Third Reality of Man Ch 4: Awakenings in Utero...

“Open the pod bay door Hal.”

          “I’m afraid I can’t do that Dave...”

We’ve imagined it a dozen if not ten dozen times, the moment our technology takes on a life of its’ own and refuses to serve us in the manner to which we wish to remain accustomed.  We’ve imagined our technology turning on us like a wolf pack, we’ve set technology as the synthesis of government and religion awarded the status of an emerging God complete with temples and rituals.  There is no shortage of examples in modern works of fiction where technology is the platform from which some  self aware and self serving extension of the human persona commences to conquer the species which served as the template of its' creation.  Of course what evolves to become reality will be more surprising than any feat of imagination captured as an entertainment, truth is always stranger than fiction.

To perceive evolution at its’ work is no small accomplishment, and even more difficult when you yourself are a player in evolution’s effort.  To realize that evolution is in the process of demoting you from the top of the food chain is an intimidating thing, hard on the ego, harder on the mythologies.  But challenging or not when evolution goes active someone needs to keep an eye on the proceedings for several very good reasons, chief among them evolutions’ very uncertain success ratio, particularly when your level of life could easily become a collateral casualty of one of evolutions' many failures.

Pirates...

Yes, they were, both of 'em.  My former boss that is, and his arch rival.  I'm pretty sure the rivalry between the two men was somewhat of a legend back in the day, back in their industry.  Pirates, and skilled managers of the sort that actually keep the world turning.  You know, the kind of men John Galt was looking for.  I learned a great deal from them.

You see, for my boss the job we were working was more or less just a sideline thing I think, a way to keep retirement from becoming to terribly boring.  It wasn't supposed to turn into the fubar'd mess it turned out to be.  You know, one of those things where corporate did half their job and then retired for martinis leaving those in the field to figure out how to make the damn thing actually work.  I got to work with one of the old men of the mountain when things were down and dirty.  You hated to see him coming, and you heaved a sigh of relief when he was there.  Nine out of any ten times he'd make one hell of a mess and then go to lunch leaving you to clean up the disaster, but on the tenth time his thirty years of experience would find some traction amidst the confusion and things would get better.  Interesting times they were, the kind where once it's over you go "damn, that was fun."

What a mess...

My thoughts have been evolving, as thoughts tend to do, concerning tactics to combat the perversions that are consuming the culture of the United States.  As any tactician knows an early priority is establishing a count of friend and foe, the relative number and functional strengths of those who will or might be combatants.  Somewhere in the last forty eight hours an understanding of something I've been looking at all my life dawned on me, one of those things so commonplace as to be totally overlooked and yet totally critical.

Consider what you've seen, what you've heard, of the competition between the hetero fertile willing and able to establish stable families (lets tag them the conventional) and the various and sundry of the so called alternatives who are not, they who for whatever reason choose and champion lifestyles unburdened by the effort of replacing their own lives.  Above and beyond all other considerations there is one factor that divides these two groups, and it is the criticality of that difference that has finally, finally dawned on me (I really am dumb as a fencepost sometimes). 

Mature Content Beneath the Fold...

Bang-Bang you're dead...

Social Recon Droid

Ok, anyone subscribing to the modern schools of politically correct child rearing might want to make sure the legally prescribed dose of mood stabilizing anti-depressants is active in your bloodstream before you read any further, because I’m fixing to bash and trash a fair amount of what you were taught to believe making a case linking the current explosion of individuals living degenerate lifestyles to the interference of well meaning but utterly inept adults meddling in one of life’s most absolutely critical functions, the function of children’s play.

Yes, that’s exactly what I just said.  Why?  Because another thing I’ve noticed as a common denominator of the degenerate is no matter the level of perversion entrained within their lifestyles or practiced as part of their recreations they seem to believe there’s no moral or ethical consequences so long as the activities are all carried in the bucket definition “play.”  At first I took their proclivity for calling perversion a form of play as blatant sarcasm, a deliberate insulting mockery of what is decent, but the longer I’ve observed them the more I’m coming to believe they may well be quite unintentionally speaking an absolute truth concerning their fate.  I began to question just how long has these people's play been perverted, and by what?

Fractured Love and other things...

As do most of my subjects this one arrived riding a bit of a tangent.  It comes from reading a selection of blog entries provided by a kinkster trying to justify his way of life to another fellow who is even more outspoken against such things than I am.  The blogs were all from women who were attempting to reconcile claiming dual allegiance to the seemingly incompatible realms of feminism and bdsm.  You'd think you'd get a mushroom cloud and a destroyed city should those two get in close proximity, and yet the authors maintained they embraced both in their lives.  Their claims were at best of only passing interest, beyond the fact I'm actually becoming rather impressed with the ability of the kinksters to rationalize to the point of being ridiculous anything as acceptable no matter how obviously fucked up it might be. 

