Having a positive attitude, so I am told, is of vital importance. One should smile, and face life with a brave countenance. On those unfortunate moments that are not the norm, as Life Is Beautiful, we are to make lemonade from lemons and remember that God does not give us more than we can handle.
Should you be one of these empty-headed morons that believe that worthless bullshit, here is a charming note for you: I am coming over to your home. I will bring a posse of the most unpleasant "human beings" I can find: unclean, diseased and quite mad.
We will then collectively gang rape you. Any opening on your body, we will stick something in it. Once done, we will then remove your eyes, and thus having created a new opening, we will gang rape you again. We will do this to you only after you have been forced to watch as we gang rape your family.
Parents, children, grandchildren, cousins... why, we will even torment the flesh of your best and closest friends.
Yes, this would include pets.
Now. Make lemonade out of them lemons. Remember: God thinks you can get through this with no problem, so long as you go through it with Him (or Her, or It, whatever).
I like to entertain myself with these vile, loathsome fantasies every time I hear some self-righteous pigheaded Praise Jesus Glory type go on and on and on about how Everything Happens For A Reason. Equally entertaining to me are the times that some arrogant pissant Positive Thoughts Change Everything goes on about how people with negative mindsets Bring Shit On Themselves... well, what until I show up with my full on Joker, knives and pliers, hammers and blowtorches. Get Positive on that, dipshit.
The best part about this blog: few read it. When the time comes and I ultimately go totally batshit insane, this I am sure will be entertaining.
Nothing like using a public forum... ah, and the blessed peace of ignorance...
Ignorance is not stupidity. Ignoring a thing makes all those words above so much more pleasant. Denial. It is standing on the deck of the Titanic and saying, What a lovely night! We should go for a swim.... nothing wrong here, right?
Spinning more and more wildly out of control, life is an amusement park, a Carnivale of dark pleasures and questionable practices. BUT if I only keep a happy face, all will be well...
Right? Right?
Ever see the photo from Viet Nam with the young naked girl running screaming towards the camera? She was in a village that had been napalmed out of existence and had torn her burning clothes off. Napalm, which sticks, continues to burn. So tell me: How much lemonade should she have made, then? Hmmm???
No. Fuck you. I am dead fucking serious. How much would her life have changed with an upbeat attitude?
Watching others in the course of my existence, I can see where some did indeed drive the car off the cliff, lifestyle choices made that ended all Thelma And Louise. These souls, like me, apparently are here for everyone else, for the collective amusement of the self-righteous. See, children? Don't act like Jim or you will get hurt! He didn't keep a Positive Attitude...
These are the people that I love to be near when everything falls apart. When cancer strikes, when the job is lost, when someone dies: Here, fuckhead, have some lemonade. I put cyanide in it.... Let's all head to Jonestown, shall we?
For the record: No. I am dead fucking serious. It is what I mean, what I think. People that honestly believe that just keeping a Happy Place is enough to get through the most difficult parts of their lives deserve the razor blades and gasoline that life has to offer them.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
The Control Process
Nothing which follows is original in form or content, but a mere reminder of that which has gone before.
Part 1: The greatest trick the Devil ever performed was convincing the world that he didn't exist.
All fiction, by its very nature, is a lie. Were it truth, it would be called non-fiction. Q.E.D. The problem, of course, is in the nature of truth itself. To use hyperbole to make an exaggerated point, then, imagine two separate volumes by two separate authors. The topic is the same: the history and impact of the musical genre referred to as rap and/or hip-hop.
Volume one is written in the form of a memoir, a life spent creating the music. Volume two is written by a white supremacist.
Both purport to be Truth, or at least non-fiction. Having suggested nothing more than describing the authors in the two volumes, one can see not only how the author would be using language in a manner that most powerfully supports their own pre-existing notions but, and here is the rub, also the notions of you, the reader.
Truth, when presented by a polemicist, is at best doubtful. Sadly, this but the tip of the iceberg that threatens us all.
From a course in basic sociology: The definition of a situation is that which is determined to be real with determine actions regardless of the veracity of the reality.
That concept (pretty much the basis of my first and as yet only novel) is the point, the actual crux of the matter. With the instant access to any and all data, those who wish to sell a reality and create a collective consensus need do no more than go trolling for those who seek a mental form of real estate that is already plotted out.
Bottom line, then, to refer back to #1: That which can be called a "conspiracy theory" becomes nothing more than a means of diverting the attention away from the Real Satan (if you will): there is no real political separation. The facts that do not conform to the theories are ignored.
Selling it is easy, and time tested, which leads us to...
Part 2: Shout It! Shout It! Shout It Out Loud! Over and over and over again!
The current viewpoint expressed here, so far, has used in the only example as hyperbole. Hyperbole has become so ingrained into our collective political discussions to do nothing more than make a point has become the standard means of debate.
You are wrong if you think the political right are fascists.
You are wrong if you think the political left are communists.
The two statements above will infuriate some to the point of blind unreason. However, the fact is that if you, the reader, chooses one label or the other for yourself, and you have been called one or the other long enough, you might be feeling that twinge of response: Oh, yeah???
The desire to communicate a difference of opinion is gone. It is no longer an acceptable means of communication, one must destroy them as do not agree, heaping abuse on abuse while wondering why that brings about a reaction equal to or greater than one's own.
Is it the labels? Or the fact that both statements begin with "You are wrong if you think..."
By doing that, I have created an intellectual environment in which the acceptance of either viewpoint, by my own definition, is wrong. It only appears rational, but in a sense, I am shouting at you. I have in those two sentences eliminated any form of debate by suggesting that any and all who would dare question me are... wrong.
