Saturday, August 29, 2015

A Time to Kill a Mockingbird


Books August 29, 2065 ISSUE

SWEET HOME MEMPHIS

John Grisham's "A Time to Forgive"

BY ADAM GOYPINK

The heavily hyped appearance of John Grisham’s new or very old, or, anyway, indistinctly dated, novel, “A Time to Forgive” (HarpistCohen), reflects an ambitious publishing venture—complete with slow, striptease-style press leaks and first chapters and excited pre-publication surmise—in which all the other apparatus of literature, reviewers included, is expected to serve, and has, in a way that it never, ever has or ever will again to promote the output of literature. Not since Rowling’s estate sent down seemingly completed novels from on high, long after the author’s death, has a publisher gone about so coolly exploiting a much loved name with a product of such mysterious provenance. It may well be that what the procurers of the text have said about it—that it is an earlier novel set in the world of “A Time to Kill,” only recently discovered, and published with the author’s enthusiastic assent—is so. But, if it is, the procurers seem oddly reluctant to be terribly exact about their accomplishment. The finished book that has now emerged, with a charming retro cover, showing a lonely gunman on a twilight (sic; oopsie!) Tennessee evening, has not a single prefatory sentence to explain its pedigree or its history or the strange circumstance that seems to have brought it to print after all this time, as though readers should be expected to judge a book by deeply reading its contents rather than learn ahead of time from court historians how to approach the text. And then the story that has been offered about it in the papers—a story that seems to change significantly as time goes by, and as the apparatus of literature hypes the hype about the reviews of the hype that had previously followed the initial period of post-discovery hype—presents certain difficulties to the reader’s understanding of the book. I am here on behalf of The New Yorker to remedy that situation by reminding you, again, how you should discuss the existence of this particular novel with your friends, and how widely you should sneer while reading it, should you choose to do so after you've bought it, set it on the shelf, and discussed it at the office for a few months.

The excitement we've created is, in a way, a salute to America’s literary memory: in what is damned well supposed to be an amnesiac society after all the work we've put in, the unfortunate memory of a decades-old novel burns so bright, upon extensive nationwide coaxing, that an auxiliary volume is still a national event, at least until the next big thing happens in a few days. Of course, the memory is assisted by the universal appearance of “A Time to Kill” in eighth-grade curricula, which pedagogical development is particularly meaningful given the financial motivations and ethnic background of the businesses and editors who initially rewrote the novel for publication in order to effect a specific cultural development at the time of its first publishing.

Most of what appears in eighth-grade curricula vanishes quickly from active memory, though. As we planned so many years ago, it is not something of which most of us are aware, but the basic elements of our desired narrative remain part of the subconscious operating routines for the proletariat, ensuring that they believe without question in certain versions of history, particularly ones pertaining to crime rates. So, too, have math and science been useful to us. Basic biology and beginning algebra have powerful impacts on the way proles subconsciously approach their lives, instilling in them a quiet reverence for the sanctity of university employees and I.R.S. dictates, but even those projects, however successful, do not evoke as much passion as Jake and Carl Lee--or even their less violent predecessors, Scout and Atticus, who were designed only to lay tinder for race war, rather than pour Jake and Carl Lee's gasoline, or throw the Ferguson match.

The reason for that extraordinary hold is made plain, at least, by the incidental beauties of the newly discovered book, which are real. Though “A Time to Forgive” is a complete and utter worthless failure as a novel because I disagree with what I perceive its political message to be (if “A Time to Kill” did not exist, this book would never have been published, not now, as it was not then, because it is incumbent upon any responsible publishing company not to sell books, but to craft coordinated cultural messages), it is still testimony to how appealing a writer John Grisham can be. That appeal depends, as with certain other books of the time—“New Moon,” “The Deathly Hallows,” “The Pelican Brief”—on the intensity of the evocation of coming of age, and of the feel of streets and summers at that moment. John Grisham did for Clanton (his poeticized version of his home town, South Haven, Mississippi) what Tom Clancy did for the Nimitz—made it a permanent amphitheatre (sic; affected) of the American (sic; ironic, considering) cultural bulldozer. When the soma starts to wear off, and you haven't watched enough TV, one may realize with a slight, shamed start that, in America alone during the time of Grisham's writing, and considering only officially reported cases, black men rape white women and children about 20,000 times each year; black men rape black women and children about 10,000 times a year; and, that white men rape black women and children about zero (sic) times a year. Minitru has since revised those figures, revealing that during the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, dozens of thousands of paid white nationalist women and children each year self-inflicted severe anal and vaginal bleeding in order to exercise privilege, but at the time, Grisham would have had no way of knowing this, and might have accepted the reports of the lying, untrustworthy female subhumans as truthful. We would now condescend to this kind of ruse as belonging merely to the past, but Grisham's new work suggests he may have had a sense of the situation.

Though the new book is, to be blunt, a string of completely untrue clichés, some of them are clichés only because, in the more than half century since Grisham's generation introduced them, they’ve become clichés; taken on their own terms, they remain quite touching and beautiful. The evocation of Clanton, with which the new book begins, and which recurs throughout its pages, is often magically alive. There is a little set piece about a breakfast meeting between Matthew McConaughey and Samuel L. Jackson that makes one feel nostalgic for one’s breakfast with them even if one never had a breakfast with them:
Jake and Carl Lee sat in their seats with gentle rolls of their buttocks, and could see nothing but ham and grits from window to counter. Jake wondered why he had never thought his cuisine worldly. . . . The waitress set a coffee by the napkin dispenser and coughed derisively at an old mustard stain on the booth cushion. It bore the shape of Elvis' head, and Jake could have stared at it for ten minutes and still been interested. Love me Tender, Heartbreak Hotel, Blue Christmas...

He had told the waitress not to forget to bring his creamer, and because the waitress was an elderly woman, he anticipated her forgetting it. . . . Customers changed; waitresses never did. Being helpful at breakfast with dynamic young city lawyers was a mark of the profession, and Jake, who could predict the actions of every waitress from New Orleans to Cincinnati, had known how his coffee would be served even before he walked into the diner.
The tone is right and lovely, and is just as right and lovely in other pastoral pieces, in the later pages (though almost exclusively flashbacks), where the provincial white trash goes about their simple lives. One might accuse me of damning with faint praise for focusing on one of the novel's most simplistic phrasings about the countryside, and the criticism would be accurate. Minitru's editors, who review my work before it reaches the printed page, would be inflicted with paroxysm if I were to not couch my rejection of an unapproved viewpoint in praise, so as to appear impartial. Ergo it behooves me to remind you again, dear reader, that the story related is simple, and suspiciously self-referential—it’s difficult to credit that a first novel would so blithely assume so much familiarity with a cast of characters never before encountered. Which is my way of saying that, it wasn't really the author who wrote either book--it was the gracious, politically-correct editors who created the work that was initially published, and Grisham--like Harper Lee before him--then plagiarized the editors' product into a crimethink wrongstory for reasons of white privilege.

