The male gaze vs the blue-haired gender-studies graduate’s glare: which can take rightful credit for your Existence on Earth?
Audio Photoshop is what I am most comfortable calling Modern Pop. Narrative Photoshop is probably the best term for “the news”.
What do you call the Photoshop of your Conscience?
HOLOSISM: conceptualizing The Whole as being the Universe from side to side, top to bottom, beginning to end, The Whole can therefore be construed as an omniscient Intelligence that “knows” everything by containing everything: to that extent, predestination describes the condition and path of every constituent element of The Whole, in retrospective simultaneity, from neutrino to human eyelash to Quasar: a data-set too large for any Intelligence other than The Whole itself to grasp by containing.
(Philosophical concept I came up with in 1978 when a friend asked me to write a paper, for him, for his philosophy class; he had nothing and the paper was due in less than an hour; I wrote it in his dorm room. The paper was 5 pages long, cited no known philosophers and got a C+, if I recall correctly)
Yeah, but, see, like, Murkka owns the planet, let’s be real here, so, obviously NATO (which is like this big Murkkan company) can establish a menacing and like taunting military presence anywhere it wants to and like the people in the vicinity just have to, like, suck it up. And, like, when the IMF (another big Murkkan company) wants to like drain a national target of its resources and sell off its infrastructure to crony capitalists who were in on the planning stages, in exchange for a “loan” nobody could possibly pay off (after all their resources have been drained), like, who’s gonna stop them? That’s just good business. And Putin is like this jealous psycho anyway, did you see that really funny thing they did about Putin on The Daily Show? Or was it SNL? Shit, maybe it was The Simpsons. No, wait: Jimmy Fallon. Conan? TikTok? Anyway: yeah.
“TEN BOOKS BENITO MUSSOLINI THINKS YOU SHOULD READ”
I’ll bet there are a thousand learnéd publications from university presses out there just bristling with the word “pussy”. Yet: when was the last time any of us noticed the word “cock” deployed in an academic publication? I don’t mean medical contexts as in “Pelvic Pain The Ultimate Cock Block: A No-bullshit Guide for Men Navigating through Pelvic Pain”… and I don’t mean distancingly-bemused surveys of Restoration Comedies chock-a-block with naughty euphemisms. I mean the pointed deployment of the word “cock” preceded by the most possessive adjective. Is your cock of no importance to you, cock-having scholar? Does it not inform some of your pressing decisions while also inflecting, just a little, the trajectory of your writing hand across the page? Does it not inform your worldview, factor into your self-image, pester or soothe you in the solitude of the stacks? Of all the minutiae you compile in order to address some aspect of the world, voluminously, in print, nothing regarding your cock pops up?
If one concentrates on the kinks and gaps in the narrative called Elon Musk, one finds it can be a useful entry point into an understanding of the fraudulence of the system under which we are currently imprisoned. From the beginning I thought: This guy doesn’t talk like any engineering nerd, or big-brained visionary, I have ever met or heard of on this Earth. This is a scam. But it’s a scam supported by Big Media and by what everyone calls “the government,” which is merely the beard for the Invisible Aggregate Entities for which Big Media is the mouthpiece/ handmaiden. If the “richest man on Earth” is a fraud, then, clearly, Money is a fraud, and the system of reporting the “news” is a fraud. If Money is a fraud and the “news” is a fraud, how can one trust anything else? So, yes: Musk is the soft target of critical opportunity… a weak spot in the fortification along the citadel walls which guard the secret; the secret being that The Empire Is Running On Imaginary Fumes. Fumes and The Military. The Military is the only real thing (hard object) in the system. The System is nothing but guns, bombs, missiles and Bullshit. The Military is held in place by Money and Money is fraudulent: that’s what contemplating the strange case of Elon Musk leads me to think. If Musk doesn’t pass the Smell Test (npi), how can The System that is propping him up pass it? Study the absurdity and stupidity and intelligence-insulting unlikelihoods of Elon Musk: more fruitful than a week spent reading rotting word salads by Heidegger.
Watch this video*
Sometimes my Wife and I fuck so well together that she will, without necessarily noticing the pattern, swat my ass, in passing, the next day. Sort of a locker-room gesture.