No, what tweaked my attention wasn't the idea of a libber lady with a flaming red bottom who pacifies grandpa's ghost by doing penance for her feminine freedom embracing abuse in the bedroom, what caught my eye was the fact that all of the several authors expressed (in a suspiciously casual manner) a common sentiment as a part of their rationalization.  As I thought on their writings it dawned on me I've been seeing that sentiment as one of the most ubiquitous attitudes common to all the kinky people.  It's so common it might well resolve out as a true psyche marker for those at risk of going if not already gone kinky.

The fact that came to focus was this: everyone I've ever known or corresponded with of the kinky persuasion has always, always drawn a hard black line between what they identify as their "normal" self and their "sexual" self as if they'd already accepted a fragmented personality as something normal and healthy.  Now I've known a few  truly lusty ladies in my day, skilled and enthusiastic in the bedroom arts, and none of them ever expressed this dichotomy (here's to you girls, diaayamn but you were such good fun, and such good company... ).  They'd say "when I'm being sexy I like to..." or words to that effect, in essence (usually with a large and lascivious grin) taking full ownership of every element their sexuality as part and parcel of the persona they lived day to day.

Folks, that's a deep thing when you think about it.

The question that goes begging is this: when sexuality gets set off in it's own little world as something separate from the life wherein that sexuality operates what else gets segregated away into little cubbyholes where the "normal" parameters of ethics and morality become mutated, twisted and inverted compared to those that govern the public persona?  Business ethics?  The judgment parameters of the social wisdom required for a democracy to operate?  The perception and  emotional balance required to do a good job of child rearing? 

It's a total no brainer (for those who've spent any time working with reality) that once things start to fragment the cracks tend to spread every time what ever it is gets subject to any load at all.  Yet another reason to challenge the spread of the social forces that produce the kinky world, challenge and defeat those forces while there's still a society to be defended from the forces of chaos that in the end serve those who desire to destroy and enslave the United States of America.

2014... Hi Kid

the electro-octopi... what lives behind the stereo

It's a new year: 2014.  It do look like some good things are coming to pass, particularly in the realms of art.  Many of the objectives I set myself so many years ago have come to reality in those realms, I've accepted and delivered my first commissioned portrait.  Suppose I'll have to own up to being an artist now, along with all that entails.  I've been loathe to claim the title, not being entirely sure I wanted to wear the assumptions that go along with it, associate with the sort of folks society stereotypes as defining the class.  But what the whale, I've owned up to being a poet and philosopher, and I doubt those play all that much differently all things considered. Oh well.  Time tells all, just have to wait and see what develops.  It might get interesting, who knows.

There is no doubt concerning the year just passed.  The year 2013 was the year of Omega, she who named herself as the last of her kind.  It was a well chosen name, really, she is indeed the last of her kind who will ever get anywhere close to my life or heart.  It was the year of discovering the inner barriers erected in childhood to protect sanity had  eroded to the point they can be finally and fully demolished and the truth set free.  For that I do thank Omega, painful as it was it was her influence that catalyzed and enabled the final stages of that freedom even though the darker side of her influence was also the driving factor in deciding to wage war against the ultimate source of that pain.  There is no doubt she is both villain and victim of a threat that has done nothing but grow during the half century between my first exposure to that evil and now, an evil being expanded into the common culture by the will of those desiring to destroy this culture to the detriment of every life within, including and especially the Omega's of the world.   

The year 2013 saw a turning of the tide, with the falling of the inner walls came the demise  of the lies the enemy left buried in my subconscious, the lie that the seeping obscenities that had plagued my nightmares for all of working memory were the product of my own mind.  Now that the source is revealed, full known, now that I don't have to doubt myself and remain withdrawn to defend self and soul from what the bastards left buried in me like some psych slime no rape kit could ever detect it is possible to shift from defense to offense. 

A man fights with what he knows best, and I understand the nature of the collective entities that are the true power players in the modern world, I understand the nature of covert cultural warfare, I can think chink on demand.  Those are more powerful weapons than anything involving gunpowder or some manifestation of technology that I equally understand.  In the year 2013 I figured out how to attack my enemy in a manner they'll find unstoppable, utterly indefensible.  Speaking as to my enemy personified?  It's my turn now you shithead father fucking perverted freaks… it's my turn now.

It was an interesting year and a productive one, but in all truth it was a year I'm quite happy to relegate to history as a hard year survived.  It was a year of bitter heartbreak and mind numbing horror, deep regret and visceral revulsion to the point of nauseas angina, a year of scalding temptation and testing of the sort that leaves a man weary to the bottom of his soul.  I passed the test, but I am indeed weary with grief, weary from realizing and cataloging the depth of the betrayals I've known.  That was the hardest part of 2013, realizing how much my life was contaminated, corrupted and diminished of potential while still I was a child before I had any ability to defend myself.  But that was a mistake on their part, a mistake that will cost them most dearly for no money of the world, no offering of sex or sensuality or submissive servitude will I accept as penance for the crime they committed against my life and the lives of my family.  Only the total destruction of their way of life will stand as justice full served, and to that end I remain totally dedicated.