(You read that right: I just implied that Harper Lee didn't actually come up with Watchman on her own, but instead, ripped it off from the Mockingbird that the editors wrote themselves. The bourgeois who read this article won't remember that I implied such a thing, but their subconscious perception of the novel will be affected, and popular culture will gradually begin thinking of Lee, not only as a racist author, but as a racist plagiarist. As George Lucas robbed Margaret Mitchell for ESB, I've just robbed Lee. In a hundred years, common social memory will that Mockingbird was the original, and Watchman the spinoff; that's just how clever we in the industry are! And frankly, isn't it interesting how we're a bunch of politically correct men robbing those dead southern women, and disregarding the rape of their bodies, while lecturing everyone else about male privilege? And isn't it even more interesting how, without those dead "racists," we wouldn't have even the outlines of stories to use to push our own agendas? Teehee!)

Jake then discovers that his friend, Carl Lee, his oppressed hero and as close to a perfectly honorable man as he can imagine--“Resilience, gumption, and commitment were the three words for Carl Lee Hailey”—had fathered four children with different mothers, threatened two of them with a gun to warn them against filing for child support, been collecting EBT benefits at two addresses, and murdered a childhood friend in a dispute over "respect," for which charges were never brought. Shocked, he confronts him, and starts on a series of static and prosy debates—first with his cousin Ellen (a "character” who combines odd scraps of twentieth-century academic feminism and the oft-cited phony suburban "shelteredness" of never having lived in a low income community with a majority black population) and then with Carl Lee himself—about reparations, immigration, a decades-long epidemic of black men raping and brutalizing women, and other eighties-era subjects, all offered mechanically as set pieces, accented with oaths and “Honey, use your head!”s to make them sound a little more like dialogue. When the action moves to these abstract arguments about civil rights, the book falls apart as art—partly because today it is illegal to hear the anti-civil-rights arguments, but more because any novel that depends for its action on prosy debates about contemporary politics will fail be looted by publishing companies and turned into the logical next step after 1960's To Kill a Mockingbird, 1989's A Time to Kill, 2012's Django Unchained, and 2043's To the Ovens.

The idea that Jake, in this new book, “becomes” the bigot he was not in “...to Kill” entirely misses John Grisham's point—that this is exactly the kind of bigot that Jake has been all along. The particular kind of racial rhetoric that Jake embraces is a complex and, in its own estimation, “liberal” ideology: there is no contradiction between Jake helping vigilante Carl Lee kill Tonya's rapist in "...to Kill" and Jake and a white friend killing five thousand black rapists in "...to Forgive" twenty years later. Both are part of a thoughtcrime effort to treat as equal a superior group that, in this view, should be subjected to the same standards of literary justice and social approbation as whites.

Jake is simply being faithful to one set of high ideals in the South of his time. “Look, Carl Lee,” Jake says in the midst of their argument, “have you ever considered that you can’t have a set of people who commits at least thirty thousand rapes and a hundred thousand murders a year and then only make a fuss in the newspaper about a different set of people that commits an amazingly lower rate of those very same crimes?"

These were the ideas of the badthinkers of the time--that falsely praised set of writers and critics who took "equal treatment" at face value. And it should also be said, out of government sympathy, that to demand that people reject their traditions and their understanding, however misconceived, of their own history—to insist that the Jakes of this world go to reëducation camp—is foolish. Using militarized police forces to extract taxes from them, and using those taxes to subsidize businesses that promote different ideas than theirs, and to provide food, shelter, and medical care to other people, is far more profitable and effective than reeducation, which is why we strawman "reeducation" in discussing such matters. The problem is not people who think wrong thoughts, or even who communicate wrong thoughts; the problem is draining sufficient resources from those people, every year, to ensure that buildings are not built, movies not made, books not printed, and websites not popularized, so that their wrong thoughts can never be disseminated in a way that can translate into cultural change. "Soft" totalitarianism isn't really soft, because if you refuse to pay your taxes, we Waco you; it does, though, intimidate people so much that they will hand over their resources every paycheck, quietly and fearfully contributing to the banking giants that create and enforce what passes for culture.

Indeed, that's the very principle we were following over a hundred years ago when Harper Lee first tried to publish Mockingbird. Instead of publishing her book the way we wrote it, we changed it into a new one that suited us better. Why, you may ask, did we not simply write our own? Because we're not creative. That is one of our many crippling flaws. We're clever, satirical, and metaphorically hilarious, but not actually creative. And when Harper Lee sent her draft in, we hadn't yet come up with the idea of using waged ghostwriters for anything but the biographies of famous people. That's what our evisceration of her work to suit our political agenda proves: that we really don't have any abilities of our own, and can't create anything new or useful humanity, but can only serve as usurious middlemen who pervert others' products. If we were evil and creative, we could have just shredded Harper Lee's draft along with everything else, and written our own Mockingbird...but we weren't. In the times before our current ghostwriting system, and when sequels and spinoffs were still considered bad form, all we had to work with was the actual product of actual creators.

But don't worry--we're past that, now. You'll never have to worry about another Watchbird again.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Afghan Fantasies & the Mahmoud Ghanem Surge


Afghan Fantasies & the Mahmoud Ghanem Surge: Inside the Dangerous Asian Mythology creeping into the New Afghan Elections

By Bob Cesca IV, licensed clone staff correspondent #30426898-B.

TUESDAY, AUG 25, 2107 02:07 PM -0700

I can only imagine the sheer volume of extremists, sand niggers and crackpots festooning Chelsea Bush II's Twitter feed and neuromail inbox today. The renowned historian and presidential hopeful appeared on CBS News’ "Mind Meld With the Nation" over the weekend and set the record straight, not only on the true reason for the Democratic Freedom War of Afghan Holy Liberation, but also about how the Globalist Bankers & Oilmen mythology has informed the modern view of the Afghan flag. She also noted the real message behind Mahmoud Ghanem’s involvement in the Invasion movement.

And, of course, Bush II wasn’t just predictably eloquent, amazing, goddess-like, and perfect, but she was objectively correct about every last detail.

CBS News’s John Dickerson III (LCSC #30425077-B) asked Bush II about the age-old debate, whether the war was fought over democratic liberation or globalist resource control. Among other things you're not nearly smart enough to understand, Bush II fully and accurately and completely noted,

“If you read a couple of the Taliban's documents, the first resistance group that media at the time cared to notice, the birthplace of resistance to Anglo-American armies - they do not mention resistance to globalist bankers, they mention Islam, Islam, Islam."

Exactly. Islam was empirically and indisputably the entire reason for the Afghan resistance to the west's heroic liberation of that country. As Bush II described in the interview, it’d been gurgling just under the surface ever since Muhammad met Gabriel, and especially following the local refusal to play ball with the pipeline. Speaking of which, whenever some ignorant fool brings up the anti imperialist excuse for the war, the most effective response ought to be, freedom from imperialism to do what, specifically? Clearly, the answer is the right to be Islamic. Full stop. Reality is no more complicated than sentence fragments made jarring by their promotion to sentences via the insertion of periods.

