man hands and adams apples

breathe in

on another site, someone whom i respect made an argument that essentially started out with the statement 'this is why i love ann coulter'. actually the name of the post is why i love gay bashers and his point was how many times their hatred backfires and inspires people to rethink their own prejudices.

of course, since i am darth emo, i had to see the dark side.

here is my rant of a response: (written in one fluid stream in about 6 minutes)

the grim reality of ann coulter is that her remarks weren't entirely accidental. with the race for the presidency already in full swing what better way to make the sheeple look away from the drunken puppetmastery that has killed so many of their brave and obedient sons and daughters than to pick at the scabs of their hemorraged insecurties.

i know i sound like the looming shadow of darth emo, but for everyone who stands up and realizes the inhumanity of the neocon crusade against a segment of society who are simply asking everyone to destigmatize an alternate expression of love there are those bizarro world born inbreds who think, 'first that black guy that bounces a ball for a living and now the hot chick with the adams apple... wooeeee roscoe thats a call for our fag bashin sticks, we can cover up that tape of your sister and the donkey with somethin' else.'

it is reverse psychology used in the most insidious way. by making hate a public slander that is universally reacted to with disgust and disgrace, especially from someone, such as tim hardaway, that is supposed to be a role model, the reactionary zealots see that as a limitation to their freedoms and essentially becomes the proverbial feather tickling the toe of the sleeping giant.

ignorance in any form is viral, and multiplies faster than you can say ozark teen pregnancy. and like nuclear fission research in third world countries, ignorance inevitably acts as the calvary generals saber, a seemingly bright beacon that only leads to despair.

we can, like you, hope that this time more people wake up and smell the rotting white sheets they've warn to protect their private prejudices (or for some their private shame) they arise from the long sleep of supposed moral socialism and defend their ideals from this corporate sponsored second coming of blind imperialism.

i've said before on my own blog that i'm bitter, so did you expect any less?




here is the original post. eatsumtoast

if you don't have a membership to the site, or you are a cootie filled girl that can't register, or i fucked up on the link let me know.

breath out

thats it, resume your various levels of self abuse.

nebulize

jonatha brooke - glass half empty

heart on my sleeve.... fido on my collar

breathe in

one of the best concepts in the gluttonous yet so deliciously disgusting world of television right now can be summed up in one word.

bullshit!

penn and teller are now on season five of their cable series that examines and exposes common misconceptions and all out ignorance in regards to subjects ranging from modern academics to the occult. in terms even a president could understand, they examine the ways in which cultural norms and our current moral paradigm have limited, and ultimately stifled, our ability to perceive certain issues logically and objectively.

one of their best examples, and one that personally reaffirmed things that i had always suspected, was a show centered around animal rights, and specifically peta. if i remember correctly, there was a lot of dead flesh abused in any number of ways, all legal, during the course of that one. the show more than implies but doesn't flat out say that most of the founding and/or high ranking members of the organization admittedly have no problem with the loss of human life in contrast to that of any other creature in the animal kingdom, and by doing so also explores the psychology of guilt and self hatred that permeates them. public protest and celebrity endorsement obfuscates a complicated and almost militaristic heirarchy that brings to mind the psychotic and sociopathic rabidity of the religious right.

peta, following the lead of cults such as scientology, uses celebrities to normalize extremist methodology. its seems that just behind exploitative pictures of a near naked pamela anderson, just behind the shadow left by her synthetic almost bionic mammaries lurk the even more shady spectres of eco-terrorism and obsessive animaphiles. (i think i just made up a word there, but it sounds smart and you know what i mean.) countless crimes have all but been linked to the so called charitable organization, with card carrying members arrested in such illegal and just plain reactionary actions such as freeing animals from testing labs or posting threats agains prominent researchers.

so you can tell that i think that peta can go to hell.

that doesn't mean that i don't like animals. far from it actually. but i am also an advocate of the philosophy that anything, whether it be substance or idea, in excess is inherently wrong.