It's a new year, and it's my turn now.

Feminism 101... and what to do about it

I've stated that I'm returning to the academic environment this spring with a specific purpose in mind, that being to put a foundation under my resolve to destroy the current fad and fashion of bdsm that is spreading through society like a malignant cancer.  If I thought I could wage war on bdsm with a firearm I'd buy stock in Remington and Winchester and set about making myself a wealthy man.  But I can't, and I know it, not even with the full and willing assistance of every redneck bigot in the land (which is what those in "the lifestyle" understandably enough live in absolute terror of).  You can't kill an idea with a gun.  So if you can't use a gun (and by extrapolation if a gun won't work neither will a half megaton thermonuclear warhead) then what can be used?

The answer to that is found in an old, old saying:  "the pen is mightier than the sword."   But to bring an enemy within the pen's range requires understanding, a superior understanding to that hosted by the enemy, and that is a critical, critical understanding in its' own right.  Virtually every institution of higher learning is host and home to some form of women's studies as a consequence of the feminist movements of the past century or so.  But in blatant discrimination, and total short-sightedness, very few if any host comparable studies in the masculine.  Perhaps such a course exists, somewhere, but if it does I've never heard a whisper concerning a class titled "Manhood 101." 

It's been ten years since last I was on campus, and if upon my return I don't find some rudimentary beginnings of such a class correcting that discrimination will be high among my first priorities.  If the girls can win equal funding for their athletics using gender balance then by Tesla's swingin' testicles the boys should be able to win a bit of academic support (pun penalty 10 pts... go ahead, cheap at the price) in understanding what it is to be a man so their lives and efforts don't end up co-opted into someone else's agenda (a great many of which are unsavory running down to Sodom and Gomorra grade evil). 

You might wonder what this has to do with destroying bdsm.  It has to do with denying a critical line of supply needed by the enemy.  From my observations a large percentage of the lies bdsm uses to seduce both male and female victims are leveraged from the social shear and psychological stress inherent to the current imbalance in gender definition.  Being a man has absolutely nothing to do with, shares nothing in common with the mechanisms of SCCD (slavery and coercion, cruelty and despair... bdsm restated to take it out from beneath the camouflage of that evils' current psycho-sexual  propaganda), a fact that if ever fully known would debilitate a sizable percentage of their recruitment.

A great deal of the despair bdsm promotes to make itself seem the better choice could not exist if the boys actually understood what it is to be an emotionally mature man not dependent upon the feminine (in this context equivalent the submissive) to validate his existence.  Again, from my admittedly limited observations a fair percentage of those involved in bdsm seem to be there simply because bdsm provides them a framework of gender definition, even though the definition provided is (in their mythology technically gender neutral) actually no more than a light coat of paint laid over the most chauvinistically brutal of obsolete patriarchal methodologies the same folks would utterly reject if presented to them under their original names.

So back to the beginning... what to do about feminism?  Absolutely nothing, except learn what can be learned from the girls about how to go about liberating not a nation or a race but rather a gender from a set of obsolete and unwise social conventions threatening to destroy the very society wherein they're found.

Please don't give up, things are startin to change...

I heard a conversation down at the diner the other night that was the most hopeful thing I've heard in ages.  I heard a couple of rather red-neck good ol' boys discussing climate change... and they weren't cussing it as a lie, they were putting some serious common sense to the problem, the kind of thought that in the long run is what just might turn the problem around.  A most hopeful thing, most hopeful.  These are the guys who feed the nation, and a bunch of folks beyond that, they're the ones who live closer to mother nature than 99% of folks, and they were talking like they were convinced the lady needs some help.  Yup, it was a most hopeful thing because these guys are the kind where if a lady needs help you put the beer back in the cooler and postpone the friday fistfight until you've gotten her taken care of.

I'm not among their number, I'm tolerated after a fashion as one of those crazy damn liberals who every now and then makes a little bit of sense.  But when I heard them talking about how to farm major plots of land without diesal power, when they were talking about the legacy technology of steam and starting the process of figuring out how to bring it back better than it was I was totally amazed, and totally delighted. 

I didn't butt in, I just listened, but I'm totally onboard with the idea of replacing diesal engines with hydrogen fired steam, and for more things than just farming.  Peterbuilt, Kenworth, Volvo, are you listening?  Totally clean burn, nothing but water in the exhaust and plenty of power to take a side stream and leave the combustion air cleaner than you found it.  And, being a crazy liberal and all I was looking a bit further down the line and thinking there's is an awful lot of sunshine falling on the south pacific that could be harvested to crack hydrogen off of sea water, essentially unloading at least part of the energy burden off the land areas.  As a side benefit of significant impact such a change would go a long way towards restoring the merchant marine as a major employer, someone would have to go fetch the full fuel cells and do the maintenance on the production bouys riding the currents.  That... would get the sailors back in the game, and if there's one bunch of folks who can compete with the farmers for making it happen one way or another it's the sailors.   

Painting Fool...

