Repetition is the spice of strife. One’s persistent longing does not reveal any innate capacity to be loved. Intimacy may bespeak immediacy? But then commands a hope for the possibility of some small degree of lingering sharable empathy. One cannot truly be in love until they themselves are willing to step aside. Emptiness in its lack does not constitute a human existence. To expect one’s self to be known despite the high walls that are erected around them is to maintain a fiction of geniality of false security of an irresolute presence.
Cold. Nice boots and new jeans. Bad hair. “Just being me!“, she might have said to herself as she strode up to the counter. Silently passing under the gaze of older men. The art hanging about the walls bespeaking black rubber worms ‘cacked’ forth from abundantly large vulcanized assholes. A quiet little student of her cell phone’s daily musings sitting int he armor of her cheap floor length winter coat. Alone. She sits at the table just ahead. A semblance in a way from the scribbles on the glass facing outside. Individual offerings in wax pencil barely legible yet very human by design. What have I to offer life from my own play set of bankrupt toys! Save perhaps the ability to avoid danger? To avoid the living embodiment of the existence of life. Though we all exist within the jaws of a trap slowly sprung. The expressions of joy signifying arrival by errant ‘femmes‘ so vulnerable and in total emotional disarmament.
If any seek discovery in these words then they are mistaken. Weight distributed on two legs. The exclusively internal conversation without the blank page a room for of youthful strangers. The sustenance by the fiction that wisdom comes naturally with impressionable youth who are relieved from the pressures of life by leisure. Life is a chess game for some of those who consider themselves outsiders. The occasional expected ritual involving consumption of the sacrificial offering of flesh. “And my reaction was!“, she did not say, mumbling instead a colloquial “like“. The residue of the ever mounting atrophy of spoken English vocabulary further despoiled. “As I always say . . .“, inferring an inability to think differently over an indeterminate period of time. “Huh?“, an exclamation rather than a question. A grunt rather than an intelligent groan.
The reality for those being distant from all and not just from their own kind. The currently acceptable spark of individuality coming in well-tatooed meat. Armed with an eight pack of toilet tissues under the arm, it fully and firmly secured. Take creatures, white Masai and just about as aloof. Sensitivity within sensual areas more simply an itch to be scratched. Symbolic leisure wear well within the set of faux riding boots loudly proclaiming a desired caste to be judged by. Does one accept this silent declaration at face value? The stars from the heavens above are merely bright reflections upon the white enamel of the coffee cup of track lighting. A thick wad of paper snatched ceremoniously from the pocket assuming respect in the repeatable transactional ritual of coming out.
Now that the sheep’s clothing has been thrown off and the ‘wolves‘ of Wall Street are running wild in an open attack upon anything Caucasian, I feel that it is high time to unburden myself about a few things that have bothered me. Things that for too many of you that you still won’t touch like why the cartel that has always run Hollywood was so insistent that a full moon could turn a man into a wolf. As if such superstitious fantasies that could be attributed to some modern day underlying reality. The once grievous terminology that is now part of contemporary patois being mind fuck. Their mighty sword to inflict “great vengeance and furious anger” (Ezekial 25:17) against the enemies of Israel. This can literally be embodied in their products released for general viewing over the years that salved their white European audiences into complacency while tricking them into self-destructive viewpoints through artful shorelines using ethnic shills. Considering that in the classic modus operandi of the modern detective one looks for both motive and opportunity their are plentiful examples connected with the inception of same. The cult of the magus that goes back to Darius the Great, who as in the words of he old Negro spiritual “literally let their people go” in 519 BC, is synonymous with entrancing other peoples so as to take their treasure and ultimately destroy them. A cycle that has been repeating itself without interruption over all the years in-between. The true birthplace of the notion of Hollywood being to capture ones attention, confuse, and instill false thoughts being the basis of the practice of magic. Can anything explain better why the entire population of every other modern society on this planet seems beset by such inner turmoil? Who could have imagined two decades back that the most valued possession in ones inventory of material objects would be one that they could hold in their hand and daily capture their entire focus of life? The older technology being that honey trap of the old grand Baroque movie palaces of the nineteen-thirties when the national money supply was ‘mysteriously’ contracted forcing most into economic want of the dime or dollar to get in? The power of the motion picture and those singular products released at pivotal points in history precluding larger world events equally unfathomable. That is of course if one dares to directly take a probing unflinching look!