although marginally aligned with some of the ideals of peta, the humane society, an organization that can't afford to pay on their way out hollywood c and d listers enough money to supply their coke habits for the next month to do full page ad in vogue or cosmo, has been working on an investigation that peta, with its admitted media manipulation expertise, has yet to really publicize at all.

http://apnews.myway.com/article/20070223/D8NFFQL81.html

the explanation, and this is really just my opinion, is that over the past few years peta has lost relevance and acceptance by the national and even international communites. this has been the result of peta member involvement in non urgent issues that tie up congress and generally piss off those of us that feel i would much rather take care of family than walk in the footsteps of "god the great and terrible"

so because i don't want to type anymore, more to come

i shoot with my mind

in 1943, eddie slovik decided that the war flat out scared him, and that if he was ordered to go on the front lines he would rather run away than die a certain death as cannonfodder. he expressed this to his commanding officer, and when denied did so to the officer above that, and so on from what we know.

ordered to be a part of the front lines in a surely losing battle, eddie ran. in 1944 eddie was discovered in the french woods, rather shellshocked and frightened for his life.

"All the men I knew and trained with have been killed." These were his words to the loyalist that found him. "I'm lonely.... The shells seem to come closer all the time and I can't stand them."

The soldier that discovered him convinced him that if he turned himself in that the U.S. Army (hallowed be thy name) would forgive his trespasses and after a courtmarshall send him, albeit dishonorably, home.

Soon after slovik was granted the dubious distinction as being the last person in our nation's history to be convicted and executed of desertion.

i empathize with eddie, not as he was but as he is now, as he sits with the dark specters of herod, nero, hirohito, or winston churchill in the shadows of darkened greatness. dissent with a higher purpose, darkness in pursuit of a somewhat loftier strain either through madness, conformity, or dictation summed up in an act of bold cowardice in the midst of worldwide conflict.

in the stories of the serialized graphic novel the sandman the moral that is prevalant is that each person, each intellectual entity, has the freedom to say no, and inevitably the freedom to give in, to give it all away. nero, through the insanities of the roman state and the incestuous royals he was innoculated with, publicized his scandals as much for the education of the public as for his own self immolation. hirohito admitted the weakness of his society in the face of a western tsunami of alien cultural norms that ultimately would overpower him unless he joined with them to slow them to a gentle ebb and flow. herod protected his sovereignity, and thereby his kingdom, by supressing a bloodthirsty blessed heritage that had once decimated the populace of his kingdom and was prophesized to do so once again, to no avail. churchill made deals with devils and false prophets to secure a way of life for future generations at the cost of a near genocide and a slaughter of innocents.

eddie spoke up so we can now. his supposed cowardice has become our strength, his treachery our dogma. his name doesn't echo as those others, and some may even label those as evil. but he did a similar service. he provided us with direction on how, or how not to, use our voices to fight back.

eddie has been lost to history, although his name will be remembered by those of us that know the truth, those of us that have sacrificed the status quo to make a point, to be an example.

mind you all, this is the same backwards thinking that got me almost kicked out of college.

in summation, my heroes are those that have broken the mold, for better or worse, whose actions have actually made it possible for me to write these words. i don't want to descend into madness like nero or herod, or wallow in egomania like churchill or hirohito, i want to learn from their darkness and strive to live in twilight.

(note: this was written all in one sitting, and i'm sure that once i come back a 20 page treatise entitled 'why barbie is bad' is forthcoming, followed by 'ken's plastic adventure')

falling scars

breathe in

there are a lot of things i am angry about lately. the fact that the death of a professional athlete takes precedence in newscasts over the death of soldiers and innocents caused by an ineffectual man in a sorta round shaped room. i am mad that a school stops the educational process because two not quite star athletes, and most likely members of the elitist few lose their legs in a tragic yet karmic wreck while surely somewhere in those hallowed halls a meek child is beat because 95 percent is just not good enough. i am angry that people do not have the courage to face their fears (feers) and admit the problems that life has dealt them are indeed their fault when looked at from the angry bitter weathered trunk. i am angry at myself, for not standing up in the face of adversity and claiming the mantle that is mine, purple velvet and bloodstains and all.
breathe out

i thought this picture was fun, and just more than a little hot.

ventilate

there are random visions in the place we go for the words, for the pictures. look into the flames and i will show you 4 worlds and 1 and a thousand pinpricks. look, squire. look

_

It is quite true that I despised the youth the minute he came through the doors. I never had much tolerance for worthless flesh.