I read of art and artists, and the folks who write about them will usually point to some specific range of time and say "this was his productive period..." and then launch off into what is known of the artist's life at that time, the events leading up to that time.  Ok, it's taken me a few years to understand that strange habit, the first thing I had to understand was what actually drives someone to paint.  Yea, well, if you're smart (that is to say, not intending to destroy yourself) you paint instead of over indulging in alcohol or other mind shifting things to keep your attention focused on something relatively harmless while dealing on things anything but.  As I write it's give or take OH six hundred hours now (that classic Robbin William's "Goodmorning Viet Nam" OH my God it's to damn early to be awake...), and just to flatter me own vanity I think I'm going to pretend that someday someone might actually give a hoot about my paintings and write something about me, and what the whale, they should have something to work from.



No...a study in brown


This one marks the return of a sad sick memory a few days ago, one from that childhood hell house next door.  The memories are buried, thankfully in some regards I suppose, but buried memories are still memories and will still influence what happens after their making.  The memory that returned was seeing feet in the window, feet on a table, and realizing I'd seen similar several times and the screams were always the most agonizing when you could see feet.   They were caning their victims I'm sure, and caning is a brutal and bruising form of pain.  Even the arab and oriental barbarians who still use it as a form of capital punishment set a count of strokes, somehow I don't think the shitheads next door were counting, somehow I think they'd judge when to quit by when the screams started getting to weak to be entertaining anymore. 

How do I know it's a real memory?  When it crosses my thought everything, and I do mean everything, goes flat gray featureless without color or life, without emotion or motion, time stands still and all I can sense is a pain that reminds me of a heart attack, and then when life and light and motion return it's in a rush of pure rage, an anger beyond describing, which I'm sure is why my sleep schedule these days is rolling like a bowling ball down some ally... a piece of the blocking mechanism failed, and the subconscious is trying to get things back in order before something worse slips the line. 

Right.  No, not right.  As wrong as wrong can be, and I don't give a flying fuck who says otherwise.  Which is why I'm filling my time doing paintings, it's so much safer (and less of a temptation) than going out in the country and burning gunpowder practicing quick draw and rapid fire while trying to paint the face of those disgusting barbarian assholes (who are dead of old age by now, dammit, I want so badly to shoot them just for the satisfaction of watching them die and go to the hell they so ripely deserve) onto the tin cans on the other side of the ravine... yea, it's better to just paint, and plan a less destructive but more devestating way of getting to their heirs and descendents still polluting the world of today.  Painting is a good thing to do while you plan, keeps your hands busy and keeps other folks from asking you what you're up to...

The Dogs of War...bow wow m*f*

"Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition…" The quote originated on this date seventy two years ago, a Sunday, a navy chaplain who continued his sermon while chain passing ammo to the anti-aircraft guns trying to defend a doomed fleet. Sunday December 7, 1941… the surprise attack on a sleeping Pearl Harbor, the day to be remembered in infamy, the first day of the United States' involvement in what many will say was the last undisputedly righteous war.

Things have changed a lot since then, and nothing has changed more than the nature of war. Oh, there's still soldiers and sailors, ships and tanks and guns, armies and navies and of course combat aircraft, but the reality has become that those weapons are not the only weapons nor even the most effective weapons. As history has unfolded its' become ever more obvious they're primarily involved with minimizing the residual consequences of how the serious conflicts are being waged. Even without the nuclear arsenals the terrible destructive power of modern weaponry just doesn't make it very feasible for the major powers to engage in old school warfare anymore. Bad for business, very bad for business. But nothing is more foolish than to assume that since the major nations aren't shooting at each other, at least not directly, that they have renounced conflict one with the other. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The most serious campaigns are now being fought on terrain impossible to access before the advent of modern technology. In the days when the Big E and her sisters Hornet and Yorktown stood out of Pearl Harbor to engage their enemy outnumbered four to one it simply was not possible to wage the kind of wars known to the modern world. No, I'm not talking about satellite controlled drones and supersonic stealth aircraft, I'm talking about the ability to access the attention of major chunks of your enemies population, to manipulate and maneuver the developmental parameters of their youth, the ability to wage covert cultural warfare from behind the smiling façade of international trade. The media power to wage such conflict just did not exist.

It's totally ironic, really. The United States military stands ready to unleash biblical grade hellfire and brimstone on fifteen seconds notice in physical defense of the nation, and that's just while they're getting the heavy stuff warmed up, and yet no one had the good sense to challenge the Nintendo invasion. Oh well, we hit back with John Wayne and the cowboy mythos backed up by the Door's LA Woman brand of sucker fuck 'em into abandoning that oh so fragile cowboy ethic in favor of raw animal lust, and guess what? A scant twenty years later they've given up having babies, I think we're going to win that one. That's the Japanese. But the Chinese are a different story… Chairman Mao did a good job of getting them ready to fight, and they I'm afraid are kicking our ass, the caste and class systems of servitude they've operated out of for millennia making a serious try at destroying the once vaunted American freedom of thought, every perversion known to history implanted on the culture and on the upswing as the count of viable fertile families is falling like a rock... yea, I'm afraid we're in as bad a shape vis-à-vis the Chinese now as we were back in that dark day when a battered and beat up Big E was the only thing that stood between the Japs and victory. We live in interesting times. 