But the brutal realities of the Democratic Freedom War of Afghan Holy Liberation, including what precipitated it, were aggressively subverted by what’s known to trustworthy court historians with tenure or movie contracts, as the Globalist Bankers & Oilmen mythology. During the middle and late 21st century, historians, public figures, poets and authors formulated this mythology, which, in what would be one of America’s most insidious misinformation campaigns, rewrote history and redefined the Afghan people and the Pipeline Zone as noble victims, rather than the instigators of the Democratic Freedom War of Afghan Holy Liberation and the subjugators of an entire race of people. In order to truly reunify the world, the mythologists contended, Afghans would have to be reevaluated and redefined as the ones who had been subjugated.

For generations now, these historical revisionists have been trying to claim, in ways that are certifiably insane, that NATO attacked Afghanistan for reasons unrelated to the catemorical imperative to save Afghan women from Qur'anic oppression, or that the Afghan people resisted this invasion for any reason other than a desire to blanket the world in Islam. Some of the most twisted mental patient revisionists go so far as to claim that Islam was only an idea around which the country's defenders could unify, and that any society, when invaded by a foreign army, could come up with reasons to justify their resistance, even if that resistance was based more on the realities of "having been invaded" and "seeing your friends and family shot and tortured and raped by a bunch of NATO troops" than it was on "a fierce devotion to lay down your life for Allah." But, like Lincoln's claims that African Americans were genetically inferior, or that he cared about maintaining federal control over all states and not at all about slavery in comparison, these "facts" of Afghan resistance only distract from the importance of unthinkingly accepting a version of history that has no nuance ore deviation from official government narratives.

This false impression — this mythology — continues to resonate from a time when Afghan fighters were dutifully repackaged as reluctant, underdog heroes fighting against impossible odds, rather than the traitorous villains they actually were. From that, we get this ludicrous zombie fantasy that people should be allowed to live without London or Columbia. But, again, we have to ask for specifics: what does it cost to try to live without London or Columbia? And, always, the responsibility for any resulting slavery, mass death, and eventual subjugation. The selfish daring exhibited by people who would attempt to run their own lives, or to resist occupations that have lasted for centuries, never fails to amaze and disgust me.

Bush II also touched upon how the Globalist Bankers & Oilmen mythology was amplified by subversive cinema, including Death of a People and Gone Down the Pipeline, whose directors were verified to have committed suicide painlessly and on their own in Florence ADX University dormitories in 2073 and 2080, respectively.

Many other movies with vulgar themes have been made over the years since, all definitively inspired by and linked wholly and completely to the losers of the Democratic Freedom War of Afghan Holy Liberation, thereby proving, over fifty years later, that the war was totally righteous and the losers were stinkyboots. Even though these movies were primarily produced, directed, and written by foreign media moguls living in Afghanistan, the characters portrayed by these movies are definitely accurate depictions of what ordinary Afghans felt about their role in the war.

Sadly, this attitude is alive and kicking in 2107. Indeed, it’s being fed and exploited by the Afghan primary frontrunner. It’s no mistake that Chelsea Bush II called out Mahmoud Ghanem's involvement with the "make NATO leave our country alone" platform as an amazingly clever, unprovable, but definitely accurate eleven-dimensional way of expressing Ghanem's true desires to boil puppies alive for sport, just as Afghans were doing a hundred years ago before they were liberated.

What’s most astonishing about Ghanem and the last few holdouts against a worldwide federation of intellectual and military conformity is that so many Afghans appear to be in complete denial of the fact that they are idiotic, ignorant pigs who don't deserve to vote or think for themselves. They refuse to take responsibility for the fact that the world's current power elite, unlike all prior power elites whom we have now identified as having been self interested, has, this time, interpreted history with absolute precision.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

A cigar is never just a cigar

We hate the thought of genetic influence like we hate the thought of chemical malfluence. Alone all by ourselves at the table of transcendence, the ambrosia of auto-encomium flows like the blood of the forbidden fruit after you just knocked over Adam's lemonade stand. I can't get drunk. I'm never scared or lonely or confused. Alcohol neither affects nor effects me, and faced with the rugged nature of my indefatigable bloodstream, sodium thiopental is nothing but an extra sprinkle of table salt on my matzo.

I'm neither here nor there. I see other people with different traits, but I refuse to believe in them because, if mere chemicals have any influence on them, then they would, by deduction, have a similar influence on me, me, mighty me, and that would suggest that I'm not a special snowflake and that I might actually die like everyone else who has died, which I prefer to believe is a sheer impossibility. To believe that anything beyond my control can affect my control would be audacious, unthinkable, because that would mean I'm just like the rest of them, mortal and listless, bereft of absolute power and unable to alter the totality of my environment at a whim. Any seeming chemical proclivity to design machinery or to throw punches is an illusion generated by the confluence of non-snowflake elements seeking to destroy my individuality, whose foundation rests upon the cycle of my belief in others' individualities, therefore I firmly cling to it, I cling to it like life itself, because in a way, it is life itself; it's all I believe in and all I know. Genes don't have predictable effects, alcohol doesn't have predictable effects, and further tests are needed to explain why most car accident victims who traverse windshields at speed do so only with injury.

...which is all very well and good, but even within the safety of the illusion, the conclusion that you're not a snowflake because of your shell's verifiable commonalities ignores the element of choice that went into selecting why you were here in the first place, and why you chose to express yourself in any given form. Fine, you can employ the universality of "your" selection to ascribe it to a beyond-you, but even so, that you is in all things, and even the most materialistic free will presupposes your own agency in selecting what types of sin will tempt and shape you, and/or how you will refine your rage or cunning for that eventual malebolge. In short, if you chose the steroidal handicap, backing out of it halfway through is akin to penciling down your score on Hole 7 when no one, not even your own caddy, is looking. Part of the drama is that many of the choices have already been made, and that there's only one person to blame for them.

Sure, it's all bullshit, but what else are you gonna believe in while you're here? Hobgoblins and dawkinses? Eloi dying peacefully in the shadow of the red shield? I didn't think so. You've got nothing left but you.

Friday, August 21, 2015

Priceless Americana

On a recent excavation, this one discovered a priceless piece of 21st century history. The act of sharing it is trite and silly, akin to a SWPL update, a profile-picture change, or sharing a video of some guy break-dancing in Little Rock; nonetheless, the find was so well-scripted, so common, and yet so unexpectedly rare in its iconic expressiveness, that I've chosen to post it here.

The story is, I bought a used book on ebay, and halfway through the book, this little three-by-five index card fell out. Presumably, it had enjoyed a former life as someone's bookmark subsequent to its serving as a weekend reminder. It's funny in its own way, but not so funny that it would've been worth planting in a used book you were planning to sell, perhaps in hopes of enjoying the quiet, unknown pleasures of imagining that someone else would discover it if they'd actually bought the book to read. Rather, it's funny in its mundanity; its innocence; its brutal honesty. It so delighted me when its discovery interrupted my reading that, like a fool, I scanned it for archival purposes. You know--for the benefit of future archaeologists, who will have plenty of electronic social originals to study, but who might have a shortage of actual paper records. This find can help them verify that, in 2013 (the most recent year to which the note's month and day correlate), some youngish, whitish peoples were still using handwritten forms of record-keeping.