Take for example the year 1947 two years after the conclusion of the complete destruction of their avowed enemy, the German people, many events that magically occurred at the same time had a certain synchronicity not unlike so many modern ones day. On Nov. 29, 1947, the United Nations General Assembly passed a resolution calling for Palestine to be partitioned at the expense of indigenous Arabs and Christians for European Jews, allowing for the formation of the Jewish state of Israel. The National Security Act of 1947 enacted a major restructuring of the United States government’s military and intelligence agencies. And, seemingly far less noteworthy, MGM released the movie, A Gentleman’s Agreement, based on Laura Z. Hobson’s best selling novel. A storyline plot in which (white) Christian a journalist played by Gregory Peck poses as a Jew to research an exposé on antisemitism in New York City. The picture went on to be nominated for eight different Oscars and won three. How convenient! So egregious was its release at the pivotal time when the Jewish inspired doctrine of Soviet Communism was actually found to be directly entrenched within the highest offices of the USA that it upset the House Un-American Activities Committee as it was considered a tactic of interference with the investigation of some of its key creators. Elia Kazan, Darryl Zanuck, John Garfield, and Anne Revere all being called to testify before the same committee. The author not un-coincidentally being the ‘first female director’ of Time magazine and birthed by radical Socialist Russian Jewish parents in part behind The Jewish Daily Forward. A politically focused publication in its own right today now stripped down to the title Forward. Her book publisher another Jewish mega-influencer of his day, Richard L. Simon of Simon & Schuster, a company that dominated publishing. Birds of a feather having a marked similarity as of old in sticking together?
One might suggest that the placement of these and other events were instrumental in paving the way in terms of softening public opinion in the USA for supporting the implantation of the long standing project of a Jewish state in Palestine. The culmination of the payoff by the Triple Entente for twice bringing the United States out of isolationism to defeat the rising economic dominance of turn of the century Germany. One violating the greatest invention of modern World Jewry, the burned, but seemingly never singed, offering of that ongoing modern myth and money-making proposition termed the Holocaust. Forget the facts, this is Hollywood! And not ironically, this is the current state immoral of the world where most who are electronically plugged in the grid believe in space aliens and contentious generations of women that can easily physically best all men rather than partner with them. A global financial based society that thrives of the deception that its controllers are routinely allowed to charge obscene levels of compound interest just for their printing of paper alone. The notion of continuously producing that same old magic of shifting public opinion now currently singled out as ‘fake news’ and box office tanking socially immoral culturally toxic blockbusters. How odd that so many of these enterprises routinely trip themselves up under direct scrutiny in terms of pervasive violence, sexual perversion and misquoting the facts. The notion of collective guilt and self-destructive powerlessness always foisted upon white culture by the end of each presentation. Is it any wonder that the indoctrination of successive generations has led to false notions that will simply enslave them in the employ of destroying their own kind? It is too bad that the book burning of the twenty-first century goes on silently in the developed preference easily manipulated electronic media as opposed to very quickly disappearing conflictory paper.
“And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.” Ezekial 25:17 (a key portion of the Hebrew Pentateuch, AKA Torah/old testament)
The world that one exists within eventually seems to become a place of never ending disappointment under the weight of the ever shifting controlled chaos of a fickle indifferent society. And as such it does often seem that as one grows up and eventually grows old there is little help for those that it abrades to regain a sense of lost innocence that was their initial state of being. The notion of same in practice as an adult considered a sign of simple-mindedness by the surrounding ill winds of decadent cynicism that pervades popular culture where being vulnerable in public eye is nearly an unpardonable sin. The invocation to those little aspiring mortals caught within what was once long ago a period of time known as childhood being to toughen up and be disciplined in the face of the domino-like gauntlet of one disappointment after another leading to an inexhaustible series of same. The semblance of appearing to win being more important than daring to ask for a uncompromising acceptance for what one is at their weakest moments. Perhaps one can know of how much one’s self has been corrupted over the years by their wonder at a tiny little untainted soul in distress and as such know what innocence truly is yet again?