The sentries that brought him in could barely hold back their revulsion as his blood oozed over their hands and arms. The wounds looked superficial, but those of us at the tower were not accustomed to any such display of gore, and usually the mere smell of it on the breeze from the southern arcologies sent some of the initiates running for their quarters. His body was limp in their arms, his eyes only half open, drool falling in silent strings of saliva on the stones of the foyer. A gurgling sound rumbled in his throat, more than likely the first sound in a thousand years to have been spoken by meat in these halls.

I remember the glances that were exchanged, the air of worry that trailed behind the boys feet as they dragged and skipped across that ancient and holy place.

No words were spoken. Few, if any, were among the initiates in the tower. Those of us that had earned the right to act freely mostly kept to ourselves, fearing that the knowledge the tower had given us would be corrupted by the perceptions of the other gifted. Taint was a threat that was ever constant, and those few who had been to the upper levels and tasted of its gifts knew that all too well. Benjamin told me later that when he saw the boy he made a silent prayer to the Engine to protect himself from the dark taint of flesh that was invading our sanctum. I looked to my partner, a simple thing that had been discovered in the wastes near Cormania, and with the steel of my eyes commanded him to ignore the scene and concentrate on our daily work.

_

The mask was uncomfortable at times.

Alone in the reception hall he longed to rip the molded synthetic from his skin, rip the nodes that had embedded themselves in his pores right out. He didn’t care about the pain, the blood. It would just be nice to be free again.

It was iconic really. There used to be a portrait in the archives, a lone king surrounded by snakes and mists, lonely and abused on a golden throne with stone knots at the base. His head lazily is in his hands as he stares into the darkness beyond the painting, over the viewers shoulders, a future as false as the wisps of smoke that coil around his feet. He always admired that painting whenever father allowed him to wander the corridors on their trips to the lower parts of the dome.

“That is your future,” his father used to quip, smiling smugly, as much as the reactive sythsteel would let him. The mask his father wore was different. Reds and blues flashed off the surface in certain lights, and in the dark it shone a sickly pink. The technology hadn’t quite been perfected and smiles and sneers looked eerily similar. He didn’t realize until he was thirteen that he had never seen his father’s face, but he always suspected that it looked similar to the foresworn king in the portrait. It wasn’t until the funeral that he found out how right he was, and how right his father had been.

From somewhere outside there was a commotion, It didn’t matter now. Somehow, someway, he knew this day was coming, that he was coming.

The night he put on the mask he had a vision. He was older, much older. The medicrats had warned him of the side effects of the nanotechnology, of the neurological damage and of the psychoactive nature of the chemicals they introduced. He sat on his throne, overlooking his empty kingdom through the guise of his hollow office. A flock of ravens flew above the dome, their cries ringing through the arcology. The domes were cracked, he remembered that the most, and the toxins of the great and terrible outside world were seeping into his locked lost land destroying all that he and the ones before him created, the lies and deceits and all to many lives that had been carefully structured and squandered in the name of progress. One of the ravens flew toward the dome, carrying that stench on its wings, that horrible decay of change and chaos that his line had feared for so long. The ravens beak shined silver, glinting in the dying sun of the domes.

The raven was now at his door, had killed his Paiges.

The gun at his side was no comfort, he knew instinctively. None of the pitfalls or traps that he had carefully had lain out in hopes of deflecting this moment.