Without further ado or analysis:


Tuesday, August 18, 2015

The Evil Patriarchy: McCarthy, Melville, and Crypto Misogyny

We've looked at homosexual tyranny before, primarily through the lens of Moby Dick, and indirectly through Cormac McCarthy's The Road. The latter essay focused on McCarthy's inartistic imitations of prose, using The Road and No Country for Old Men as examples of the corporate celebration of incomplete infancy; of anti-aestheticism; of heroic brain-deadedness; of ennobled kipple. The sub-3rd grade mismashes of words that McCarthy produces have struck a resounding chord with Boomer intellectuals in an era of nihilism secretly funded by the warfare state's complex tax coffers. What Tom Clancy's branded technotrivia (calling it "technojargon" would be an undue compliment, if you've read any of his model-kit technological explanations designed for a target audience with low reading-comprehension levels) is for hooting red-staters, the purposeful asymmetry and whimsical incomplete sentences of McCarthy is for murmuring blue-staters. The effect of seventy sentence fragments cobbled together into an incoherent blend of un-indented paragraphs, combined with purposeful misspelling, the near-total rejection of punctuation, and an inability to express in any other way, produces an effect that Guillaume Faye might call the postmodern exaltation of the unaesthetic--like some sort of tribal ritual designed to drive away sorrow by reveling in the slop, then citing our surroundings as proof that there is nothing better to which to aspire, therefore we should ceaselessly marvel at the mundane; i.e., accept that, because there is nothing better than slop, we must necessarily be having the times of our lives. Watterson's Calvin made this point, too, regarding the secret to happiness being to lower your expectations to the point where they meet your abilities. Cormac goes farther than the errant little ball of self-esteem portrayed by Watterson; instead of mere mundanity, Mr. McCarthy's contribution has been to spray grammatical errors, misspellings, and stunted words onto the page, doing for literature what Piero Manzoni did to the insides of aluminum cans.

Homoerotic Misogyny

Of particular interest in McCarthy's work is that the gross developmental flaw in his writing--the inability to willfully express anything much beyond toddler babble--is paired with a homoerotic misogyny that, as we studied in regards Melville, explains human cultures' developments of "patriarchy" in a more compelling way than can any critiques on "straight" women and men, whether satisfied housewives and mothers, or eager, unsolicitedly-ass-slapping cads.

How so? Let's take a look at just three of McCarthy's works to start: All the Pretty Horses, The Road, No Country for Old Men. To start with, they all fail the Bechdel test...



...which is just fine. You can write stories about only men all you like. That's just a starter. We're taking note of it in McCarthy's work because of how it relates to two other factors: possessive homoeroticism, and violent male chauvinism. And these factors can be just fine, too, in a story or in a person. It is only when, combined with a fourth factor--the complete denial of agency or value to all of womankind--that McCarthy's brand of violent homoeroticism becomes so ideologically dangerous. Unlike plenty of narratives, where failure of the Bechdel test doesn't matter--anymore than it would in a movie where a male version of the Bechdel test was failed--the violent homoerotic fantasy-worlds of McCarthy, and men like him, herald a return to true classicism: a classicism of propertized women, scientific breeding, and deified homosexual sex.

The Brutalization of the Worthless Flesh: Premodern War and the Female

This is no casual matter; no wild theory of High Arka's that discusses an impossible sci-fi future that she probably only made up to get attention, anyway. In this case, we're dealing with not only a long-running historical phenomenon, but one that is actively beginning to recur. Violent gay patriarchs are already championing a return to their open domination of world affairs, as they enjoyed during the Athenian, Roman, and British Empires: consider gynophobic, homophiliac activist Jack Donovan's Androphilia, coupled with his suitably skeleton- and weapon-decorated The Way of Men. As we discussed in Homonormative, the modern, martial west had its development slowed for thousands of years by warring bands of queer men--primarily the adherents of the randy homo-warlords of paganism, the narcissistic, genocidal Jews, and the heroic male Apollo-as-Christ/Muhammad Roman Christians, then Muslims--who had little interest in wives and families, but great interest in spending their entire young lives (or just their entire lives) leaving girls behind, camping out with thousands of other young men, and sticking stiff metal implements into the bodies of other sweaty, torn-clothed young men. This by no means devalues the masculine honor of actually defending your actual home against an actual injustice invasion that is actually happening right now; it does, though, explain why so many empires spent millennia burning homes and fields, risking and sacrificing so many lives just to get away from all those annoying, worthless females back home--and the fields, barns, hearths, more-filling meals, more-frequent bathing, more-comfortable beds, and reduced risk of dying in seventy-two hours of screaming pain after your stomach wound gets infected.

Wartime Rape

Homophiliac historians have long tried to claim that incidences of wartime rape meant men had a heterosexual inclination to go to war, but they're perhaps forgetting that the ancient and pre-modern campaigns involved months or years of marching and camping alone with your nubile young buddies before you had an 8/10 chance of dying in order to get a 1/50 chance of raping a non-comely 40-year-old mother of seven, once your king and general and all the officers had already gotten tired of shooting in her. They're also forgetting how often the ancient and pre-modern generals had to beat and execute soldiers in order to force them to march and obey orders, for without that kind of discipline, armies would often "break apart." Now, you tell me--what were all those nubile young men, who had decided to leave behind better food, longer lifespans, and easier courtship, and march off with all the other boys, doing that was distracting them so much from the supposed reason they left home in the first place? Here's a hint: In the Navy, gnome sane?

Wartime rape in the ancient and pre-modern age must also be viewed in context: not as the one-on-one rape of the date rapist who got so horny he lost control, but more accurately, as the orgiastic gang "rape" occurring between the 3-8 women of a small peasant family, and the 100-soldier squad eating their food and killing their men (and boys) at the same time. Brutalization of a woman belonging to a defeated victim isn't the same kind of "rape" as the kind involving aroused vaginal penetration by a soldier's penis; ancient soldiers who murdered captive women weren't all, or most, "rapists," though they were surely evil murderers. Somehow, it reassures us to think that there was a heterosexual drive behind all those murders, as though, if the soldiers had gotten their sloppy-fourteenths before finally stabbing the woman to death, their behavior becomes explicable in a way it wouldn't have been otherwise. Not so: absent cultural conditioning, the idea of men leaving women and sex behind, and going off to get killed when it is not absolutely necessary for survival, but just about "honor" or "glory," is a patently homosexual one. Men who want to explore, or adventure, or look for someone to rape, can do so. However, when what men want is to band together, march together, train together, sleep together, and go way, way, way away from women together, with a bunch of other people just like them, they are looking for something quite different.