The experience of supervising young children in the middle of the first decade of their earthly existence for an hour each day has taught this author as much about life as the proceeding decades of constant collision with the vagaries of existence in an urban realm. Those occasional moments when one is challenged to depart from the strict guidelines of professional indifference and lend a kindly ear with sympathy being a minefield for misunderstanding. As a an adult male caught within a much larger political battlefield it is taking a chance with ones career and nebulously ambivalent social standing to provide such a human gift. My present wonder at this is occasioned by a most recent experience where a tender young lady of between five and six and small in stature for her age. The first one to arrive generally having to apply almost all of her strength to pull aside the heavy hydraulic cylinder loaded doors. The ring of her childish vocal chords resounding in a nursery room cartoon impression of adulthood as she experiences it. Her encounter with the decorum of the classroom itinerary of the teacher necessarily forward as if by some internal undisclosed resource provided her as a young cub to survive the hostile world of older peers by this effort. The playing deck of varying childish rivals who demand attention from the one adult influence as the dealer of regulated progress in this classroom assembly for their own form of unstructured acting out within the context of the coming hour always in contest with those small and perceived as weak but ever resilient. Yet in my experience with children over the last year in considering what has been for me as a lonely bachelor verified by decades of solitary existence, as undeniably miraculous.
To see such a little soul unexpectedly demeaned to tears within this constant battle for hegemony in the ruthless pecking order of the patent meanness that those in the group casually deal is equally heartbreaking. One wanting deep down to violate the strict taboos of this workplace and simply offer the solace of a warm embrace to assure that the world they live in though so often mean in spirit is not without sympathy for their plight. The next best thing being offering a middle ground in engaging her in conversation in one’s supposed position as battled worn sage. Enlightening her as best one can by offering the notion that their mentor was once as young and vulnerable as she was. What a wonderful and terrible disclosure to find that the object of her pain is one of the other little boys that rage about the room in constant careless play. Equally innocent in his way despite him testing every rule to favor his experience of the world by ever testing its confining boundaries. The ghostly descendants of these same little demon spirits that once plagued one far ago in one’s own experience at five. The whispered secret as solution to the sorrowful tale pf woe that she relates in her version of unrequited desire for singular connection with this ruthless rapscallion being to reveal that his form of reaching forth to vie for her affection is to be ever annoying. The part that one necessarily leaving out that perhaps this same menace is just being annoying with no other underlying motive resting behind his perceived infamies as she suffers them.
How odd it then seems then to one so late in life to be aware as a bystander of this same old endless repetition of dissension imposed as d’rigor of common playground etiquette? The battering and bruises that these young untainted souls endure seemingly harmless to the outside view of adult sensibilities now long decades past. Yet realizing for the moment that these seemingly incidental scars too often are carried through an inadvertent pattern of behavior abstraction over the course of their future lives. To see this in such a way and offer one’s mercy to try to explain as best one can that all are equally likely beset along the way with the basic unfairness of misdirected emotions by others. Hoping that despite the futility of the situation and their lack of stature of the one in pain that it is not just childhood but the beginning experiences that they must fathom as part of the experience of life. The moral lesson in all this seemingly inferring that as members of that final constituency of those growing fatally old and near to an earthly passing we must return in one way or another to those days of childhood where it all began. How ironic that one who by the fact of their solitary existence of seven decades would be shown the world where life in general by virtue of connection by paring is renewed by the fresh experiences of the offspring that are produced. How even one whose own life having been cast at a distance from all this is renewed in some small way by contact with these initial petite dramas. It makes one feel that the universe around is not simply an empty vessel that can only be filled with regrets.