If we are shouting at each other, then we are not listening. Shouting drowns out the words spoken.
The Control Process then has been to bury rational discussion and to live by labels. While it is self-inflicted, I have seen this in places one would not anticipate, like the community that calls itself Punk. The issue at hand is: what is Punk? Are you as Punk as I?
While that is a form of hyperbole, extend it out, and then the divisions suggested above become even more interesting. You are not as right wing (or left wing) as I... can you be trusted?
The Control Process to this point is at its most obvious and it can, and does, escalate to violence, both physical and emotional, words become weapons. The pen is mightier than the sword and can inflict the same damage.
That should not make one less mindful of the sword, as the damage done by words is often invisible, but the damage of the sword can be literally permanent.
Forcing and/or badgering others into accepting one's worldview is bad enough: concentration camps were used for more than mere murder (as if that weren't evil enough), they were also used as re-education camps. It was an actualization of the old joke: The beatings will continue until morale improves.
Using rage and violence is bad enough, but it is visible. One has but to stop, listen and watch. The issues are before us. The real horror and the greatest threat is Soft Control...
3: It's just Kool-Aid.
Soft control is insidious. It is the quiet, and genteel form of inflicting addictions, addiction to sugars and fats in the diet, addictions to body modifications, addictions to addiction.
It takes the handcuffs and puts them on the table. The lie is bold: it is not a pair of handcuffs, it is a fashion statement. We succumb to the Soft Control when we allow ourselves to pick them up and put them on.
Soft Control suggests, whispers. It is usually rather blatant, holding before us a heap of steaming feces, which we know is feces, but the Soft Control says, no, it is breakfast. We buy into it, and eat.
Disgusting image? Yep.
Consider something so obvious but so bold that it is impossible for me, personally, to not think of it as a deliberate attempt to undermine the populace of the United States.
Two televisions shows (television being indeed the Drug Of The Nation) offered two comedic views of life, on two separate networks. Consider them, and consider them well. The Cosby Show and Rosanne.
Which of these two families would you, the reader, consider to be middle class?
If you immediately thought The Cosby Show, then let us look at it. Cliff and Clair Huxtable live in New York with a small army of children. Cliff is an OB/Gyn, while Clair is an attorney. They have a two story home in the city, plus vehicles to take their small army of children to whatever event they wish. There is never a discussion of finances. While cutting in their humorous comments to one another, they are witty and urbane.
Rosanne, featuring the Connor family, has Rosanne and Dan Connor and their three children. This largely dysfunctional group of people is harsh to the point of brutality to one another and pretty much the world at large. Rosanne is a factory worker, loses that job, tries to start her own business, then becomes a waitress. Dan's employment history is shaky, and the two can barley keep the roof over their heads.
Which family is middle class?
A pair of college educated professionals? Really?
This is the evil of the Soft Control. The constant insinuation that There Is Something Wrong With You If You Don't Want To Be The Huxtables.
I have nothing against them, or those that want that level of comfort. Calling them middle class is wrong, just plain wrong. They are not. It is a matter of color, but it is the color of the money, not the skin. Do that many black Americans have access to those levels of affluence and education?
The new car we HAVE to have year after year, the gadget from iMoney, the latest trends and fashions...
How about a world where the emotional collapse of a Famous Person is presented as if it mattered to anyone other than that persons' immediate family? Is that not a form of control in itself?
What controls you?
Part 1: The greatest trick the Devil ever performed was convincing the world that he didn't exist.
All fiction, by its very nature, is a lie. Were it truth, it would be called non-fiction. Q.E.D. The problem, of course, is in the nature of truth itself. To use hyperbole to make an exaggerated point, then, imagine two separate volumes by two separate authors. The topic is the same: the history and impact of the musical genre referred to as rap and/or hip-hop.
Volume one is written in the form of a memoir, a life spent creating the music. Volume two is written by a white supremacist.
Both purport to be Truth, or at least non-fiction. Having suggested nothing more than describing the authors in the two volumes, one can see not only how the author would be using language in a manner that most powerfully supports their own pre-existing notions but, and here is the rub, also the notions of you, the reader.
Truth, when presented by a polemicist, is at best doubtful. Sadly, this but the tip of the iceberg that threatens us all.
From a course in basic sociology: The definition of a situation is that which is determined to be real with determine actions regardless of the veracity of the reality.
That concept (pretty much the basis of my first and as yet only novel) is the point, the actual crux of the matter. With the instant access to any and all data, those who wish to sell a reality and create a collective consensus need do no more than go trolling for those who seek a mental form of real estate that is already plotted out.
Bottom line, then, to refer back to #1: That which can be called a "conspiracy theory" becomes nothing more than a means of diverting the attention away from the Real Satan (if you will): there is no real political separation. The facts that do not conform to the theories are ignored.
Selling it is easy, and time tested, which leads us to...
Part 2: Shout It! Shout It! Shout It Out Loud! Over and over and over again!
The current viewpoint expressed here, so far, has used in the only example as hyperbole. Hyperbole has become so ingrained into our collective political discussions to do nothing more than make a point has become the standard means of debate.
You are wrong if you think the political right are fascists.
You are wrong if you think the political left are communists.
The two statements above will infuriate some to the point of blind unreason. However, the fact is that if you, the reader, chooses one label or the other for yourself, and you have been called one or the other long enough, you might be feeling that twinge of response: Oh, yeah???