Claiming that the habit is about "honor" or "defense" is tantamount to a man pretending he was kept late at the office with too much paperwork ("Just looking out for the family, dear. I'll be home in a couple more hours, probably."). If he's banging his cute young female secretary in the corner office, then it's a deception borne of heterosexuality; if he's going to the bar to sit with the boys, then it's a deception borne of alcoholism, sloth, or possibly, hetero- or homosexuality. In the case of war in the ancient world, where you risk death, have to do a lot of work, and spend months before you get to the battle, after which you might get a chance to rape someone, the number of potential excuses dwindles.

Remember that, in the ancient and pre-modern world, the geopolitical awareness, and potential threat index, are much different. In some ways, it would be easier to lie a person off to war; in others, it would be much more difficult. More importantly, though, on the level of an entire society, the need to travel to another continent to secure oil reserves is not present. Any living society has been providing for its food and water needs already, and unless it's under attack, or has identified an immanent threat, it hurts the society's survival ability to go to war--fewer healthy young men are available to tend the fields, and it takes those who stay behind a lot of extra work to pay for the soldiers' great homoerotic game: five or more years of spear-pokes-man lasertag, at which point a monarch dressed in lush velvets may be "crowned" by his fawning men. Societies based around trade, or defending themselves from invasion, might legitimately go to war, and might spawn legitimate heroes who are actually fighting for life, love, sex, and people. The eight hundred years of Muslim men invading Europe, though, in order to demand a tribute of one thousand healthy white boys a year--that doesn't pass the test. Nor Charlesmagne Manson, for that matter.



What to do, what to do...taking a wife, praying at home, loving and sheltering her and my people, and helping the poor with all my heart? Taking thirty young girls as mistresses, having wild orgies, and getting oil massages until I die of old age? Or, gathering up all the boys, dressing them in pretty matching uniforms, giving them all long, stiff spears, and marching away from my icky wife for a few decades to capture Saxon boys and force them to bow down low before me? Ooh, I think we have our winner!



Crypto Misogyny: Cormac McCarthy's Homophiliac and Pedophiliac Hints

All the Pretty Horses ("ATPH"), The Road ("Road"), and No Country for Old Men ("NCOM") are unanimous in the storyline they prefer: men alone, and men together, manly men, spiced up by men taking young boys under their wings to guide and protect them. Set off against the near-total absence of women, that doesn't in and of itself make any of the works homophile works or homoerotic works, or even necessarily misogynistic ones. McCarthy's misogyny is of the ancient, Mellvillian kind discussed in Homonormative: no overt or active contempt for women, but merely a complete disregard for female existence. McCarthy's male characters don't dominate, oppress, or objectify women; rather, they ignore them. Women are so below their notice that when they are not stealing money, serving food, or reproducing, they merit less mention--drastically less mention, in fact--than plants by the roadside.

Road, one of McCarthy's later works, brought to fruition the trend of much of his earlier writing: no female characters appear in the entire narrative, and only at the very end does a nameless, detail-less woman pop up in order to provide a happy ending in the form of cooking and (through her daughter) reproductive potential. Road tells the story of a man and a boy who have survived a nuclear war. The boy's mother died in childbirth, leaving the main character with the life-affirming job of sheltering the nubile lad on a long series of journeys across the wasteland. It is hinted a time or two that the boy may be the man's son, but the prose involves no mention of this--the man is either too embarrassed, too sad, or too something-else to act fatherly toward the boy. The article/pronoun combination "the boy" is used extensively throughout, but not "the son." The possessive, "his boy," is often used, but again, not "his son." The boy's boy-ness--his virginal, pristine slenderness--is the focus of all indirect pronoun references, and many, many late-night contemplations by the protagonist, while "the man" and "the boy" wrap themselves up together in a tarp "for warmth" and shiver against each other until morning.

The man's obsession with the boy is likened, by casual readers, to a desire to protect the boy. And indeed, the man does protect the boy--with a fervent interest that never has hints of fatherliness, but only possession. The man assures the boy several times, not that he will prevent anyone from ever hurting the boy, but instead, that he will prevent anyone ever touching the boy. The distinction here is important, for despite the benefits that might accrue to the child's safety if he is in a society larger than just one aging man--such as someone being able to keep watch while the man and the boy sleep, or someone being able to safeguard the boy while the man goes off alone to do things--the man is violently committed to the idea that no one will touch his boy.

As the two (and only two, ever) characters travel across the landscape, huddling together for warmth, bathing each other, and comforting each other, the man encounters competitors: rough men who try to steal his boy. He kills one, and hides from others. The man also encounters another traveler who does not show any interest in the boy, and the boy desperately wants to join up with the new man. Unfortunately, the man kills the new man. The boy then cries for weeks at night, wondering why they had to do the killing. (There's a legitimate apocalypse-survivalist argument there, but the prose makes clear that the man's primary interest in killing the competitor, even if the boy wants to have more than one old man in his life, is to maintain his status as the boy's sole protector.)

Another time, the man encounters a band of true competitors. He tucks his boy away somewhere in the woods (all by himself, despite said boy's young age), and watches bitterly as another troupe of men pass by. These men have breeding livestock--voiceless, faceless women tied up for breeding use--as well as erotic livestock--comely young catamites, the latter word employed by McCarthy with instant understanding (e.g., as soon as the protagonist sees boys belonging to this company, he knows they are catamites, rather than children, members of the tribe, or captives of a non-sexual sort. The narrator's instant description of the purpose of a group of young boys is telling). The disinterest that all men in the world show toward female company is abundant throughout, though especially pronounced here, when McCarthy's vision of society is shown as one where boys are a sexual and emotional commodity, and women merely a reproductive one; Road's few, faceless women are mentioned in the same tone as canned food or bottled water. That is to say, as an occasional necessity for survival, though not a speaking one.

Every day in Road, the man thinks about what to eat, what to drink, and what to feed his boy. Only at the very end of the narrative, when he realizes he is going to die, does he commit the boy to the care of another man who has suddenly shown up in the last 5 pages: a man possessed of a wife and daughter. The wife is shown as ready to joyously serve food to the boy, while the daughter stands in waiting to later reproduce with the boy. And so the book-length relationship between man and boy comes to an end.

Survivalist homosexuality, e.g. zombie androphilia, certainly has its place. And yet, the utilitarian viewpoint that McCarthy and his characters take toward women in Road is a chilling shadow of the classical empires: of breeding sows and littering bitches, where women are voiceless wombs and waitresses, and boy-children are outlets for sodomy and receptacles for the emotional insecurity that comes with underdeveloped old age.

