Tuesday, April 20, 2010

What are we on about?

What with a constant series of statcounter arrivals from Winter Patriot and kenny's sideshow, I thought it was time to go beyond my usual tip-and-run and have a good wander around. And a good thing too - they're worthy sites with my kind of sensible people writing lots of good stuff.

Ordinarily in linking to worthy sites I go with a less-is-more philosophy. If every man and his dog is worthy, the word 'worthy' doesn't mean much, you know what I mean? Besides which, what with using a public library to connect to the net, my time online is very limited. Thus, with my links list representing places I visit regularly, a longer list means less of my time spent on my own pursuits and more on other people's. But what are you going to do? When the sites are worthy one just has to go there. And so! The list expands.

Lately over at Winter Patriot, in answer to a tiresome, and rather obvious, Jewish fellow bitching about things Jewish being discussed in something other than glowing terms, Winter wrote a fine comment that addresses that hoary old chestnut of what we're on about (clearly Kenny liked it too). And amongst the comments at Winter was a sideways discussion that was actually more germane than anyone knew. It involved an incendiary chap called Akira (whom I'm thinking isn't Japanese) doing his best to fling sparks into the tea-tree with the ever sensible James monstering him with a plane-load of philosophical fire retardant. For mine this second strand to the conversation is the necessary how to Winter's what.

So what are we on about? Collectively, that is? Between the unlikely bedfellows of Aangirfan, Les Visible, Twelfth Bough, Penny, Kenny, and Winter, and even the hill-tramping John Frampton (hullo John) what are the ties that bind? There must be something surely? And what does it mean that we have as many differences as commonalities? And what am I doing in that crowd? Good God, I'm an oxymoron all to myself. (Actually I'm a foxy moron, hyuk hyuk)*

But to hell with me. We want to figure out what defines the, um... 'whatever'. No need to argue whether it exists. If you've read this far and haven't fled in terror at the senselessness of it all, then that's proof enough that we're part of a noun of some description. For the purpose of the exercise I'm going to loosely call it 'the conversation'.

What can we say about this conversation? The initial temptation is to whip out the word 'truth'. Me, I don't know about that. There's something a bit too portentous or po-faced about it - and if we're being that kind of serious, you'd have to include this blog out of it. I'm far too idiotic. Perhaps this is due to me being partial to the idea of the fool, à la Lear. Certainly Lear's fool was an avatar of truth, but in any discussion about him truth would never be the first word anyone would reach for.

Besides which, truth is that thing always to be pursued and almost never to be caught. Sometimes it happens, once in a blue moon - often as not we catch it and don't even know - really it's too slippery, too ethereal. I prefer to take truth as a happy intangible rather than enshrine it as some kind of golden calf. And then there's the question: How many cherished 'truths' have we all thrown away now? Me, I lost count. Okay, so how now the inverted-commas truth?

Instead, what if we gave in to our inner apparatchiks, and made a what-are-we-on-about qualification list, perhaps along the lines of What have the Romans ever done for us? The meeting comes to order:
"First things first - 911"
"Absolutely - do I have a second? Enter it into the minutes."
"MIHOP of course."
"Must mention Israel."
"No planes!"
"Particle beams!"
Oh dear, there's that gone to hell. Really, we've all got our lists and no two will be same. Lists aren't entirely useless of course. Anyone who wants to say that 911 is unimportant has to be some kind of bullshit. Same-same banking. Same-same the pedophocracy. (Oops, there goes Xymphora). Whatever, let's just put the idea of lists up there with the idea of enshrined truth as, um... not nothing, but not a be-all-and-end-all either.

Along those lines, what if we were simply to define ourselves by what we're not? It's negative I know but there's a logic to it that everyone out there now viewed as mad by their friends and relatives will understand. Yeah, yeah, no need to raise your hand, you, me, all of us... So! In searching for an expression to define what we are not, what if I was to grab Galbraith's 'conventional wisdom'? Perhaps I shouldn't mention Galbraith, since I've never actually read him (not that I'd let that stop me taking his phrase and turning it into a hat, a brooch, a pterodactyl etc). Clearly conventional wisdom is not that variety of wisdom measured in pearls. By being called conventional, whatever it is has ceased to be particularly valuable and has become a thing that functions in spite of its own inconsistencies. It's the truth reduced to functionability. And a truth thus processed and reconstituted (contains emulsifier, preservative, and colouring) is no truth that we're interested in. We are not that. Very good... the truth, lists, we-are-not-that - how do we tie that all together?