The desire to communicate a difference of opinion is gone. It is no longer an acceptable means of communication, one must destroy them as do not agree, heaping abuse on abuse while wondering why that brings about a reaction equal to or greater than one's own.
Is it the labels? Or the fact that both statements begin with "You are wrong if you think..."
By doing that, I have created an intellectual environment in which the acceptance of either viewpoint, by my own definition, is wrong. It only appears rational, but in a sense, I am shouting at you. I have in those two sentences eliminated any form of debate by suggesting that any and all who would dare question me are... wrong.
If we are shouting at each other, then we are not listening. Shouting drowns out the words spoken.
The Control Process then has been to bury rational discussion and to live by labels. While it is self-inflicted, I have seen this in places one would not anticipate, like the community that calls itself Punk. The issue at hand is: what is Punk? Are you as Punk as I?
While that is a form of hyperbole, extend it out, and then the divisions suggested above become even more interesting. You are not as right wing (or left wing) as I... can you be trusted?
The Control Process to this point is at its most obvious and it can, and does, escalate to violence, both physical and emotional, words become weapons. The pen is mightier than the sword and can inflict the same damage.
That should not make one less mindful of the sword, as the damage done by words is often invisible, but the damage of the sword can be literally permanent.
Forcing and/or badgering others into accepting one's worldview is bad enough: concentration camps were used for more than mere murder (as if that weren't evil enough), they were also used as re-education camps. It was an actualization of the old joke: The beatings will continue until morale improves.
Using rage and violence is bad enough, but it is visible. One has but to stop, listen and watch. The issues are before us. The real horror and the greatest threat is Soft Control...
3: It's just Kool-Aid.
Soft control is insidious. It is the quiet, and genteel form of inflicting addictions, addiction to sugars and fats in the diet, addictions to body modifications, addictions to addiction.
It takes the handcuffs and puts them on the table. The lie is bold: it is not a pair of handcuffs, it is a fashion statement. We succumb to the Soft Control when we allow ourselves to pick them up and put them on.
Soft Control suggests, whispers. It is usually rather blatant, holding before us a heap of steaming feces, which we know is feces, but the Soft Control says, no, it is breakfast. We buy into it, and eat.
Disgusting image? Yep.
Consider something so obvious but so bold that it is impossible for me, personally, to not think of it as a deliberate attempt to undermine the populace of the United States.
Two televisions shows (television being indeed the Drug Of The Nation) offered two comedic views of life, on two separate networks. Consider them, and consider them well. The Cosby Show and Rosanne.
Which of these two families would you, the reader, consider to be middle class?
If you immediately thought The Cosby Show, then let us look at it. Cliff and Clair Huxtable live in New York with a small army of children. Cliff is an OB/Gyn, while Clair is an attorney. They have a two story home in the city, plus vehicles to take their small army of children to whatever event they wish. There is never a discussion of finances. While cutting in their humorous comments to one another, they are witty and urbane.
Rosanne, featuring the Connor family, has Rosanne and Dan Connor and their three children. This largely dysfunctional group of people is harsh to the point of brutality to one another and pretty much the world at large. Rosanne is a factory worker, loses that job, tries to start her own business, then becomes a waitress. Dan's employment history is shaky, and the two can barley keep the roof over their heads.
Which family is middle class?
A pair of college educated professionals? Really?
This is the evil of the Soft Control. The constant insinuation that There Is Something Wrong With You If You Don't Want To Be The Huxtables.
I have nothing against them, or those that want that level of comfort. Calling them middle class is wrong, just plain wrong. They are not. It is a matter of color, but it is the color of the money, not the skin. Do that many black Americans have access to those levels of affluence and education?
The new car we HAVE to have year after year, the gadget from iMoney, the latest trends and fashions...
How about a world where the emotional collapse of a Famous Person is presented as if it mattered to anyone other than that persons' immediate family? Is that not a form of control in itself?
What controls you?
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Film Review - United 93 (2006)
Written and directed by Paul Greengrass.
Like many others, when this film was first released, I stayed away. Too soon, too soon.
Now, having taken the time to sit through the film, it may still be too soon.
Watching this movie, based loosely on the events within the fourth flight on 9/11 where the passengers attempted to stop the terrorists, all I could do was choke back the uncontrolled rage and horror. That day, for me as so many others, is a permanent imprint on my spirit and soul. Yes, like so many other events, we remember where we were and what we were doing when we first heard about it.
What I wasn't prepared for was that the film made me feel exactly as I did that day: confused, angry, frightened, sad...
And that, in and of itself, makes the film worth watching. So rare is it to be moved emotionally by a film, so remarkable, that I feel that on this 10th anniversary of those events, that the film should be re-examined.
There is no "plot" or "story," just a restaging of the events. The people on board United 93 are merely moving from one place to the next, and they start to slowly become aware of the two planes that struck the two towers, and the one that hit the Pentagon. As their understanding grows, they begin to react, not only to one another but to the situation and the terrorists that are bringing on their collective destruction.
The terrorists are not shown as hideous monsters or as stereotypes, more like (dare I say it? I dare) human beings wrapped up tightly in their own furor, and the phrase "We're on a mission from God" has never seemed so sad or so sickening. (Fortunately, no one actually speaks that particular line, but it did start to echo inside my head while watching the film.)
There is no spoiler here: the plane went down, ending the lives of everyone aboard it. Everyone dies, it is that simple. What is so disturbing about a film like this is that it is not Titanic, there is no love story, there is no sense of sweeping grandeur, just common folk caught up in a situation that no one could truly imagine themselves being thrust.