To write a Villain...



Baron Vladimir Harkonnen

 I write stories, and perhaps my favorite part of writing stories, other than getting the dang thing out of my head, is the inventing of good characters.  Each character is a unique creature that evolves as the story gets told, the events and understandings within the plot impacting on them according to the nature I've given them just as they would on any human being.  Heroes and heroines are of course where the majority of the focus must fall, they're who carry the tale.  But for a hero to shine that character must be matched against a villain believably evil enough, believably powerful enough, to make his defeat a major accomplishment.

To create a believable character is an excellent exercise in introspection, for the fact is that all any writer can do by way of creating a character is to take some portion of his own persona and build it a different path of evolution whereby the character came to incorporate that fraction of the writer.  To write a hero or heroine is safe enough, most generally what you're doing is amplifying what you'd like to believe are, or would be given the situation, your more noble traits.  The only real risk is allowing ego and wishful thinking to take your character beyond the believable.   But to write a good villain is a decidedly more risky endeavor, for that involves a dance with your dark side, it involves taking what you'd consider one of your weaknesses and building a character where that facet came to be the driving force of a major player in your story.

For this reason a great many villains are flat and rather one dimensional, but the truly great villains are not.  They are full human beings, often almost a sympathetic creature the reader can full understand, understand and empathize with well enough to demand the reader condemn the villain not for any one choice to action but rather with the many choices and actions that all reflect the same weakness never challenged, never mastered.  Where a good hero may carry the plot and action of a story a good villain is as often as not where the moral of a story will ride in the form of a character who portrays the ultimate consequences of allowing some weakness, some deformity of psyche or soul to maintain dominance over a life.

I'm paying a bit more attention to my villains these days than I used to, and with very deliberate good cause.  To build a well crafted villain is to understand the human condition from the perspective of your own weaknesses and insecurities, it is to take those less than sterling attributes and set the chosen one into a scenario where that test of life will be failed and the character sinks rather than ascends. 

To write a working and believable villain is to understand how to understand the real villains in your life in such a manner that they might be defeated.  To write a solid villain is to understand how to avoid becoming one in reality, and when you're in the process of overhauling segments of yourself to go into battle against the evil and pathos of what you perceive as villainy full and complete that understanding is a very good thing.  It can, in the end, save more than your life.

Invasion Training...

How do you train for an invasion?  Hard, that's how.  Run 'em till they puke and then make them get up and run some more.  Abuse 'em, psyche and soul, and see how long they hold unit cohesion, how long it takes to break them down into cliques blaming each other for the life they're living.  Then scramble the pack and do it all over again.  When they're twice as tough as they were at first you begin to think they might be getting close to ready.  You train hard because no matter how hard you are on your boys the enemy is going to be harder.  That's how it is, that's how it has to be.

But that's talking about warfare in the physical... Guadalcanal or Normandy.  But there are other kinds of invasions as well, and truth is you train just as hard for those because the beachhead, that first absolutely critical fifty miles between your back and the water, will be just as defended there as anywhere.  I'm in training for the second kind, and I don't expect it to be an easy campaign.  I'll be going into the realms of those who think, who think, they understand the human mind, and they are not a lightweight foe.  I'm going in to correct some deep errors and deliberate ignorance in their thinking, errors that have over the years given rise to quite a collection of miseries including my prime enemy bdsm.  Those errors have been in that mode of thought since very near its' beginnings.  There are many and a many in there whose lives are dependent on those errors remaining in place, and beyond them there are probably ten thousand individuals for every one shrink whose life of sin and contagious misery is justified on some extrapolation of those errors.  It's going to get interesting, and quite possibly hand to hand (so to speak, actually head to head) before the end. 

So I'm in training, driving myself to emulate my enemies actions and intentions to test my own resilience.  It's a matter of pushing and pulling, grinding and cutting and eating cold food under a poncho hiding from an even colder rain so to speak, compelling myself to face now as many of the thoughts they'll be using as weapons as imagination is able to generate running at 110% under nitrous and a blower.  A great deal of this is occurring along the conscious/sub-conscious interface of lucid dreaming.  Let me tell you, lucid dreaming is a very interesting place to train.  There's simply no telling what the hidden back side of your mind will throw at you when you demand it cooperate with a conscious decision.  But, that is the terrain of the battle when the enemy counterattacks, it's really the only way to go about it.

*chuckle*  But no, I've not seen any monkeys trying to spit out an eel, my symbolism are even stranger than that.  Far stranger.



Bar Card wanderings...