This world is now created by metrosexuals. Self-righteous techno-Hottentots. Wrapped up in their own complacency and completely uninterested in who will rule them, for how long, or how in the further they will fall out of favor. The past is their oyster! Their personal whipping boy? The lodestone that washes clean their own sins of inaction for all those things they thought of but never thought to do. The Past. The foundation that they build their temples of disdain upon. Of ancient eras that were hard fought and rife with mounds of skulls of the defeated with grave flaws where everyone could not be happy. Or ever, ever was!
The whipping post upon which to hitch their slavish sense of the modern and virtue signal by wrinkling their noses at the stench of inequity. The safest home for the growth of monumental hypocrisy within all those myriads of complacent minds. The lies that lay upon lies that lay upon the present built upon convenience and toys. Convenient forms of rule to slowly incrementally abrade the feint-hearted who like to rail and rave from afar. Easy ducks for the self-proclaimed immortals to shoot later when the water barrels are brought out to be drained. And a normal life costs two times two time two what it does at this very hour in falsehoods of continual compounded interest. All to sit upon the ruins of one’s own land? The bridges freely replaced by toll booths and everything now taken away. Everything that has a cost and that must be paid in cash or blood or flesh. Whose neck is next? The laziest of creatures black and brown and mealy white turned yellow replaced by mandate. To enforce through fatal decrees of half-truths their own destruction in a moment anything that is simply considered ‘right‘.
You cannot be racist if you are no longer afforded a race. The only homeland that these citizens of longstanding seem to now be accorded is the grave. And even that will be plowed under. This is not considered racist because the official word from the squawk box of those loaded into government by grift and graft these last decades is guided by a foreign hand. This is the reward for all your lives of futility and hope of promises fulfilled. Your great grandchildren will be as fertilizer and fodder in the municipal dump. Still you are not foolish enough to get mad and angrily survive? The real race is that race to get as much as one can by getting their first. The rest is but the same sad lodestone of the accumulation of self-righteousness for idiots to carry around for the fiction of guilt that brought the razor to their own necks but that was never theirs. Only clever rivals. They deserve to be disappeared for they are truly the biggest of fools!
Why my world and worldview was ripped away from me. Here I sit mentally fit and physically reasonable. Waiting. Waiting for an opportunity. Any opportunity. Something that will never come again. Why? Because my generation who foolishly set the trend to Liberal mentalities were a bunch of fools. We were easily taken in by the notion of Utopia that was slathered upon us by those professional deceives in Hollywood, publishing and the counterfeit coinage of that segment that calls itself the ‘news’ media. Now I sit idle contemplating my imminent demise like some character in Orwell’s, Paradise Cafe. Feverishly monitoring the screen as if I was looking out the window at the planetary geo-engineered weather wondering when if ever I will see the sky and perhaps the stars ever again. Oh yes! My own eyes still experience what goes on around me, or does not. You see I have developed a long memory. Actively worked upon it in these times of unexpected prolonged unwanted leisure. The world as it once was now something that the current stack of techno-babies cannot imagine or possibly confront. They only know faux visual universes that ape insignificant semiotic post-Modernism.s that give an artificial flavor of worlds past. More in the way that prospective worlds of a tainted future all resemble the Socialistic plans for present tense co-opting. The destructive fantasy of equality by complete normalization on the model of the mechanically foolproof doctrine of the Corporate Globalist management of the entire planet. One where human life is an anachronism that must be stamped out from universal molds to offer perfect cogs. Ones deprogrammed of any uniqueness and ready to surrender all individual leanings in return for the occasional prize of some robot fulfilled animal desires. Semen and ovum for the uterus of one’s closed fist and not for the promulgation of an independent family. Mass routine inoculations to limit lifespan and vitality to the absolute baseline minimum or use as a bio-weapon to quell any unforeseen revolt. A core obsession to displace and dispel all Elvira Madigan’s format he planet. Bitter daily pills filled with arsenic. Life as perpetual suicide where each day begins and ends with a wish to finally get it over with and die.