While the film is gripping, and tense, it is the last five or ten minutes that cap this dark ride into our recent past. Watching as human beings become more and more desperate, more and more angry and finally throwing themselves into harm's way is a deeply moving and disturbing experience.
Like many others, when this film was first released, I stayed away. Too soon, too soon.
Now, having taken the time to sit through the film, it may still be too soon.
Watching this movie, based loosely on the events within the fourth flight on 9/11 where the passengers attempted to stop the terrorists, all I could do was choke back the uncontrolled rage and horror. That day, for me as so many others, is a permanent imprint on my spirit and soul. Yes, like so many other events, we remember where we were and what we were doing when we first heard about it.
What I wasn't prepared for was that the film made me feel exactly as I did that day: confused, angry, frightened, sad...
And that, in and of itself, makes the film worth watching. So rare is it to be moved emotionally by a film, so remarkable, that I feel that on this 10th anniversary of those events, that the film should be re-examined.
There is no "plot" or "story," just a restaging of the events. The people on board United 93 are merely moving from one place to the next, and they start to slowly become aware of the two planes that struck the two towers, and the one that hit the Pentagon. As their understanding grows, they begin to react, not only to one another but to the situation and the terrorists that are bringing on their collective destruction.
The terrorists are not shown as hideous monsters or as stereotypes, more like (dare I say it? I dare) human beings wrapped up tightly in their own furor, and the phrase "We're on a mission from God" has never seemed so sad or so sickening. (Fortunately, no one actually speaks that particular line, but it did start to echo inside my head while watching the film.)
There is no spoiler here: the plane went down, ending the lives of everyone aboard it. Everyone dies, it is that simple. What is so disturbing about a film like this is that it is not Titanic, there is no love story, there is no sense of sweeping grandeur, just common folk caught up in a situation that no one could truly imagine themselves being thrust.
While the film is gripping, and tense, it is the last five or ten minutes that cap this dark ride into our recent past. Watching as human beings become more and more desperate, more and more angry and finally throwing themselves into harm's way is a deeply moving and disturbing experience.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
An Open Letter To Mr. Brian Wilson & Mr. Todd Rundgren
Gentlemen:
I hope you are well.
Something has occurred to me that I feel is a matter of the most grave and urgent of circumstance.
The world about us, as I am sure you are both aware, is being red-label express sent to Hell. All manner of madness abounds and dialog between differing opinions has become nothing more than one diatribe against another: no one is listening.
Having said that, contrary to Mr. Rundgren's comments in An Elpee's Worth Of Toons, I feel that a serious and beautiful work of art may be just the ticket towards, if not lasting peace then hopefully, a peace of mind to all that encounter it.
I am writing this in the vain and/or mad hope that somehow, someway it gets to one or both of you and you contact one another, and to give serious consideration of this notion. My price? I want nothing more than to be there when it happens, at my own expense if need be, and, of course, a signed copy for myself.
Mr. Rundgren has made a permanent mark upon my attitudes in re: music and how songs are produced with the release of A Capella. Mr. Wilson, whose indelible impact cannot be ignored, did the same with the single Heroes And Villains. To my last count, I have heard at least four differing versions of Heroes And Villains, depending on which album or 45 I have heard.
This song, gentlemen, is IMHO as yet unfinished, and correcting it One More Time should put it to rest, and with the two of you in control of it, the sound of the two of you may just set some of this world's pain to the side.
I had but one complaint about the Beach Boys, and that is mostly due to the fact that I am a baritone. This lacking on my part was set aside when first I heard Heroes And Villains, and I would often (as I do now) gleefully molest the song with my added doo-do-dee-doo's.
This morning, 5/7/11, I was listening to the three separate versions of the song that I have, one of which I no longer recall how it came to my possession. Two are with the Beach Boys, clocking in at 2:55 and 3:41, and, of course, Mr. Wilson's version from Smile, which runs 4:53.
I was at the same time reading about the woes and foibles that destroyed the first Smile, and something began to trouble me. Here, then, gentlemen, is my point.
The song is too short.
Heroes And Villains, in and of itself, should be no less than 10 minutes in length. As I am sure you both recall, there was a time when a self-indulgent rock star would come out with some form of aural masturbation that ran that long, or longer. Whatever: sometimes, as you both know well, it can be done with great style and beauty.
My request, then, is as follows: Arrange the song, one more time, as a barbershop quartet piece. Once completed, and sung A Capella, arrange it as a fugue, building and building, piece upon piece, until it becomes a rapturous joyous cry.... and instead of simply using the studio for frippery, conduct it using one of the many barbershop quartet gatherings... using all available voices.... and maybe use some sweet Adeline girl sound as well.
Bring us the sound of many voices, building and building for nothing more than the sheer joy of song. Bring us the sound of unrelenting beauty, and unleash it onto a world so weary of itself that it seems to be shaking itself apart. Bring us hope. Bring us joy.
What the hell.... why not? What's the worst that could happen? People Smile again?
Thank you for your attention.
Sincerely,
James R. Allard, Jr (aka Mr. Mirage)
PS: I have had the great joy of seeing both of you perform live. Hope to do so again. Soon.
I hope you are well.
Something has occurred to me that I feel is a matter of the most grave and urgent of circumstance.
The world about us, as I am sure you are both aware, is being red-label express sent to Hell. All manner of madness abounds and dialog between differing opinions has become nothing more than one diatribe against another: no one is listening.
Having said that, contrary to Mr. Rundgren's comments in An Elpee's Worth Of Toons, I feel that a serious and beautiful work of art may be just the ticket towards, if not lasting peace then hopefully, a peace of mind to all that encounter it.