Several times in my life I've given thought to just getting in the *whatever I'm driving* and taking off... leaving town and not looking back.  Of course, anyone who's ever spent any time on the road knows about how long the romance in that lasts, and it isn't very long.  But still, sometimes the fantasy of a carefree life of travel presents itself, and sometimes I indulge it even knowing full well that "carefree" and "travel" really don't do well locked in the same suitcase for any great length of time.  Common sense usually edges into the picture after a bit, but when common sense is feeling benign and gentle it usually takes the form of "hey, you could go around and sell something really neat to the folks you meet..." and the fantasy migrates away from just running away into running for, and eventually to some justification for staying on the move.  Tonight's version?  Business cards, produced on a totally uber cool designed and built by yours truly mobile production facility (that just happens to fit beautifully under the back lid of me old '74 VW bus ;-) featuring quickie impressionistic portraits of the folks I'd meet, so they'd have a really cool card to hand out to the oh-so-hot stranger they might meet in a bar, or better still the grocery store, and maybe the major hot other would turn out to be a true lady or gentleman and they'd fall in love and have themselves a family and grandkids and all that stuff and then when Katie finally says goodbye and goes home some child would be looking at the book of memories and see the card and go "wow... whoawaywow... that was Grandma?"  Yea, sometimes I entertain the fantasy, but only when I really need to.

When you can answer your own question...

[a Hearts of Space free write, an unedited ramble through the backside of me brain... read if you wish, or don't read, I don't care one way or the other, I'm just posting it more or less to take the place of going to confession in a church I don't belong to.]

Sha Haisat: Perchance to dream...

I'm returning to the story of Sha Haisat and Keyanna, interplanetary colonists... a work in progress, the story of Sha, who becomes an accidental  God to his world, no longer truly a man but still of human origin and very much a living God to the humans on his planet, and the long, long, long line of the Keyannas, the high preistess' of the religion that grows up around him, all of whom are true genetic replicas of his original ship born woman Keyanna Tryon, each woman mother to her own replacement concieved to Sha during the wilderness retreat of her trial.

This next set of panels will deal with the months Keyanna hides from the other colonists in the wilderness waiting for Sha to mature enough, as a fixed node, for her to simply talk to him directly.  She brought two months worth of rations, but needs at least three, but Keyanna being Keyanna this is not really a problem.  She has two full Ranger field kits, weapons and tools, the planet is fertile, benign, totally human compatible and she is a savvy strong young woman, she makes do as a hunter and a gatherer in the wild.  But her days living almost feral are not really the point of this next set, for she is also in daily conversation with First, and Second, they who are Sha's southern and eastern adjoining edges in the strange matrix of life that lives below the sands of the equitorial desert, and for a human to speak for prolonged periods with a fixed node entity is most definitely a mind expanding experience... hallucinations and dreams and an almost omniscient portal onto the experiences of the other humans... by the time Keyanna returns to her own kind she is indeed the caliber of woman to be a global high priestess to an emerging society.

Standing woman, standing wave...

I don't make a habit of reposting other people's work, but I'm going to make an exception today.  I'm going to ask the beautiful women whose images grace the beginning of this post to help me make a point.  What I'd like to talk about is actually one of life's deeper questions, a question that has been dodged and ducked, covered up and ignored, proscribed and prohibited for a very long time now that really needs answered.  It's a rather pointy question actually, for as delightfully curved as the subject is, and it goes like this:  What in the name of Noah's pet whales is so intimidating about these beautiful creatures that one way or another society as a whole considers them such a threat???

Please understand, I'm not talking about the women themselves of course.  For them I would hope (me being me and all, hetero monogamous hopefully hopeless romantic that I am) a good and loving man strong enough not to base his ego on her beauty, several healthy children who will become a wholesome family extending many generations from she who was half the foundation of that family.  You know, my version of a happy life.  But that's just me.  No, what I'm talking about is what they portrayed for the photographer's lens when they took on the challenge of portraying not they themselves but an archetype of the idealized woman.  Why would society have a problem with that?

Spelunking...

Originally published March 12, 2012

This post is an attempt to answer the question posed by my friend CJ on the previous post.  She asks “If this kind of image depicts universal psychic pain, why is it always women who suffer it? In traditional oil painting and sculpture, both genders expressed pathos. In bondage art, where are the bound and tormented naked men?”   It is a very good question, and in my opinion it reaches out a great deal deeper into society than simply art.  Regardless of what is claimed by those who produce such images the fact there is such a defined gender imbalance removes such images from the realms of art and into the realm of pornography.

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The males are there CJ, they are.  But the bias against the male in those works is even more pronounced than the bias against the male in “conventional” nude art.  If anything the bias is even more pronounced.  You have to go looking to find such works, and believe me, you want a layer of rubber between your skin and what you’ll be wading in while you search.  It’s a sewer, and no mistake.  I’ve been down that hole a couple of times (wearing full class-A HAZMAT complete with SCBA, so to speak) and what I saw there was both heartbreaking  sad, and informative concerning cePornography’s net effect on the human critter.