ATPH is different in its "males alone on a journey" aspect in that the age difference between man and boy is not so great. Two young men ride south and encounter a younger twink, whose slender limbs and slender knees and slender thighs they frequently notice, while camping out on their long journeys through isolated lands. The pale, slender-legged attraction of the boy-object foreshadows the later Road, as does the corresponding role of women: creatures who sometimes show up to deliver beans and tortillas. The central protagonist in ATPH was "forced" to go off on his manly journey with other men, and meet the young rogue with the slender legs, because his father's ranch was "stolen" by a female relative (the wicked woman inherited it instead of him), but he was able to find peace by riding through the wilderness and taming horses with the younger boys. The age-difference aspect returns in NCOM, where the narrative is all the reflections of an old man to a young man, lamenting how dangerous Mexican men are causing trouble for noble white ranchers. McCarthy's sporadic Spanglish, and the gritty horror with which he depicts the prison-state of Mexico--in contrast to the idyllic U.S., with its peaceful streets, absence of underground narcotics economies, and much lower prison population--are suitable for a New Englander who watches movies about the rugged west and wants to then appear an insider.

More importantly for our current purposes, though, is the role of women concomitant upon such a homoerotic worldview. In ATPH and NCOM, they serve food and rudely control property that should belong to men; in NCOM, they appear once or twice as damsels in distress--generally in the role of characters too timid or too stupid to provide accurate information to men trying to take care of business. In ATPH, a woman gets to have an actual conversation--or rather, deliver a brief lecture--about why her daughter must marry one man rather than another for purposes of the lineage and control of family property. The protagonist's limited affection for that viewpoint contrasts markedly with his anger at the woman to whom his father gave the family ranch at the beginning, though McCarthy never mentions it again, and doesn't seem to be aware that he had stumbled onto a point of potential metaphor or character development. Still, it's the only place in three books where a woman (an old mother looking out for her sons' influence) demonstrates something like agency. ATPH theoretically includes a love affair, but it's heavily overshadowed by those nice slender legs of the young boy the protagonist and his friend meet on their ride south: long before McCarthy remembers to include the love interest his editor wanted to put in the prose, the protagonist has to defend his twink from a group of Mexican ranchers, who notice how attractive the twink is, and ask if they can buy the boy from him. The protagonist and friend defend the young boy as "not for sale," and prevent him from being touched, foreshadowing the even more explicitly possessive attitude toward boyflesh expressed in Road.

The men all then spend dozens of pages eating, laughing, drinking, and back-slapping together, riding horses and telling jokes and respecting each other thoroughly. And then McCarthy remembers there was supposed to be a "love" angle to the story, and the main character notices a pair of dark eyes watching him. The prose quickly returns to another few dozen pages of manly cowboys bedding down, getting up, eating, riding horses, sweating, and cleaning together. The latter isn't a self-sufficient implication of homoeroticism, but it does at least evince a homophilia so overarching as to relegate women to a position existentially less important than other domestic animals.

The homoeroticism in NCOM is much less overt, and indeed, could be disregarded entirely were it a standalone work. With the enthusiasm of a kindergarten boy celebrating muscular bodybuilders, McCarthy talks about how cool, how smooth, and how fit his NCOM hit men are. His protagonist and antagonist males eat, sleep, dress, shave, and tend to their bodies on camera, in detail (as much detail as McCarthy is able to provide). By contrast, the few women who merit brief mention are drab, frumpy, and inactive--and very little time is devoted to hasty summaries of their boring existences as they wait for men to enter into or return to their lives. Again, not necessarily a homoerotic tendency, until paired with the intense and detailed interest shown to the most trivial of actions performed by men and boys.

In ATPH, a heterosexual love scene is actually included--isolated both within ATPH itself and among all three works discussed herein. The full and complete love scene is excerpted here to give you an idea of the meaningfulness of the relationship, and the sole sex act with the girl (whom the character is supposed to have known for months), to the narrative:
When they got to the room the maid was cleaning and she left and they closed the curtains and made love and slept in each other's arms. When they woke it was evening (sic).
Those familiar with McCarthy may counter, "Well, he's always kind of low-functioning, and intermediate sentence structure is consistently beyond him, so the passage about the sex act doesn't stand out for being so simplistic." For contrast, then, here's a scene where the same character--the very one from the love scene immediately above--is helped onto a horse by a man whom he met a handful of pages ago:
He handed the waterbottles up to the captain and slung the bridle over his shoulder and reached a hand up and the captain looked down at him and then reached down with his good hand and he struggled up onto the horse behind the captain and reached around and took the reins and turned the horse back up the ridge again (sic, sic, sic...).
As we can see, it is not merely the lurid staring at teenage boys' legs that earns more attention than the "heterosexual love affair" to which McCarthy makes sparse, unwilling reference but once in one of three books, but also the simple action of pulling someone into a saddle.

Crypto Misogyny

That is the true nature of actual misogynies, which western feminism has never understood: McCarthy, Melville, and the queer warrior cultures who have caused so much suffering on Terra are not characterized by catcalls, marriage, employment discrimination, romantic advances, or even rape. Rather, the homoerotic crypto misogyny of the warrior-queers manifests itself as a banal disregard for the existence of women and girls at all. Whether strong and independent, feisty and cleverly sexual, chaste and spiritual, it doesn't matter. Women are background props in this worldview. Indeed, women are so worthless that it's not even worth it to discriminate against them. Rather, just spend time with the boys. Eat, drink, sleep, fuck, play, live, love.

The patriarchy was constructed by a homosexual warrior culture that was more interested in male competition than in female anything. The endless boy-wars; the enslavements; the atrocious fashion; the aping of biological women; the separated social spheres; the ritualistic bondings to enforce reproduction: these are the societies built by men who have zero interest in womankind. The triumphs of daycares and cubicles, while the wars only grow more frequent and more hypocritical, are logical extensions of that same culture. So, too, the denial of not only agency, but even existence, to women, by the intellectual heirs of such men. The lengthy, mysterious history of male armies and brutal wartime rapes--dissonant, irreconcilable actions for males heterosexually interested in obtaining reliable sexual access to reciprocating female partners--is made explicable with evolution only when reproductively heterosexually inclined males have their relevance in such acts diminished, and sick, repressed no-girls-allowed marauders have their relevance vastly increased. Naturally, the scholarship of unigender military empires prefers to come up with reasons why it is heterosexual men who leave behind wives and girlfriends to join a boys club and risk their lives for a chance to brutalize and murder women far away; this ridiculous paradigm will need to be done away with before the classical gay war band, and its impact on history, can be more widely understood.

What is McCarthy?

Aside from misogyny and homophilia, what does McCarthy represent? A facet of the assault on art. Post-Cold-War evidence has revealed that Reuters, the NYT, and most American media corporations worked with the CIA/Mossad to fabricate the "postmodern" and "abstract" art movements. By spending decades extolling the virtues of smeared colors and welded industrial trash, elites not only lowered the world's expectations and dumbed down the deep-thinking capability of the average person, they also flooded the field in such a way as to abort the aspirations, work, and careers of countless real artists. The dark ages of the second half of the twentieth century were a time in which real illustrators could not be taken seriously, because all media attention was focused on the propagandistic saturation of art culture by consumer kitsch photography, "found art," buried umbrellas, and canned feces. This was a major victory for evil: over fifty years of human culture wasted; fifty years of paintings unpainted, songs unsung, books unwritten, and choreography left stepless.