I am writing this in the vain and/or mad hope that somehow, someway it gets to one or both of you and you contact one another, and to give serious consideration of this notion. My price? I want nothing more than to be there when it happens, at my own expense if need be, and, of course, a signed copy for myself.
Mr. Rundgren has made a permanent mark upon my attitudes in re: music and how songs are produced with the release of A Capella. Mr. Wilson, whose indelible impact cannot be ignored, did the same with the single Heroes And Villains. To my last count, I have heard at least four differing versions of Heroes And Villains, depending on which album or 45 I have heard.
This song, gentlemen, is IMHO as yet unfinished, and correcting it One More Time should put it to rest, and with the two of you in control of it, the sound of the two of you may just set some of this world's pain to the side.
I had but one complaint about the Beach Boys, and that is mostly due to the fact that I am a baritone. This lacking on my part was set aside when first I heard Heroes And Villains, and I would often (as I do now) gleefully molest the song with my added doo-do-dee-doo's.
This morning, 5/7/11, I was listening to the three separate versions of the song that I have, one of which I no longer recall how it came to my possession. Two are with the Beach Boys, clocking in at 2:55 and 3:41, and, of course, Mr. Wilson's version from Smile, which runs 4:53.
I was at the same time reading about the woes and foibles that destroyed the first Smile, and something began to trouble me. Here, then, gentlemen, is my point.
The song is too short.
Heroes And Villains, in and of itself, should be no less than 10 minutes in length. As I am sure you both recall, there was a time when a self-indulgent rock star would come out with some form of aural masturbation that ran that long, or longer. Whatever: sometimes, as you both know well, it can be done with great style and beauty.
My request, then, is as follows: Arrange the song, one more time, as a barbershop quartet piece. Once completed, and sung A Capella, arrange it as a fugue, building and building, piece upon piece, until it becomes a rapturous joyous cry.... and instead of simply using the studio for frippery, conduct it using one of the many barbershop quartet gatherings... using all available voices.... and maybe use some sweet Adeline girl sound as well.
Bring us the sound of many voices, building and building for nothing more than the sheer joy of song. Bring us the sound of unrelenting beauty, and unleash it onto a world so weary of itself that it seems to be shaking itself apart. Bring us hope. Bring us joy.
What the hell.... why not? What's the worst that could happen? People Smile again?
Thank you for your attention.
Sincerely,
James R. Allard, Jr (aka Mr. Mirage)
PS: I have had the great joy of seeing both of you perform live. Hope to do so again. Soon.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Ten Years On
Osama Bin Laden is dead. Nothing has changed.
The alleged mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks is gone, and yet, the war shall continue. I do not condemn here the ones that followed their duty, and exacted a rough justice: I also do not rejoice in the death of this man.
As Ronald Reagan once remarked, one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter.
Be that as it may: Osama Bin Laden is dead. Nothing has changed.
Had he been captured by his own people and drug through the streets like Mussolini, his dead body struck and kicked and spat upon, nothing would have changed.
Had he been a monster, found eating the raw flesh of children and gunned down in that act, nothing would have changed.
He was not the boogeyman, he was not Satan. He was a man, to our American thinking delusional but to far too many he was a martyr in the waiting, a hero, and that is the reason that nothing has, or will, change.
As a nation, we were drug into the ugly reality of the last half of the 20th century at the beginning of the 21st: every nation on earth has had to deal with terrorist attacks on their own soil as perpetrated by human beings that were not citizens of their attacked state.
With Timothy McVeigh, we here in the US of A had a home grown terrorist. Those we were used to, and have had many throughout our history... terrorists or freedom fighters, depending on one's viewpoint. The raid on Harper's Ferry by John Brown can be considered a terrorist attack: there was nothing new with McVeigh.
After 9/11, this nation had to come to grips with the fact that the policies enacted on foreign soil, with or without the knowledge or consent of the American people, have long term effects on us as a nation. No longer can we pretend mere ignorance will be enough for us as a nation: our fellow citizens died on 9/11.
The citizens of this nation should have been outraged and distraught, which we were, but not merely at the sight of two falling towers but at the government that put us, as a nation, in harm's way.
No more, we should be saying: no more. The greatest value of the internet is the means by which we can speak to all nations, all humans with access to the machines, and we can say without the need of our government "We are not that different, you and I. Come, and let us make peace."
Having said that: To the Muslim world, I say, come, let us make peace. We share the same enemy. To the world at large, I say: Come, let us make peace. We share the same enemy.
The alleged mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks is gone, and yet, the war shall continue. I do not condemn here the ones that followed their duty, and exacted a rough justice: I also do not rejoice in the death of this man.
As Ronald Reagan once remarked, one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter.
Be that as it may: Osama Bin Laden is dead. Nothing has changed.
Had he been captured by his own people and drug through the streets like Mussolini, his dead body struck and kicked and spat upon, nothing would have changed.
Had he been a monster, found eating the raw flesh of children and gunned down in that act, nothing would have changed.
He was not the boogeyman, he was not Satan. He was a man, to our American thinking delusional but to far too many he was a martyr in the waiting, a hero, and that is the reason that nothing has, or will, change.
As a nation, we were drug into the ugly reality of the last half of the 20th century at the beginning of the 21st: every nation on earth has had to deal with terrorist attacks on their own soil as perpetrated by human beings that were not citizens of their attacked state.
With Timothy McVeigh, we here in the US of A had a home grown terrorist. Those we were used to, and have had many throughout our history... terrorists or freedom fighters, depending on one's viewpoint. The raid on Harper's Ferry by John Brown can be considered a terrorist attack: there was nothing new with McVeigh.
