for nearly everyone who works with computers.


But this social morality, necessarily, must be imposed by force precisely because it rejects individual moral progress and the judgement which must necessarily accompany it.  No one is asking black people to do and be better, and in so doing to improve their lots in life.  No one is asking Islamic nations to improve their treatment of women.


No, we need to restart the march of progress, after a century of determined efforts to retard it, and repeal it. And it all starts with the notion of individual moral agency–as tempered, to be sure, by psychological processes, which we can understand better and better.  We can understand the vital importance of shared ritual and communion better and better.  We can develop and refine better technologies of the soul.


And we CAN use science to discover the existence of the soul.

To continue with the thoughts on Narcissism, if a narcissistic parent wants to see themselves in their children, and can only see the parts of them which fit within the window they are viewing them through, then to derive Leftism psychologically one need merely posit the aspiring totalitarian as an aspiring parent–someone with a paternalistic ethos–and who wants to be able to see all of their “children”, the citizens of that nation, through a lens contorted to conform to that persons desire to see him or herself in all those he or she rules.

Why is conformity so critical for totalitarians?  It is not just about command and control.  No one ever doubted the Romans were in charge, but they allowed considerable diversity.  No, it goes much deeper.  The totalitarian wants to generalized themselves, wants to see themselves reflected in every face and every window.

They do this because they have no sense of having souls.  They are clinically mad, and the mountains of bodies–how high would a 100 million body pile go?–serve as clear testament to that.

Went to see it.  Here is the irony: all of the people in that movie, as far as I know, are left wingers, and the left wing has been systematically working to destroy our common culture, to destroy respect for “dead white men”, which is what all the artists involved were who were not modernists.

There is a sentimentality that seems to mesh well with the political left, particularly Sybaritic Leftism, which finds in passion a meaning of life.  So many people, I feel, want to be the sort of people moved by Michaelangelo’s Madonna, or the alter piece from Ghent.  They want to feel moved by poetry, passionate about life.  We see these people in movies, and we do our best to live vicariously through them.

But are not most of us stolid, unmoving dolts?  Yes, sentimentality is rampant.  We have that.  But at what level are most Westerners still able to partake in the sacred?  To what extent can we get at really deep feelings, really deep places, the places which alone distinguish good from great art?

If every original art piece in the world disappeared tomorrow, and it was not reported in the media, how long would it take most people to notice?  If their posters and generic art on their walls was unaffected, I don’t think most people would EVER notice.  Not one person in 100 would really, truly care.  That is my feeling.

And I have to say that multiple people groaned in the theater when they saw that a Picasso was burnt.  A term came to me for the work Picasso was mostly known for (I’m not counting the Blue Period): Ceremonial Ugliness.

Art is pageantry, too, is it not?

We look to it to unify our culture, but if we wanted to, could we not accuse all of the Monument’s Men of racism, since it was exclusively WHITE art they were looking for?  That is about the level most left wingers operate at nowadays.  Reason, decency, truth, fact finding: all gone.

And Picasso’s work is a big FUCK YOU.  I have always felt that way about him in particular.  He was a Communist.  He was cruel.  He is trying to stick a knife through the canvas into the capacities for empathy and reason of the viewer.

I’m a little irritable for some reason.  I may not mean that tomorrow.

But I probably will.

Rotating cogitation.

I would like to define it as “the poison of non-existence.”

It is an odd fact of human physiology that we will often crave things we are allergic to, which damage us.  The narcissist, lacking a sense of self, seeks it everywhere.  They seek to see themselves in the eyes of everyone they meet, to be important.

And narcissistic parents seek to see in their children fragments of themselves.  Like the myth of the Horcrux in the Harry Potter books, narcissistic parents leave a part of themselves in their children, and that is the part of their children they most enjoy looking at.  Large segments of the child’s identity and sense of self are invisible to the narcissist.  Conversely, the child can only get its parents attention by fitting into the bounds established by their need to see themselves.

I was watching “Catching Fire” today, and thought the interview part the most interesting.  It seems to me the sacrificial dynamic is one that arises from a generalized inability to differentiate oneself, to individuate; it arises from a group characterized by a wave pattern without particulates and particulars.

One can identify in a voyeuristic, vicarious way with the sacrificial victims; can connect it with some latent sense of self.  Now the precise problem with the narcissist is that some trauma has caused them to be afraid to exist.  Identification with something or someone who is to be destroyed is, though, without danger, perhaps because being gone the victim becomes a memory, and as unchanging as the person wants.  They can always have been what that person needed them to be.  There are countless ways to lie, and this is one of them.

The foregoing may make sense; it may not.  You decide.