How about this - the what of the conversation is any goddamn thing. We simply refuse to have any manufacturer of conventional wisdom tell us where the limits are. Anyone who declares a subject sacred or profane deserves to be questioned. Okay dandy, let's do it. Between a Brahminical insistence that no questions be asked, and the Buddha's declaration that we take nothing he says for granted, the former can go fuck itself. And the Brahmins of today? The Jewish media and no mistake.

Stepping outside the limits of permitted topics is one thing, and the way in which it's discussed is another. We now know full well that we live in a world of endless false dichotomies. The bullshit choice between left and right is merely the first of many such contrivances precisely designed to trap us into dead-end losing arguments and go-nowhere conversations. In amongst these snares also resides the how of the conversation.

I don't know if the epithet-spitting Akira over at Winter is an otherwise well-meaning bloke or not. It's possible. What's certain is that there's been any number of attempts, not least at this joint, to turn a given conversation into that variety of instant argument-losing name calling. Hands up anyone who hasn't encountered someone insisting that we all become foaming-at-the-mouth racists?

Way back when, in the days of indymedia, any article on Israel would within five minutes of posting see one, two, three, Jewish boys piling in and flinging shit in all directions. And it wouldn't be long before the Jew-haters would pile in and do the same. God spare me. And the heads of the Ku Klux Klan have all been Jewish have they? Sure, of course. It seems that if we want to talk about profane subjects we must do so as caricatures - doing zer funny walk and talking mit zer funny voices. Dig it, it's the Germans from a Zucker brothers movie. Or it's the skinheads from American History X. Whatever, there's a hundred Hollywood dress-up costumes to choose from, each carefully designed to suit your individuality. You can be anything they want you to be.

In much the same way we step outside the artificially imposed limits of the what, we do the same for the dictates of the how. We'll talk about whatever we goddamn like and we'll do so as grown-ups. We'll have the only conversation worth having, the one we dreamt of, but never knew existed. It exists if we want it to - here we are having one now. And yeah, it's desultory - it's the grasshopper leaping from tree to tree in a single bound, fighting a never-ending battle for truth, justice, and mixed metaphors. It's a shitfight, it's a comedy, it's a tragedy, it's all of the above. And if Jews and their Nazi partners don't care for it - bleat, bleat - a tuppence for them and a tuppence for their boundaries. We've ceased caring what they think. We're past that now.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Arundhati Roy - an unlikely love letter

I am constantly beset by women. They won't leave me alone - my life is a perpetual series of Hard Day's Nights with me chased hither and yon by hordes of screaming chicks. Sure enough I always say no (politely, since I'm a polite chap) because truth be known, I'm saving myself. There's only one gal for me and that's the mighty Arundhati Roy.

Just lately a friend of mine pointed me at the following long article which the fabulous Roy wrote for the English language Outlook of New Delhi. It details the time she spent with the Maoist Naxalite rebels in Central India. Anyone who wants to find out what's going on there, read this, it's a cracker. It's a discussion of Indian, um... what do you call 'politics' when you're at the pointy end of the stick?
They described a police raid: they come at night, 300, 400, sometimes 1,000 of them. They lay a cordon around a village and lie in wait. At dawn they catch the first people who go out to the fields and use them as human shields to enter the village... Once the police enter a village, they loot and steal and burn houses. They come with dogs. The dogs catch those who try and run. They chase chickens and pigs and the police kill them and take them away in sacks. SPOs [Special Police Officer = informer] come along with the police. They’re the ones who know where people hide their money and jewellery. They catch people and take them away. And extract money before they release them. They always carry some extra Naxal ‘dresses’ with them in case they find someone to kill. They get money for killing Naxals, so they manufacture some. Villagers are too frightened to stay at home.

Welcome to the world beyond your living room. With this as your daily lot is anyone surprised that people don't seize whatever option is available? Marxism, Maoism, as if anyone can tell the difference? Certainly not the villagers who can only count to twenty. No doubt the pointy end of this Naxalite pyramid will know what's what, but will the base be privy to such knowledge? Not bloody likely. Knowledge equals nobility (seriously, check out your dictionary) and a knowledge shared is a nobility shared, which is no nobility at all. Not if you groove on servants, that is.