After 9/11, this nation had to come to grips with the fact that the policies enacted on foreign soil, with or without the knowledge or consent of the American people, have long term effects on us as a nation. No longer can we pretend mere ignorance will be enough for us as a nation: our fellow citizens died on 9/11.
The citizens of this nation should have been outraged and distraught, which we were, but not merely at the sight of two falling towers but at the government that put us, as a nation, in harm's way.
No more, we should be saying: no more. The greatest value of the internet is the means by which we can speak to all nations, all humans with access to the machines, and we can say without the need of our government "We are not that different, you and I. Come, and let us make peace."
Having said that: To the Muslim world, I say, come, let us make peace. We share the same enemy. To the world at large, I say: Come, let us make peace. We share the same enemy.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Shattered consciousness
Last time on Tirades, rants and other things ignored:
I cancelled my Facebook account a while ago. I'd found that I was obsessing over it the way an alcoholic obsesses over that next drink.
I also found that I was becoming a monster, a ranting screaming sort that acted more of a troll than a man. So. Not for me.
And now:
As if this blog weren't enough.... (insert self-deprecating laughter here)
However, as I had lost contact with several people there, one who is a good friend IRL sent me a note full of angst. I understood what he was saying in that email, and the more I thought about my response to him.
Being connected to the world is IMHO a good thing. We can communicate without boundaries, and I truly believe that the more we understand about our fellow humans, the less likely we are to think of them as something other than less than human... Q.E.D., it goes to follow.
However...
My son in law and I were discussing music one eve, as we are wont to do, and while we were talking, he was waiting for a web page to load, and the longer the page took the more annoyed he became. Finally, after I chided him about his lack of patience, he said: You don't seem to understand. Our generation wants everything at a click.
A statement that, had it been said twenty years ago, would have been meaningless... but now, I see that he was correct, and more... or less, as the case seems to be.
By our collective interconnected instantaneous response to the World As We Know It, we as a culture seem to have lost the capacity for reflection, which means a death of contemplation.
The more I thought about it, and thought about the note my friend had sent, the more I kept coming back to a simple phrase that I have now heard so often that once I repeat it here, you, dear reader, may say, that sounds like me....
Ready?
I need a vacation. Not from work; from my life.
Indeed: so it would seem.
During the first week I disconnected from FB, I noticed something that can adequately be described by an album title: The Roaring Silence. There was a sensation of total quiet, a type of emotional solitude that I had not known in quite a while, and it made me to grow uncomfortable with my self.
As time continued, I so desperately wanted to go back to the noise of Facebook that I struggled, every day, to NOT do so. It was an addiction, an alluring sense of being with others... and I thought to a moment in the film One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.
The moment is during a group therapy session, and the villainous Nurse Ratched is speaking down to one of her wards (as she is wont to do both in film and novel), mentioning that this patient had withdrawn from the others during the day. One of the men present, possibly the man being quizzed (I forget), says, "Are you saying it is wrong to want to be alone sometimes?"
The accuracy of the moment and quote notwithstanding, the fact is: people need a moment alone. We need the quiet, the moment of contemplative thought, we need the book and candle and peace.
Consider: the more interconnected we have become, and the more information that floods in, the less time we have, the less focus on the things that we, ourselves, cherish that the rest of the world has but a nanosecond, or less. We do not have time to process what is coming in, and thus cannot consider the ramifications for anything more than a moment.
Our collective subconscious is falling apart, the world about us is charging in and that which is most private, that thing that is the self separate from the rest, is being drowned in minutiae.
Of what value are the latest antics of some Hollywood actor when we ourselves have our own lives to live? Vicariously we surrender our own souls to be part of a greater whole...
This is the way the world ends: Not with a bang, but the whimper of you have been sent a friend request. Click here.
I cancelled my Facebook account a while ago. I'd found that I was obsessing over it the way an alcoholic obsesses over that next drink.
I also found that I was becoming a monster, a ranting screaming sort that acted more of a troll than a man. So. Not for me.
And now:
As if this blog weren't enough.... (insert self-deprecating laughter here)
However, as I had lost contact with several people there, one who is a good friend IRL sent me a note full of angst. I understood what he was saying in that email, and the more I thought about my response to him.
Being connected to the world is IMHO a good thing. We can communicate without boundaries, and I truly believe that the more we understand about our fellow humans, the less likely we are to think of them as something other than less than human... Q.E.D., it goes to follow.
However...
My son in law and I were discussing music one eve, as we are wont to do, and while we were talking, he was waiting for a web page to load, and the longer the page took the more annoyed he became. Finally, after I chided him about his lack of patience, he said: You don't seem to understand. Our generation wants everything at a click.
A statement that, had it been said twenty years ago, would have been meaningless... but now, I see that he was correct, and more... or less, as the case seems to be.
By our collective interconnected instantaneous response to the World As We Know It, we as a culture seem to have lost the capacity for reflection, which means a death of contemplation.
The more I thought about it, and thought about the note my friend had sent, the more I kept coming back to a simple phrase that I have now heard so often that once I repeat it here, you, dear reader, may say, that sounds like me....
Ready?
I need a vacation. Not from work; from my life.
Indeed: so it would seem.
During the first week I disconnected from FB, I noticed something that can adequately be described by an album title: The Roaring Silence. There was a sensation of total quiet, a type of emotional solitude that I had not known in quite a while, and it made me to grow uncomfortable with my self.