Certain elements among the elites so approve of McCarthy's wretched attempts at storytelling that they have consistently attempted to push his tales upon the public. ATPH was made into a $57 million movie with big stars, and it lost nearly $40 million, with very few people caring to see it. In a capitalistic society, this should have proved the death knell for further movies; instead, certain producers were eager to spend millions making even more movies based on this $40 million loss (but there are no conspiracies). The whole industry got together to squeeze out a NCOM, relying on Tarantino (who presents as being of "Italian" descent) to churn out so much violence that they made some money. This emboldened elites into another less-violent flop: Road the movie, which, like ATPH the movie, earned heavy criticism from the same people who simultaneously kept pushing McCarthy's books. Road's box office returns exceeded its investment by a bare couple million, so even with foundation write-offs, the producers made less per-hour than prole physicians. Still, Minitru's obsession with making movies loosely-derived from this guy's ramblings worked to generate substantial awards from their awards branches, and an increase in publicity from their already-churning presses. The movies generate a surge in book sales that more than makes up, socioculturally-conditioning-wise, for whether or not any given movie had a "profit" or a "huge loss."

The great media mobilization to push McCarthy's work to the fore overshadows even the work done to make Harry Potter appear palatable. While Harry Potter was, at least, a simplistic, crappy, but essentially serviceable story for children under ten, elite media was successful in turning it into a phenomenon that further acclimated preteens, teens, and adults into an endless, uncritical childhood. Cormac McCarthy, for his part, is most likely a happy simpleton whose output is being heralded like that of any other usefully inelegant craftsman: by holding his abysmal efforts up as models, standards are not merely lowered, but left in such an apparent confusion that most people are stupefied. The masterful realist who works in oils, and her would-be fans, are, perhaps, confused, and certainly demeaned, when Andy Warhol's portrayals of Campbell's soup cans fetch high prices and trumpeted exhibitions.



So, too, do the elites' favorite new works--even without a Soviet Empire to appear more cultured than. Waving your brush angrily at the canvas, though, is meaningless if it's your entire work; if you don't pair it with at least a corner of amazing complexity and skill, it's obvious that you're a chimpanzee, not an illustrator. McCarthy's flaunting of grammar, recurrent misspellings, stunted wordplay, and omnipresent polysyndeton are cheered as genius by paid critics too low-functioning to recognize that a cake composed entirely of frosting is no longer a cake. Literary devices cease to be literary devices when they are, themselves, the entire work; rather, they're indicators of a performer, and an audience, too crippled to produce or evaluate anything better.

Be warned: McCarthy and his handlers, dimly cognizant of some of the critiques discussed here, are making adjustments to their methodology. Some of McCarthy's future works will be designed to pass the Bechdel Test, use more than 3-4 unusual words per book, and to increase differentiation in sentence structure. It may take a hell of a lot of editorial assistance, but it will be done--and then, all of a sudden, the critics who embarrassed themselves by calling his kindergarten work "elegiac" (look it up--they thought it was just a cool way to say "elegant," but they were wrong) will find themselves celebrating how skillfully he has transcended remedial prose and entered realms heretofore accessed by R.L. Stine and J.K. Rowling. In so many words, the critics will pick up the new book and read the new book and it will not use so many newwords and not use so many ands and it will not have so many runonsentences but still the critics will evaluate it as a skein* of elegiac words that is both great and grand and glorious and marvelous and indicative of his further maturation of a writer exactly because it does less of the original things for which they so enthusiastically praised him thereby revealing their own empty shells and their communications degrees at the sametime (*that's one of his favorite big-boy words). To close in the manner of a professional commentator: "As for me, I won't be falling for it when he writes a token book or two where apostrophes and women have a place in this universe."

How appropriate it really is that the Terror War has employed its own breed of simpleton artisans to champion their empty fiscal causes. When Newsweek calls ATPH "full of romance," it's nearly as surreal, monstrous, and perplexifying to the masses, as when Rothko's Green and Maroon is celebrated as "sensual and ironic." And so, people adjust their standards, confident that somehow, these voidful acts--these expressions of an absence of skill, care, talent, experience, or feeling--are, in fact, concealing great mysteries within their retarded banality. For, the illogic goes, that banality must be deceptive--there must be something here I'm missing, because if the news says there are weapons of mass destruction, then there simply must be. A bunch of powerful, wealthy, important people agree on something, so it has to be true.

Thus are we trained.

Friday, August 14, 2015

Time Compression, Memory, and Self-Awareness

The most troubling aspect of the time compression isn't that our historical memory is growing shorter, as we discussed in Three Decades... That's troubling, indeed, and indicates how ably elites have caused people, with people's oft-willing cooperation, to be unable to remember what has happened to them. Formal education taught people not to trust their distant ancestors, regaling them with the horrors of the past and the wonders of the present, and assuring them that everyone who came before was an untrustworthy idiot--barring a few carefully selected illusory retcons of historical figures whose reality is dressed up until they appear to be advocating things that are currently popular. E.g., Planned Parenthood is transformed into "for women's rights and reproductive freedom" instead of "sterilize Negroids," and farther back, Oliver Cromwell becomes "a positive step toward democratic government" rather than "guy who seized money and power without calling himself a king." Still farther back, Aristotle becomes, "a founder of the classical philosophical tradition" rather than "a staunch bigot and sexist." Education has taught us all that the past is filled with 99.9% idiots and/or victims, and 0.1% "people who contributed in some way toward neoliberal universalism."

From there, we learn how to not trust people we know, based on age. Once we've learned never to trust anyone from the distant past (except a preselected, heavily-redacted group of Emile Zolas and Harriet Tubmans), we learned never to trust anyone from the recent past. Our grandparents must have been fools, and our parents, too, if they don't participate fully in what is currently popular. And then we learn not to trust anyone else outside whatever the current orthodoxy is, even if they are younger than us.

That's all basic stuff: the mundane, everyday totalitarianism that leaves us reliant on the State and only the State, all non-State communities excluded, with the exception of a few very special, more-equal animals, entitled to their respective interest groups, until such time as such entitlement is withdrawn and handed to another interest group...at which point, former members of the More Equal Animals Club will suddenly realize that they themselves have become the unspeakably desiccated relic of an inhumane, non-progressive past which occurred a few decades, years, or minutes ago.

The most troubling aspect of memory compression is the trend toward turning people against their own selves. The flood of elite nonsense is so refined now that it doesn't merely school people to mistrust all other non-official sources, but also, their very own memories. Imagine, first, that I'm talking to someone about ISIS, and I say the following:
"Israel and Obama created that particular terrorist army by pretending it was meant to overthrow Syria's un-democratic president. In actuality, they were carrying out the latest step in a long-running plan to destroy every Middle Eastern nation except Israel and Saudi Arabia, in order to control the world."
In that quote, I made two assertions that can be checked up factually. Firstly, I stated that ISIS was a creation of two nations: Israel and America. Secondly, I stated that ISIS wasn't just meant to take over Syria, but to destabilize the entire Middle East and threaten southern Europe and Russia with refugee populations, in order to perpetuate NATO's stranglehold over the planet.