But never mind, the genius of the nobility-obsessed Jews in contriving their Marxist-Leninist alternative to a Brando-esque what-have-you-got was in the packaging. Marxism is to other political possibilities what McDonalds is to 'a healthy alternative'.
Mum - "I'm too tired to cook, let's eat out. What do you kids want?"
Kids - "Yay! We want a healthy alternative!"
Yeah right. Crowds follow banners and the truth can go to hell - a tuppence for sugar, salt, cholesterol, hormones, and preservatives, and likewise for the vicious truth of Marxism with its leaders as their own messiah.

But you never know. In amongst the truth of Lenin and the Cheka, and Mao and the Great Leap Forward (which never mind Billy Brag was the greatest mass starvation in history), there's also the possibility of Che and Castro. You could do a lot worse. Only a motherfucker would wish the Cubans' erstwhile whoredom upon anyone and there's a case to be made that the villagers of Central India have got that beat. Besides which, with every major government and opposition beholden to the death cult, the Indian government not least amongst them, and with a demonstrably false al Qaeda as a death cult conjured bogeyman, what are we to make of the Naxalites?

It's curious how the media seems to spend no time on them at all. And then there's the fact that they seem completely penniless, ie. unbankrolled. Think about that. This may come as something of a shock to the hard-bitten habitués of this blog, but what if I said the Naxalites were for real? What if they were what they said they were - truly concerned with the downtrodden and oppressed and with no hidden agenda? The more I turn the Naxalites around in my head, the more likely that seems.

Okay - Three cheers for the Naxalite revolution!

But waitaminute... Where's Gandhi in amongst all this? Roy, sure enough, could hardly not mention him but sadly it's in the standard less-than-useful context of non-violence as a thing existing in isolation. As I wrote in this piece, Bloody Sunday, any discussion of non-violence that doesn't give equal time to its media depiction isn't worth much. Go watch Attenborough's Gandhi again and keep an eye out for the role played by the media, ie. Martin Sheen. Then ask yourself: How successful would Gandhi have been if a bloc-media had treated him like they treated Scott Ritter? Between Scott Ritter and Iraq's WMD's only one of them was true and it wasn't Scott Ritter. A click of the fingers. A piece of piss. The easiest thing in the world. With the bloc-media singing from their thoughtfully provided Rothschild songbook, Gandhi could starve to death and we'd all be nodding and mumbling along - ♫Something, Something, Terrorists, Martyrs, and Good Riddance♫.

Did somebody say media? Speaking of which, in amongst her piece the winsome Roy has fallen upon a true philosophical genius, the Superintendent of Police in Dandakaranya -
He was a candid man, the SP: “See Ma’am, frankly speaking this problem can’t be solved by us police or military. The problem with these tribals is they don’t understand greed. Unless they become greedy, there’s no hope for us. I have told my boss, remove the force and instead put a TV in every home. Everything will be automatically sorted out."
Actually, let's replace the word 'philosophical' with 'evil' given that what the SP is proposing here is precisely what was done to the Bhutanese by that vicious ratfuck Rupert Murdoch. The SP, Murdoch, his Rothschild masters, they all get it. They know that nothing can compete with the television. There is no argument it cannot win. Paraphrasing Frank Zappa - If it's you against the TV, bet on the TV.

And anyone looking for the proof of that particular pudding needs only to look to the hundreds of comments following the splendid Roy's article. A handful of dissenting voices aside, it's an ugly torrent of TV scripted soundbites from an aghast middle class. Clearly the government that's attempting to exterminate the 'tribals' has done alright by them and who the hell is this slut Roy to break in upon their Ikea dreams? Fuck her and the little motorcycle she rode in on! Doesn't she know that it was built from the minerals that these tribal scum are squatting on? Shit happens and if that shit involves thousands being shat on, raped, and killed, well... they're TERRORISTS! Everyone knows that the only good terrorist is a shat on, raped, and killed one.

Yay. God speed you, you clueless army of media drones.

Arundhati Roy, my wordsmith Minerva: may I as humble petitioner make a suggestion? Your candid SP has leapt right to the heart of the matter. Seize upon his dictum and turn it on its head - get the Naxalites to blow up the TV stations. Without that being done they'll forever be battling against their own inverted depiction. Have them imagine a Tet offensive with nowt but TV towers the target. Cue the screams of the fear-filled middle classes - I WANT MY MTV! Ha! It'd be worth it for that alone.