As time continued, I so desperately wanted to go back to the noise of Facebook that I struggled, every day, to NOT do so. It was an addiction, an alluring sense of being with others... and I thought to a moment in the film One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.
The moment is during a group therapy session, and the villainous Nurse Ratched is speaking down to one of her wards (as she is wont to do both in film and novel), mentioning that this patient had withdrawn from the others during the day. One of the men present, possibly the man being quizzed (I forget), says, "Are you saying it is wrong to want to be alone sometimes?"
The accuracy of the moment and quote notwithstanding, the fact is: people need a moment alone. We need the quiet, the moment of contemplative thought, we need the book and candle and peace.
Consider: the more interconnected we have become, and the more information that floods in, the less time we have, the less focus on the things that we, ourselves, cherish that the rest of the world has but a nanosecond, or less. We do not have time to process what is coming in, and thus cannot consider the ramifications for anything more than a moment.
Our collective subconscious is falling apart, the world about us is charging in and that which is most private, that thing that is the self separate from the rest, is being drowned in minutiae.
Of what value are the latest antics of some Hollywood actor when we ourselves have our own lives to live? Vicariously we surrender our own souls to be part of a greater whole...
This is the way the world ends: Not with a bang, but the whimper of you have been sent a friend request. Click here.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Facebook no more.
A few days ago, I deleted out my Facebook account. The reasoning, at the time, was rather clear to me. I was developing the signs of addictive behavior. My sleep patterns of late have been disrupted, one thing and another, and I found I was online, on Facebook, reading and posting, posting and reading. When I wasn't, I was surfing the web to find clever, funny and sometimes brutal things to attach to my Facebook page via Shareaholic... in and of itself that name should have been a warning.
As if spending more time on Facebook and Facebook related activities were enough of a sign, I began to notice that more and more I was acting like an angry drunk: simple comments would lead to a blind unreasoning and unreasonable response, which would lead to the inevitable "I'm sorry."
Just like a drunk... or an addict.
Regardless, the point remains: it had to go. In so doing, the withdrawals were strange. I sit at the keyboard, uncertain where to go. There are other sites I go to, of course, and one, Zen Running Order, is in its own way a social networking page. The problem, I found, is that that sudden rush of adrenaline was missing. Where's the rage?
That is a good thing.
The more time I have, and will continue, to put between myself and FB, the better. I find now that my fingers itch to write, and write more and more. Hell, from the moment of deletion, I realized that had I spent half as much of my time writing my second novel (or first non-fiction book) as I did on FB, I'd be done by now.
There was a defining moment for me, that moment one feels when the bottom drops out and then gravity does the inevitable thing.... and that sudden shock when hitting bottom. I had made a couple of posts, all rather innocuous, one meant to be a "funny" and another just a page about a band, and I had commented on someone's page in re: baseball. One thing lead to another, and the next thing I knew I was flying between the three posts and I completely lost sight of the fact that I was speaking to three separate people. When I completely went batshit insane, the internet version of SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS, complete with multiple exclamation marks and a few stumble rage fat finger typos, I slammed out of my browser... hands shaking, sudden shortness of breath (more like I'd been running) and could feel my heart pounding in my chest...
And then, reality, dear friend and occasional visitor, came back. In webspeak: WTF? What brought that on?
And then: Who was I screaming at?
I honestly could not remember at first, and slowly it came back to me... and I thought, well, I need to go back and remove it, or at least apologize... but what was said to me that made me so possessed of rage? Backtracking: nothing. Nothing.
Nothing was said to me, by anyone, at any moment, that could conceivably provoked that response. WTF?
No, said I. No more. Google: Delete Facebook Account: click here. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye...
Three people (out of close to 200, mind you) asked me what happened, where did I go? Three. Well, so be it then. That, too, was a wake up call. While there are some there that I didn't talk to a lot, fact is there were a lot of "friends" that while wonderful people, I simply did not and still do not know....
Thinking about this on this fine AM, I was wondering if I should post anything here. Letting my mind wander over its own internal landscape, I threw in a couple of films, watching them until I could identify where they jumped the track and/or shark, and had picked up the newspaper.
There, I read the column of a Mr. Leonard Pitts. I don't always see eye to eye with this fine gentleman, but I didn't see eye to eye with James J. Kilpatrick, either, nor did I with David Broder, and still don't with George Will, but I love (adore!) good writing and straight talk, and Pitts is one of the best. His column dealt with privacy, and how it has all but died.
Pitts does the one thing that I admire most in a writer: he causes me to pause, to ponder and reflect.
Privacy, according to the United States Supreme Court (see Roe v. Wade) is not in and of itself a right found in the Constitution, but is implied throughout. Freedom of expression (the 1st Amendment) would point to the right to private thought prior to the expression, freedom from unlawful searches (the 4th) takes the argument that one has a right to demand to be left alone, and the right to refrain from self-incrimination (the 5th) suggests that one can withdraw into one's own self.
Having said that, as I hear time and again Those Who Will Not Think saying out loud that "perhaps our rights should be more limited," it keeps coming back: Freedom cannot be taken from a free citizen, but it can be surrendered.
Facebook, et al, offer a unique opportunity to keep in contact with others and in ways far better than phone or mail. Tweeting does the same.
The question, of course, then would be: when does one stop? Is it our right to stop?
Of course we have the right to pull back, and in fact perhaps some should consider it. Much has been said and written within the last year of people that have lost their jobs over public postings of private matters, career options sabotaged regardless of the strength of resume or interview. The internet is public and the more public it is, and the more we reveal to the world around us, the more likely we are to find ourselves surrendering the right of privacy for nothing more than merely being able to gossip online.