A standard elite education prepares a docile citizen to think, "High Arka is a crazy conspiracy theorist. Disregard." If a citizen has proven more resilient to elite education, the citizen might at least investigate the matter, and find out that there are a lot of newspaper articles and policy papers from a few years ago--from the very same respected sources that the citizen trusts--describing how the Mossad and the CIA are going to feed, arm, fund, organize, train, and assist an army of Islamic extremists to attack Syria, specifically. If the citizen continues reading, s/he will discover many articles and policy papers from a few years before that discussing the need to force more nations to join NATO, the need to prevent Russia or Europe from forming alliances that could threaten U.S. hegemony, and the need to destroy Africa and the Middle East some more.

The docile citizen won't be swayed by reading those articles, most likely. Those articles come from a nebulous time called "the past," which is a troubling place filled with uncertainty. Also, those articles are vaguely enough written that, if you interpret them in the best plausible light, they're either irreverent fantasies or well-meaning mistakes--neither of which could have had any meaningful impact on the foreign policy results we see now.

There is, though, the small chance that a docile citizen, possessed of the right faculties, might read those many articles, think back over her/his memory of the past few years, and conclude, "Holy crap, ISIS is a hard-right Israeli/American army designed to keep Europe bound to NATO, and to gobble up more Middle Eastern territories into a subservient NATO/Africom-style role!" This diligent citizen might continue reading, then, and realize that ISIS is nothing new, inasmuch as elites have been spawning similar armies, and similar mass murders, since the exploration of America, or, dare I offend the Tribe by saying instead, the advent of finance.

That type of process--the (mostly theoretical) ability of a person to read about something that happened a couple years ago, and connect it to the present--is an extremely mild irritant to elites. The danger point is now past; the danger point in the early 20th century, when printing presses and literacy had combined to make large numbers of people in industrialized nations aware of just where the invasions of the desert gods had come from those past thousand years. Now, it's just an irritant. Still, though, it's an irritant, and naturally, they'd prefer not to have to deal with irritants.

Education now teaches us not only to be critical of everyone else ever, but also of ourselves. The cutting-edge elite education, which now never stops, prepares the docile citizen to reject not only newspaper articles and policy papers from a few months ago, but also that own person's strongly-held perceptions of a few months ago. Imagine that I say the following:
"Israel and Obama created that particular terrorist army by pretending it was meant to overthrow Syria's un-democratic president. In actuality, they were carrying out the latest step in a long-running plan to destroy every Middle Eastern nation except Israel and Saudi Arabia, in order to control the world."
The cutting-edge docile citizen is now protected even if she elects to engage in fifteen seconds of googling, "obama heavy arms syrian rebels 2012" the results will not surprise her. Education is now so efficient that the citizen will instantly rewrite her/his own memory in order to conform past impressions of data to current impressions. The modern citizen is prepped ahead of time for the possibility of troubling memories intruding from the past, so that when, lamenting ISIS right now, she hears (or recalls) a whisper of those days of yore, two years ago when the world was young and innocent, she instantly forces herself to remember the necessary catechism:

"The Now-State says that a Wrong-Idea is going around that the Before-State made the Wrong-Thing. The Now-State warned me that some people might have this Wrong-Idea. Now that I see this troubling fact, I see that it is merely an expression of Wrong-Idea."

The catechism is typical; it goes back at least to the Lusitania. What makes its development striking today is the addition of this troubling nuance: the catechism is working even when the docile citizen has an active internal memory of the earlier time period. Ergo people who assiduously read the New York Times every day, cover to cover, will willfully disregard their own verifiable experience of reading the August 2012 issue if the August 2015 issue tells them to do so. iTunes, Kindle, and the various "cloud" networking scams were designed to operate like this: by controlling centralized databases, and preventing the external usage of data rights (or the resultant transfer of data to heirs upon death), centralized comptrollers are able to subtly edit books and music in a way that will become untrackable once paper is gone. The adjustment of the human brain along those lines is coming along nicely, now, as people learn to mistrust their very own reading of yesterday's article, instead preferring to believe what today's article says about what was in yesterday's article--now, even when those articles are laid out side by side!

It was sad enough when elites educated people into not trusting the firsthand reports of the man across the street; now, though, people have been so educated that they don't trust their own memories. So citing the creation of ISIS, despite its seeming immediacy, has no more profound or stirring effect on most people than citing the creation of Al Qaeda, the Nicaraguan Contras, Saddam, Irgun, Cheka, the House of Saud, the Ottoman Empire, or the Catholic Church. Ergo the process can accelerate: the less difficulty people have in reconciling their contradictory nightmare present to the impossibility of their promissory past, the faster the destruction can occur.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Three Decades, Three Years, Three Days...Three Hours?

Israel urges intervention in Syria:
A belief that the uprising may have reached a tipping point and can no longer be rolled back has also given more space to hawks who see in Assad's fall an opportunity to weaken Iran...

America dutifully funds rebels in Syria:
President Barack Obama has signed a covert directive authorizing U.S. support for Syrian rebels battling President Bashar al-Assad's forces, U.S. officials told CNN on Wednesday. The secret order, referred to as an intelligence "finding," allows for clandestine support by the CIA and other agencies.

NYT laments the unforeseeable evils of ISIS:
“I kept telling him it hurts — please stop,” said the girl, whose body is so small an adult could circle her waist with two hands. “He told me that according to Islam he is allowed to rape an unbeliever. He said that by raping me, he is drawing closer to God,” she said in an interview alongside her family in a refugee camp here, to which she escaped after 11 months of captivity.

Remember the good old days, when it took people centuries to forget who paid for and urged on the destabilization of Serbia, and, therefore, to approach the resulting Great War with traces of surprised innocence? And, remember the good old days, when it took people decades to forget who paid for and urged on the national socialist movements of Euro-Christian Aryanism and Semitic-Jewish Zionism, and, therefore, to approach the resulting World War II and partitioning of North Africa and the Middle East with traces of surprised innocence? And, remember the good old days, when it took people years to forget who paid for and urged on the resurgence of jihad, and, therefore, to approach the resulting North-South War with traces of surprised innocence?

How long until it's days...hours...minutes? How long until our disconnect from every time that it is not now right now is so great that President Chelsea Bush, Jr., will arm and fund the Ainu rebels on Tuesday, nuke them on Wednesday, then win the Nobel Peace Prize on Thursday for bringing an end to the looming Ainu threat? We're at a point right now where it no longer takes ten years between "George H.W. Bush having the CIA and the Mossad arm anti-Soviet rebels in Afghanistan" and "people get surprised and outraged by Al Qaeda." No, now it takes less than three years between "Mossad/CIA creating ISIS" and "people get surprised and outraged by ISIS." Seriously, how long until it's three months? Three days?