No, I did not imagine this sort of world possible way back when I refused to follow my own father’s lead. Or take his hard won sage advise. Now the current generations are not even guaranteed the possibility of committing that mistake. That vague steel wool superstructure of state supported constant social justice harangue wears down all propositions that were once taken as solid foundations of sanity and successful life. Things like living a childhood exclusively within a home with two parents there to actively raise them. Instead of the modern conventions of constantly being farmed out to nurseries and day care and after school behavior medication by electronic screens. Live constantly with the faux apprehension that the easily available Internet cornucopia of phone accessible factoids does not comprise wisdom. Routinely surrender themselves in the blink of an eye to social media gossip that cannot validate its claims beyond an unconscious sense of perceptual awareness that it must come ultimately from an anonymous overbearing despotic power group in control of that same means of diffusion. The motivation by way of an unspoken fear that they too may be quickly marginalized if they do not go along with the central planning’s latest whim. Mass suicide of the the self by the continued consensus of silence supporting an increasing conformity by total inaction. “Do what you are told!” and squawk about it in private. Blame, blame,blame! But never act in your own behalf by supporting your own family identity against the latest shifting viewpoints. Take on the portmanteau of guilt without question or rage against those who would saddle you with it. Just sink back and surrender. Some form of ongoing unstoppable festering waking nightmare that easily de-trains any of my own unconscious nocturnal leanings no matter how vile or mad or insane they might be. The dreams of former conventionality as once imagined now a future fully and finally erased. “All hail the eternal guinea pig!” Chasing the world upon a screen while they remain perpetually immobile. This are the seeds of the Utopia’s sold to my generation by the evil corporate few come to flourish. I sit here and sip my coffee in the meantime. Looking out over the perpetual gray landscape of civilized futility an no longer dare to dream. Only being able to support just so many nightmares?
A ‘menschen‘ of excess and obsession. Pathologically so! All to show for their failings being the oversupply of material objects each of an outmoded sense of value to the atrophy of society that forever surrounds them. The chase for golden apples seemingly eternal for the brass of the moment when a synthesis with that diaphanous proposition success translates into a temporal reality of being found ahead of all the others. The most dangerous of notions!
It may have been that along the way on the path one forged that sight of what was so long familiar and easily to mind in the past was lost. One’s own name forgotten? That tall grass that ever lay unkempt. Tamed only after the largess of the passing seasons converted into dead stalks blown over by old winds to fall desiccated and seemingly spent before another season’s reciprocation. The dipole of mixed emotions equally susceptible to being drawn to and forth and then repelled What after all did one have to lose but one’s self? The infrequency of familiar relations a rarity with others casting one immediately as the stranger. Novel for a time, but never at home. Only those far distant times that were spent under the rule of those barely recalled others who brought one into the world. Judged a fit bow to have claimed have loosed so errant an arrow. Enforced anonymity equally a matter of patent non-specificity being as much a matter of reckless adherence to the daily rule of iron routines. Like a liquid, bleaching a visible spot as stain goes on expanding beyond its boundaries attempting to seek the most expeditiously covert means of escape. High pressure to low pressure. So much that quantity of landscape to have been dragged across so roughly.So many rocks that have bruised the thighs! And all of the damage too problematic to attempt to reasonably recall! Can one have the presence of mind to be able to precisely recall the disapproval upon their own mother’s or father’s face? The keepers of the circus cannon that one once used to recklessly shoot one’s self from. To bump and land roughly into more distant climes to be locked and imprisoned in solitude. Now the facsimile of the idea that propelled one forth lost somewhere nondescript within abandoned fairgrounds. A concept suddenly found to have been long ago disproved but never heeded. Those fatal and inescapable words, “I am alone.”