Pitts' column was about an application that would allow a cell phone camera photo to be entered into a facial recognition database... and that, frankly, was all I needed to read. Dear God, are you kidding me? Big Brother is unnecessary, we don't need the Thought Police, we will do it ourselves!
This country (US of [North] America) has always had a proud tradition of attaining any goal the mind could imagine. We could go to the moon if we merely set our minds to it.
The horror is that more and more we are setting our minds to creating a technocratic tyranny and we seem to be hellbent to have it happen before the end of this decade. Total control is possible when the controlled populace does the work themselves.
How long will it be before we ask for it? How long before we ask for cameras on every corner, facial recognition scanners at everybody's fingertips?
How long before we sacrifice freedom for security? We are on our way, FedEx red labelled to Hell.
As if spending more time on Facebook and Facebook related activities were enough of a sign, I began to notice that more and more I was acting like an angry drunk: simple comments would lead to a blind unreasoning and unreasonable response, which would lead to the inevitable "I'm sorry."
Just like a drunk... or an addict.
Regardless, the point remains: it had to go. In so doing, the withdrawals were strange. I sit at the keyboard, uncertain where to go. There are other sites I go to, of course, and one, Zen Running Order, is in its own way a social networking page. The problem, I found, is that that sudden rush of adrenaline was missing. Where's the rage?
That is a good thing.
The more time I have, and will continue, to put between myself and FB, the better. I find now that my fingers itch to write, and write more and more. Hell, from the moment of deletion, I realized that had I spent half as much of my time writing my second novel (or first non-fiction book) as I did on FB, I'd be done by now.
There was a defining moment for me, that moment one feels when the bottom drops out and then gravity does the inevitable thing.... and that sudden shock when hitting bottom. I had made a couple of posts, all rather innocuous, one meant to be a "funny" and another just a page about a band, and I had commented on someone's page in re: baseball. One thing lead to another, and the next thing I knew I was flying between the three posts and I completely lost sight of the fact that I was speaking to three separate people. When I completely went batshit insane, the internet version of SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS, complete with multiple exclamation marks and a few stumble rage fat finger typos, I slammed out of my browser... hands shaking, sudden shortness of breath (more like I'd been running) and could feel my heart pounding in my chest...
And then, reality, dear friend and occasional visitor, came back. In webspeak: WTF? What brought that on?
And then: Who was I screaming at?
I honestly could not remember at first, and slowly it came back to me... and I thought, well, I need to go back and remove it, or at least apologize... but what was said to me that made me so possessed of rage? Backtracking: nothing. Nothing.
Nothing was said to me, by anyone, at any moment, that could conceivably provoked that response. WTF?
No, said I. No more. Google: Delete Facebook Account: click here. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye...
Three people (out of close to 200, mind you) asked me what happened, where did I go? Three. Well, so be it then. That, too, was a wake up call. While there are some there that I didn't talk to a lot, fact is there were a lot of "friends" that while wonderful people, I simply did not and still do not know....
Thinking about this on this fine AM, I was wondering if I should post anything here. Letting my mind wander over its own internal landscape, I threw in a couple of films, watching them until I could identify where they jumped the track and/or shark, and had picked up the newspaper.
There, I read the column of a Mr. Leonard Pitts. I don't always see eye to eye with this fine gentleman, but I didn't see eye to eye with James J. Kilpatrick, either, nor did I with David Broder, and still don't with George Will, but I love (adore!) good writing and straight talk, and Pitts is one of the best. His column dealt with privacy, and how it has all but died.
Pitts does the one thing that I admire most in a writer: he causes me to pause, to ponder and reflect.
Privacy, according to the United States Supreme Court (see Roe v. Wade) is not in and of itself a right found in the Constitution, but is implied throughout. Freedom of expression (the 1st Amendment) would point to the right to private thought prior to the expression, freedom from unlawful searches (the 4th) takes the argument that one has a right to demand to be left alone, and the right to refrain from self-incrimination (the 5th) suggests that one can withdraw into one's own self.
Having said that, as I hear time and again Those Who Will Not Think saying out loud that "perhaps our rights should be more limited," it keeps coming back: Freedom cannot be taken from a free citizen, but it can be surrendered.
Facebook, et al, offer a unique opportunity to keep in contact with others and in ways far better than phone or mail. Tweeting does the same.
The question, of course, then would be: when does one stop? Is it our right to stop?
Of course we have the right to pull back, and in fact perhaps some should consider it. Much has been said and written within the last year of people that have lost their jobs over public postings of private matters, career options sabotaged regardless of the strength of resume or interview. The internet is public and the more public it is, and the more we reveal to the world around us, the more likely we are to find ourselves surrendering the right of privacy for nothing more than merely being able to gossip online.
Pitts' column was about an application that would allow a cell phone camera photo to be entered into a facial recognition database... and that, frankly, was all I needed to read. Dear God, are you kidding me? Big Brother is unnecessary, we don't need the Thought Police, we will do it ourselves!
This country (US of [North] America) has always had a proud tradition of attaining any goal the mind could imagine. We could go to the moon if we merely set our minds to it.
The horror is that more and more we are setting our minds to creating a technocratic tyranny and we seem to be hellbent to have it happen before the end of this decade. Total control is possible when the controlled populace does the work themselves.
How long will it be before we ask for it? How long before we ask for cameras on every corner, facial recognition scanners at everybody's fingertips?
How long before we sacrifice freedom for security? We are on our way, FedEx red labelled to Hell.
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