As for me, ardent admirer, I'll just have to go on fending off the dreary pursuing hordes with nothing more than a cherished image of the angelic Arundhati to sustain me.

Oh Arundhati... a sigh, a smile, a look to the heavens...

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Brendan Fevola and the Pope

This is Brendan Fevola, otherwise known as 'Fev'. He is a star of the Australian Football League. Sure enough, the AFL, like every other overpaid industry in the world, likes to have big lavish award nights / circle jerk wankfests. At these events their sporting boofheads can wear the suits that had otherwise only been used in court appearances, and the boofheads' trophy girlfriends can fulfil their greatest ambition: getting their picture in magazines sold at supermarket checkouts.

These award events used not to be broadcast live (on account of being as dull as dishwater) but now, what with Fox Sports having ten 24hr sports channels in need of filler, they qualify as that variety of filler known as 'special events'. Who watches these stupid things? I'm thinking it's the same people who read those stupid magazines, which is to say chicks. Between chicks tuning in to see what other chicks are wearing, and blokes tuning in to watch sportsmen in suits giving speeches, would anyone blame me for putting my money on the former?

Anyway, as part of what seems to be an organised campaign to turn everything into reality television, the AFL's big award night saw Brendan Fevola given a microphone and a camera crew to film him as he... um, "I don't know Fev, just run around and pull some funny shit." I doubt the brief consisted of him being told to get drunk and behave like a complete arsehole, but you know... free-alcohol-shit happens.

Sadly for our Fev, but happily for the media, his drunkenness - in view of women, horses, and everyone - hadn't been any kind of brief embarrassment. It had gone on and on with the outraged media spoilt for choice as to which clip of Fevola to show; the unintelligible screaming; the mad laughter; the beer sprayed in all directions; the crash tackles; the prat falls - it was all too bloody marvellous. And it went on and on and on.

As did the media outrage. They camped outside his house, chased him hither and yon, and diligently failed to ask the question, 'Who permitted this to happen?' Sure enough none of it had been Fevola's idea. Fevola had not called a production meeting to tell everyone how it was going to go. Fevola had not sat at the control desk in the OB van controlling the live feed, whilst the media banged on the locked door asking him to stop - "Please Fev! Think of the kiddies!" Nor had Fevola held a gun to some innocent's head to force them to screen it - "Put me on TV or I shoot this dog!" The truth is that in the long line of people between himself as drunken arsehole and that image of him screened around Australia, Fevola wasn't so much the whip hand as he was the end of it being cracked.

The shakeout was utterly predictable. Fevola, who'd so rudely barged his way into everyone's living room, was sacked from his football club and now perpetually carries the tag 'famous for his off-field incidents'. The media, which transported him to all those living rooms and handed him the key (and then, what with him being so incapable, had taken it back off him, opened the door, and then carried him across the threshold), was guilty of nothing apart from doing us all a great favour.

The media: "Look at him! Drunk! In your living room!"
Us: "Gosh! You're right! Fev, you bastard! How could you?!"
Fevola: "What? Living room?"


What's this got to do with the Pope you ask? Okay, here's the gig - In any media depiction of any event that urges us to shake our fist at someone, the media will easily be as guilty as whomever it is they're accusing. Further, whatever reasons they're putting forward (explicitly or otherwise) as to why they're showing us, will, in one way or another, be utterly laden with falsity.

In true chaos theory fractal fashion, the one-way nature of the media's finger pointing works at every scale. That endless procession of sportsmen guilty of alcohol and drug wickedness will have their sins media-dissected by hard-drinking drug fiends that make the sportsmen look like amateurs. And from penny ante sporting boofheads right through to a triple-crown wearing head of a corrupt child trafficking crime syndicate masquerading as a religion, the media and their non-existent masters are with them all the way, matching them drink for drink, child for child - been there, done that, got the thousand yard stare to go with it.

That's not to say that whomever it is we're told to hate isn't wicked. They probably are. But between that individual and the media and their masters, it will actually be no competition. The media serves many purposes but above all is the prime function to which everything else is subservient: the cameras may point in any direction except 'in'.