_

the western tower has nothing at the top. i've been there.

_

three worldsets away, i can still hear him screaming. i always wonder, each time my skin burns and my soul twists, if that scream had fooled us all, if this was his plan from the very beginning. after all, if you can't be god, at least you can be moses.

he told me he had finished the machine on a thursday. i remember it well because the police had just found the third body, this one a woman. her face was a bluish hue with deep red lines cut in the cheeks that almost stared bloodlessly back at us when we laid her out on the table. i noticed right away that she had struggled, the hematoma patterns were all too familiar. her nails were ragged, her extremities twisted and purple.

'i brought the camera' tim called from the door. the detectives would want every inch on file. ashley still was having trouble calibrating the scanner, and i hadn't seen jonas in hours. we were like a hive, the murder and mayhem sent to us from the powers that be three floors above our nectar, the blind woman that overlooked market street our queen. yet in reality it wasn't really that exciting. it wasn't like the tv shows or the cheap paperbacks. you don't walk away from the comforts of your soulmate felix and don a set of scrubs transforming into a criminal investigating genius. most of the time you don't even get to see what your three hours of dissection and worship amount to until they leak it onto the internet or it comes up on a roundtable on court tv. hell, for 14 hours a day, we're lucky if we get to leave the room.

i remember this well. i remember too much.

i was getting the audio ready, and ashley had signaled that the scanner was up in between bites of a philly when jonas burst through the door from the file rooms he called home. "it's finished!" he proclaimed, a crooked madmans smile stretching from ear to ear.

we didn't pay attention. we should have.

_

did you see it? did you see the day the world died?

.......


nebulize

smashing pumpkins - eye

heretical aspirations and chemical peels

breathe in

a blogger wrote this about 2000 years ago, and it still just makes so much sense....

Deuteronomy 13

Worshiping Other Gods

1 If a prophet, or one who foretells by dreams, appears among you and announces to you a miraculous sign or wonder,

2 and if the sign or wonder of which he has spoken takes place, and he says, "Let us follow other gods" (gods you have not known) "and let us worship them,"

3 you must not listen to the words of that prophet or dreamer. The LORD your God is testing you to find out whether you love him with all your heart and with all your soul.

4 It is the LORD your God you must follow, and him you must revere. Keep his commands and obey him; serve him and hold fast to him.

5 That prophet or dreamer must be put to death, because he preached rebellion against the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt and redeemed you from the land of slavery; he has tried to turn you from the way the LORD your God commanded you to follow. You must purge the evil from among you.

angry johnny

breathe in

this morning i read something horrible. maybe i'm on a theme here (see previous post). hopefully by linking my myspace page to this i might get a little bit more attention to some of my angry, if not always personal, ramblings.

http://www.johnnygosch.com

if you aren't scared you should be. this could be any one of us. when the whole jeff gannon/ johnny gosch thing was going down i wish i would have been more attentive to the story, but at that time, from what i remember, my life was all about pogo and when was the next time i would see my billy.

i've read similar stories for years, even seen a few spoofs of the sort on saturday night live and other type shows, but i never really thought of the depth that it can really go, or read about the real tragedy that has happened to countless people across the country because of the machinations of an elitist few.

brings up the thought: they don't want gay marriage to be legalized because then they would have to admit their crimes to themselves. by legitimizing the few, that condemns those secret elite even more in their shame and their hypocracy.

nebulize

skunk anansie - milk is my sugar

there are fields of fire behind your eyes

breathe in

i have seen a lot today. i have seen the past 5 years summed up in 2 minutes of video. rather than rehash things that have been repeated thousands of times, i have found a couple of things that give a different perspective.

first: the end



second: the paradigm

"Self-reinforcing cycles are engines of change, for better or worse. They get more and more extreme, until either some new constraint enters to impose a new equilibrium, or they crash. Hurricanes suck up energy from the heat in the sea, and grow bigger, sucking more energy, which makes them bigger still, until they hit land and blow themselves out. Addicts keep taking more of what they’re addicted to, until they hit bottom, whether the addiction is to alcohol or heroin or military intervention.