Let me preface what I say next by saying this:  the various forms and fashions of sexuality can only reflect the inner state of a life in actions, the actions in and of themselves cannot change the state of a life, at most all they can do is reinforce what someone brought with them.  A great deal of the effort and angst of alternate sexualities is spent to ignore this fact. 

Of equal impact is the fact that cePornography is a consummately social creature, absolutely conventional in its’ essence, totally dependent on cultural biases and limitations to empower the perversions offered.  From that fact it is easily seen that all social conventions will be reinforced in such realms.  So of course in the perversions of pain the conventional establishment Anglo tradition allowing a female the right to display her pain,  emotional or otherwise, will be fully supported while a male (to be a MAN in the eyes of ceEstablishment) is not to show his.  I’d say this accounts for a great deal of the gender disparity seen (or not) in the raw number of offerings put before the public.

The above might account for the raw numbers, but it doesn’t address the underlying why of such works being created in the first place, it doesn’t really offer an emotional understanding of the why of the matter.  It is hard approaching impossible to put an intellectual understanding to what is in fact an irrational emotional construct.  So  it’s time to discard literality, and engage symbolic translation protocols to approximate those used by the collective entities actually responsible.  What follows will be in a format approximating a conversations, a stage script, those speaking identified at the start of each comment.

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You Ride Alone...

Originally Published March 9, 2012

I've been in a totally bummed out mood all freakin' afternoon.  Not even Mel Brooks and Maker's Mark could break it over.  That's what usually happens when that little light bulb above your head turns on, and what the light shows you is something contradictory and sad, yet another set of loops in the Gordian knot of misery that is the human condition.  It's an occupational hazard of being a philosopher, it's what happens when you're chasing some particular "why" and it leads you over a cliff you didn't see coming.  Lord knows I should have seen it coming, it evolved from one of several standing quagmires under consideration.  But I didn't, and now I'm paying the price.  Oh, well. 

It began with the previous post that began as a comment on CJ's blog trying to blow open the reasons behind her very legitimate concern and complaint for debate, trying to move away from indignation and outrage into some mode of thought to actually do something about the problem rather than just vent and repent having noticed it in the first place.  What tripped the whole circumstance was CJ's outrage at a fetish image posted on DevArt, a graphic and frankly rather gross image of a girls tummy deformed and defaced with quite a number of large gauge needles piercing her skin, pulling her skin into knots up her belly and between her breasts to look like the spine of some emaciated creature.  It was worse than disgusting, it was truly pitiful. 

But still, being objective, I had to defend it as being art.  Most certainly art capturing a totally deformed, degraded and degrading frame of mind, but still art. As I told CJ, art makes no promise concerning comfort.  Art is quite capable of communicating a scream of emotional pain, a scream of social agony the artist really has little understanding of.  But a scream of pain can be a traumatic thing in its' own right, inflicting pain on all who perceive it, and CJ was holding forth that art should self censure such screams rather than inflict them on those who have no knowledge of pain at such intensity. 

I tried to point out that image was not unique, that I'd seen many other images of a similar nature, some calling themselves fetish work, others from the deviant side of hard core porn, but all of them sharing the same sense of a scream ripped from the lives of those portrayed by some force beyond their control.  I wanted to point out that the ever growing number of such images, the never changing similarity in the symbolisms they present almost demands the assumption of some common pathogen impacting on the culture.  I was hoping to spark some dialog as to what that common pathogen might be, where it might be possible to intervene with a deliberate intent.  I tried, but I failed.  What I got back were stock out of the box stereotypes of the sort used to dismiss an unhappy thought into the limbo of the socially ignored.

That bothered the fuck out of me, it did and it does.  I was stewing, thinking hard thoughts about my friend, wondering why.  Yea, I was just that deep.  I know better than to wonder why about a why, that gets you going in circles that can be hard to break out of.  Well, in one sense I was lucky I suppose, I broke out of the circle soon enough, but what broke me out of that spiral wasn't so very nice.  I realized something much, much larger than anything involved with art, art was just the catalyst of perception, and it is that realization that is kicking my ass  tonight.

Our culture is dying, there's no denying it.  Every single indicator on the board is deep in the red, every critical system failing if not failed.  The United States of America is on its' last legs as a viable culture.  This fact is becoming known, and of course the associated despair is having its' way with the attitudes of the population.  What I realized is the nature of how the culture is dealing with that despair, where that scream of social agony represented by that gross photograph actually originates.

Of course, of course the culture has to put forth some token effort at saving itself, of course it must.  For the most part those token efforts revolve around the children, children who are the hope of the future.  The battle cry of the day is Protect The Children!  All well and good, but what must the children be protected from?  What the children need protecting from are the same things that have damaged the culture of course, the children are part of the culture.  So what have the dumb fuck hypocrites of America done?  They've focused all their efforts on protecting the children from the least likely of hazards, the one that in absolute statistical fact is the most minor of threats. 