The sonorous quality of all things familiar drives one to summon the creation that approximates what once . To find that same nest of broken eggshells that was once known as home? How close to that vine that one seems to cling to when the fear of an inevitable end is approaching? Trying to summon some form of reliable surety, as if one surely knows something unique and eternal as opposed to simply repeating the same answers as one is always told. The path leads only in one direction. There is no possibility of return. The great tragedy of finding a fool’s cap resting upon one’s own head as they are informed it has always so securely rested. “What could you have ever expected to carry with you to the grave?” So many would have wanted one to tell a a safe and comforting familiar story! To recount a place of wonder safe from want or annoying irritations.To take them somewhere that may be familiar enough to never challenge but delightfully explore two steps only past the periphery. Not lost in the bush. “Is that right?” How do robins manage to mind their young yet expect them to fly off one day on their own? All we have in this larger fishbowl is ourselves and the long accumulation of what becomes our own follies to confront. Every automobile eventually runs out of gas or breaks down. Unless some measure of replenishment is found. But what if it can no longer be found? A long line of camels waiting for safe passage through a needle’s eye. Too far somewhere undefined in the desert of one’s self? Past times seems to quickly fade into rust. Banished by one’s children who will start their lives independently of any judgment of my own when fully grown. Individuals and adults when you are long dead. A passing generation another fragile flotilla of little candles in paper boats sailing off into the waiting darkness together and yet alone. But to what end? Eventually. Inevitably withdrawn from society and humanity demoted to a passing intermediate phase of inconvenient and annoying presence to those young and vial? A dry no longer nutritious granule in an aging box of cream of wheat. A box of crumbling crayons no longer usable. That long nightly climb to the solitude of the bed chamber. The great novels locked in one’s head otherwise empty and sunk into the harbor of regret. Lamenting all the impossibilities that one could never have possibly shared in? The life of the reasonable and possible having never been fully formed. But gone to rot. A meal for the ship’s worms. Age laughably still not destructive of that perpetual habit of everlasting hope for the future. If not here, then in some other realm never yet suggested or imagined.
I dreamed that I was a father once again as I never have ever thought I had been. Explaining the loss of one child to the other as best I could not though I too stretched forth for answers for questions never to be satisfied. A stay at home day running a newsstand with the latest articles tattooed freshly each morning upon my skin. I had no words of my own left to say. But I began with anger and angst left in my teeth and a heart of Philosopher’s lead. Not enough phlogiston left to return the light of my remaining boy’s eyes. That would have to return of its own though it grieved me to think that I could not make a dent in the avalanche of life that had come crashing down upon the two of us. Caught within the indifferent hive of humanity forced to make our way in this strange land of unceasing doubt.
Vulnerable, oh so vulnerable. A solitary soul in an infinitive fish bowl. Those manifold events from ones past caught up in a whirlwind and tossed back at one. Only one’s obsession providing any order in the ever turning chaos. Some minor detail based on the previous earthly rotation being a key to entry to this crazy quilt world. A collection of material artifacts providing the needed stimulation to proceed. A lifeline in the stream that extends only so far. The edge of the great Niagara. This darkness being the launching pad where the soul can step off and bathe equally in both past and present. The world is ever populated by the old waiting to die off. Useless bipeds who atrophy a little more each day.
One eye myopic and increasingly so, creating ever more frequent vascular headaches. My life in decline across the great desert of myself. Bereft of fantasy for the sake of others. This earth is a fiction devised. Nothing about it seems true. Just accepted fact. We are a universe of conventions individuals mining for fool’s gold. Pyrite constitutions calling it emeralds. Totally lost in the funny papers of a world loosely termed tomorrow. A crying machine of industrial tears suggesting larger proportions. Our hapless selves driven forward, ever forward, till we sicken and escape the material. The shift of the herd over the years suggesting that we all son’t make it.How lovely is a child’s smile! This is what one has to contend with.
Close your eyes in a chair and imagine a giant eraser with which you can erase yourself so that you float alone in a big velvet black. Tabla Raza again, once again! Only the on again, off again flow of blood past your right ear to reveal you. The inner clock that reminds you that time ticks away. Signing off on every instant in a single beat. An endless trickle that subtends life. That infernal mechanism that seems to stand between you and an eternity of nothingness. The is the edge of the highway if a nation of roads and major thoroughfares. We analogize ourselves as a people under a common label in our how territories. Only sailors are unafraid to push off into chaos for the benefit of unknown shores. We inhabit this place like molecules demanding the rights of Godhood. How impossible this all is?