This quality of systems does not bode well—either for the children of Beirut or those of Haifa. Europe and the UN might make some weak attempts to intervene, but as long as the U.S. is cheering the Israeli government on, no serious constraints will be imposed. And why shouldn’t we cheer them on, when Israel’s addiction to force as a solution is the mirror of ours? We’re the big guy and the small guy, standing each other drinks at the pub and throwing the chairs at anyone who threatens us, until we smash the place.

It is this very self-reinforcing cycle that keeps power in the hands of the neo-cons, whose answer to every fear and insecurity is more force. Force which creates more fear, which generates more violence, which requires more force to keep down. It’s an inherent aspect of being caught in this sort of system that as it begins to spiral out of control, and starts to break apart, the only solution you can see is more of the same. An alcoholic gets fired for drinking on the job, and drinks more to forget. Iraq is not working out well for Bush and the neocons, so bring in more troops, or expand the war—Lebanon, Syria, Iran.

You can’t change a self-reinforcing system by changing amounts. Recovering alcoholics know this, generals and politicians don’t. Try to limit yourself to one drink before dinner, and somehow you still end up behind the wheel of the car that careens into the bus full of schoolchildren on the road. Tell yourself that you are using a measured, limited response for well-thought out political aims, and you still end up with blackened torsos and the severed limbs of infants in smoking piles on the motorway.

Here’s some other things we know about these cycles—they are expensive. They consume resources. Drinking up the children’s milk money down at the local. Starving every social program to fund our military. And when they crash, they often fall hardest on the undeserving. The drunk behind the wheel rolls out of the crushed car, unharmed, while the family of five lies dead. The policy makers are not cringing in tenements as bombs fall, or crying over the bleeding body of their most beloved child. Nor are most of those who support the policies. Yet.

To change the system, you need to change the paradigm, the way you frame the situation and think about it, the deep assumptions that shape your viewpoint. That’s Donella Meadows’ most effective way to intervene—changing the world view and the constructs that support the system. It’s also, generally, a hard and painful process. A new paradigm, a new construct of self and world, goes against everything we know and believe. If I’m telling myself that I’m a fun-loving, party kind of a gal—how painful to instead admit that I’m an alcoholic! If I’m justifying the deaths of children by telling myself that I’m bringing democracy to the region, or safeguarding my sister’s children in Hadera, or fulfilling God’s plan, how painful to look at the broken bodies on the pavement and say, “I did that. I have blood on my hands.”"

read the full article here

some of you may think that my posting of dr. strangelove is a dark attempt at comedy, but i post this in all seriousness. this is the place where we are heading, this is the road that the construct has led us down. i have been immersing myself in my own dark world, my post apocalyptic vision of a world in an endless spiral of rage and pain and hope, with heroes that aren't quite heroes and villians that have reasons to act on their rage. and i now see that all i write comes from the headlines, all i dream acts out on the stage of my mind as a revival of the stage of the world.

my darkness doesn't come from an angsty childhood or repressed desires. my darkness comes from the world without, from the lips of a puppet president, from the eyes of a dying infant, from the bodies of the countless dead. the death of this world has infected our hearts, maybe mine moreso.

i hope the next world is better.

breathe out

darkness in your breath old monkey... darkness in your breath

nebulize

requiem for a dream

sickening sighs and sweet overtures of you

breathe in

i sometimes fall behind. i sometimes think that this can be nothing more than anything else and i fall. i think that i can come back and try. i think and i fall and i dimly remember that none of this is quite what i had planned.

sounds like a bunch of emo shit but it is what's on my mind right now.

breathe out

i don't do drugs. ok a little. ok used to be a lot but still i don't do them anymore. that much.

i think that when a drug dealer accuses you of stealing from him that he doesn't trust you. just a thought.

nebulize

madonna - secret