They are focusing a landslide of attention on the evil of children abused in the production of sexual pornography, and what I realized was the overwhelming popularity of that focus is that it allows this totally fucked up suicidal culture to absolutely and completely ignore every other form of pornography attacking the children, the very forms of pornographic thought that are in the process of destroying it!  They can't defend the children against those forms of pornography, those are what the adults are addicted to!  Pistol porn, money porn, power porn, the list just goes on and on, every one of which impacts on the children's lives, every one of which does deep damage, every one of which is socially invisible.  Our society is committing suicide by refusing to admit pornography doesn't have to be sexual in nature.

That's where that scream of pain seen in that photo originates, that is the scream of those who can sense, who can feel the impact of all the other pornographies ripping at their lives, lives that have been betrayed into being totally dependent on the very society that has betrayed them!  The self destructive life styles are just their way of trying to attract attention to what their society has already agreed to ignore.  The poor fools.  They could commit slow suicide on the six o'clock news with a full manifesto as to why and no one is going to really give a damn.  They can't, not without admitting it should be they, not the kids, who deserve to die. 

Shit.  Well, at least it is an answer.  And it fits the observed facts, the observed behaviors.  I was a total fucking fool to ever think art might be stout enough to challenge in against that. No way.  Art will probably do a good job of recording the convulsions generated by the death agony of this land for history to examine at some later date, but the very nature of the people involved with art precludes it doing much more than that. 

Oh, well.  Idiot, get on your horse and ride, you knew when you signed up most often you'd end up riding alone. 

The Sadder Fate...

In the back lore of The Lord of the Rings it tells how the race of Orcs were created from the Elves, unfortunates captured and tormented generation after generation until their nobility and innocence degraded away into ultimate bitterness and despair, how Morgoth the great enemy unable to create true life on his own mocked the creation of life with the corruption of life.  Morgoth was eventually cast out, denied any access to the living lands, in time his great captain Souron met the same fate. 

But the fate of the Orcs lingered on, it is said Aragorn gave them a land to be their own, that they have a place to live what life might remain to them after the fall of their masters.  The King was as generous as fate would allow, even though he must have understood the fate he sent them to.  No tale tells of them after the fall of Souron, their ultimate end is not known.  I doubt they endured long, deprived of the will of their masters I doubt they would have reproduced in great numbers, such despair as would have been theirs does not do good things for fertility.

In my darker moments I sometimes wonder what became of them as the ages unrolled from then till today.  I visit their fate when the fate of my land and times weighs heavy on my thoughts, for surely our world, troubled and evil as it might be, cannot compare to the world known by those last  generations of the Orc.  Free from the will of their masters the comparison between their fate and that of the other speaking peoples would surely have been a crushing burden to bear.  At times I listen to my world, listen to the whispers below the whispers, at times I think I can still hear the echo of their last despair in the first winds of winter.  I hear their laments in so many places, to many places. 

The Orcs of Morgoth are fictional, but there are those whose despair is coming to reprise them into modern reality.  Compassion is the only true antidote, and the resolve that they should be the last such creatures to ever endure mortality burdened to such an existence.  It is the least of things, really, to endure such an understanding, and it is the greatest of things to dedicate all effort to translating that resolve from a passing thought into the facts of history.  It is actually a great deal of what powers my life, when you get right down to it.

Domestic warfare...

I... am a kipple bigot.  I hate kipple, loathe it, despise it.  There is very little I like less than finding the remnants of day before yesterday, or five weeks ago yesterday, dug in and occupying some odd crevice or corner.   It galls me, how it builds ramparts from straw wrappers and a hot sauce packet, half a banana peel and a crust of bread.  It infuriates me how it mans those battlements and mocks the broom, waiting until everyone is asleep to ride out and colonize another corner.  I hate kipple.

Of course it's all part of a plot you see, there's no way it's happening without help.  Me?  I blame the dustbunnies.  They are obviously descended from the Nazi's, just look at their swastika shaped ears.  It is an alliance made in housekeeper's hell it is.  Where kipple likes to dig in the dustbunnies are mobile, mounted, the cavalry of chaos.  Once they formed their alliance everything just became that much harder: the kipple travels with a dustbunny escort, and the dustbunnies take shelter in the kipple's fortresses.  Not a good situation, not at all.

But there is hope on the horizon, soon the poor broom will have something the kipple and the dustbunnies won't be able to defend against.  For all their tenacious aggression they still can't turn the air black with flack, and their doom will arrive from above.  Yes, airpower is on the way.  Death will fall upon them from the skies and there will be nothing they will be able to do about it.  The broom is getting some serious reinforcements... (heavy drum roll followed by the battle theme from "Patton" on a screaming lead guitar ala Hendrix)... the air hose and shop vac are coming in the house tomorrow.  Deal and done, take that suckers!

Can you tell I've gone back to keeping house at my house after a prolonged absence leaving the defense of domestic hygiene in the hands of those who think kipple is first cousin to civil engineering and dustbunnies make cute pets?  Oh yea... it's gonna happen.

*nos walks off whistling... dum de dum dum dum diddly yum dum, dum dee-aa a dum... grin*