Best I can make out there is only one juju that counts in this world and that's the juju of many minds thinking the same thought. Clearly the media is the ultimate juju machine. Whoever controls the media is the juju king of the world. I expect that the other death cult partners, like the Vatican say, imagine that since the other gang members are equally in it up to their eyeballs that there's some safety in that. It's my melancholy duty to inform them that there isn't. In thinking this they fail to understand how it all works. Whoever has the juju machine doesn't exist. There is no crime there because there is no 'there' there. The crimes shall belong to everyone but them.

Otherwise for everyone out there cheered by the coming fall of the Vatican, you might want to keep in mind that the taking down of the Catholic wing of the death cult is a major sacrifice play by the people at the top of the pyramid. It's not done lightly and whatever cheer you might get from it should be tempered by the unpleasant thought of the banking families exultant.

I ain't here to stick up for the pope. For anyone who wants to tell me something bad about him, in all likelihood I'll agree with you. But when the media does that thing and points their juju bone, I refuse to play whatever role it is they expect from me. They can take their pre-scripted conversation and stick it up their arse. Never mind their screaming and gesticulating - for mine, this serves only to denote where not to look. It makes far more sense to look 'in' since that's where the power lays.

Catholics, Muslims, the Russians, the Chinese, Ahmadinejad, Kim Jong Il, Robert Mugabe, hell even Brendan Fevola - it's just one long line up of the usual suspects. Says the bad juju media, 'We have met the enemy and he is everyone but us. Now get killing.'

Yeah... right... I tell ya, they better blow up this internet soon or it won't be long before their juju has no mojo.

Ha! The devil unable to convince the world he doesn't exist. Oops.

Att: Satanist Clergy

Dear satanists, paedophiles, and other death cult members posing as the Roman Catholic clergy,

Have you ever thought of just doing it? You know, where you just throw up your hands and confess everything. You tell the world that you're a false priest who doesn't believe in Jesus, the Bible, any of it - a full public confession of all of your sins - the satanism, the paedophilia, all of it. Don't tell me you've never thought of it, that you've never imagined the relief it would bring. That word 'redemption'... it's a tough one isn't it? It offers so much but gee whiz...

I expect you've come to view the sacraments with a sneer but they haven't existed for so long for no reason. Obviously they're not all bullshit. Take confession. Confession enables someone to start afresh. Can you even imagine what that would be like? Think of your head. Remember when you were young and didn't have a head full of the knowledge of your own wickedness? And here you are now, an infinite black nebula of perfect falsity barely held in by your own skin. If I said your body was like some high-pressure containment vessel, a titanium balloon, would you know what I meant? Imagine if that was all gone with you feeling comfortable in your skin again. Relief. All that fear and desire let go of - the burden, the complication, the busy-ness of your mind all brought to an easy serenity.

Sure the real world will still be out there. No doubt they will scream bloody murder and tear you limb from limb. But it's okay. You are unburdened now, a cork that floats upon the ocean. The cork cares not whether the ocean is stormy or unruffled. It makes no difference. There is nothing that says you may not be that cork, not apart from that false voice in your head.

Speaking of which, have you figured out that voice yet? It's not the devil. Okay, so it is the devil but the devil is just you, the selfish you, you thinking about yourself. That voice of you is a thousand drips of black ichor calcifying into the weight behind your eyeballs. 'I want this, I want that, because I am this, I am that.' What bullshit. If you don't listen, if you choose not to pay attention, if you cease to believe in it - then it ceases to exist. The devil, or more precisely the-devil-equals-you, only exists if you believe it exists. A state of grace is not magical or hard to achieve. It's as easy as not participating in a conversation. It's just watching and having no thought.

And sure, all that Buddhist shit is one thing and the cold hard facts are another. Here is a fact - there is nowhere to hide. The church is being brought down. The people who own the media have pulled the pin. They can do that you know. And now whatever you thought you had, it's all over. Here's the new deal - you cannot be saved. As long as you and your fellow corrupted attempt to hide in the church, the church is doomed and you are too. There's only one thing for it - you'll all have to go. Whether you publicly enumerate your sins and cop the punishment, or whether you just quietly kill yourself and leave a note, either one will do.

Honestly, satanism? paedophilia? What were you thinking of? Never mind that - there's no point beating yourself up now. Now, you just have to grasp the nettle. Don't mind anyone else. None of it matters. Redemption is a personal trip - it cannot be given. You have to do it yourself. Imagine that... redemption, even for a black-hearted fucker like you.