It’s usually when I’m crossing the kitchen. She swoops in and swats my ass and it is invariably the day after a good fuck between us. She did this, I noticed, a couple of weeks ago and then roughly six days after that, the day after we’d fucked again, swatting my ass, in passing, twice. She swatted my ass twice, that day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, and I thought: what did we do yesterday that was so good it merited two swats?
For me our fucking is always earthshakingly good but for Wife there is clearly a scale. It’s not that Wife ever appears to be disappointed (though once, last year, we were interrupted by Daughter at the bedroom door, asking about bath towels, and it was impossible for Wife and I to resume, which was too funny to be a disappointment; it was impossible to resume because we hide our sexual activity from Daughter with dedicated fastidiousness in order to honor the unspoken contract of transgenerational privacy… it just wouldn’t do to blithely refer to Your-Parents-Are-Fucking situations, in conversation, with Daughter, the way I imagine “liberated” Parents of the ’70s probably did, sacrificing Grace in the name of Candor, because unless responding to a direct question, on the topic, Parents are Bulls in the China Shop of a young person’s sexual belief systems: the Prime Directive must be upheld). Wife always seems to have a pretty-good time as I suck, sniff, kiss, lick, nibble, rub, stroke, poke, push, pull, penetrate, smooth-over, relish, gawk, gloat, hum, throb, gasp, shiver, grunt and swoon. I am fucking Wife when I fuck Wife and fucking the 17 years we have been together and it is better than sex in a firmly anti-Hollywood way. There is no music, no dialogue, no cut-away-shots to fantasy figures.
Whatever we get up to before I come, I always go down on Wife after I come, as a way to rev-down while the scalloping waves retreat from ecstasy’s beach, the abruptly-beached swimmer of my soul gloating and tingling while coughing up starfish. (Counter-intuitively, I will switch, now, from a pelagic metaphor to something woodland and then back to water, à la Gordon Pym of Nantucket, again…)
I tend to get lost in the activity of going down on Wife, my mind wandering not away from but into the matter at hand, like a fairytale fox with his most treasured super-recent memories wrapped in a kerchief on the end of a stick, wandering deep into the enchanted woods. At some point deep (c. 3-5 minutes) into the journey, I become aware of the signs that Wife is beginning to circle the ecstatic drain; shifting details in the coded architecture of her womb’s mercurial entrance tell me so: she spins all dizzy down the vortex, hands on my forehead or tugging my ears to rein me in and get that too-eager tonguetip off a suddenly super-sensitive inlet…
The pastel (I’m guessing) vortex Wife spins gaspingly down seems to be standard, every time, in intensity; I think the tonguetip-triggered orgasms may actually be uniform in strength; what varies from fucking to fucking is to what extent Wife gets lost in the stuff that happens before I go down on her. This may be the metric by which she indexes and grades the experiences.
I tend to toggle between being desperate to fuck Wife and being so desperate to fuck her (after watching her prance around so beautifully in tights, her hair freshly washed, being very cutely silly and having recently, say, done some heroically Good Mother thing like riding the U-Bahn to the other side of town to get Daughter’s favorite take-away meal, plus the cyclical occasions in which hormones and whatever conspire to make her breasts stick out at 45 degree angles, meaty and heavy and fecundity-signallingly dense: what the fuck is going on here, I often joke, grabbing those ship-prow decorations and jiggling them) that it feels like a life-or-death matter. Which can be revitalizing because that takes me right back to the awful (awful) angst of my sexually desperate teenhood, when all I did, it seems to me, was crave boons… but now with a merciful guarantee of alleviation (marriage) built right in.
Sometimes it happens during school vacations that Wife and I can’t fuck for two weeks and when we do fuck, the subsequent Monday, when school has resumed, the doorbell off and the rooms all clear, it feels as though I will most probably ejaculate leg bones and platelets when I come. Still, that time my Wife whacked my ass twice, the day after fucking, it wasn’t that we hadn’t fucked for two weeks before that at all. I wasn’t particularly desperate when I fucked her that time. Puzzling. What did we do that she liked it so much that she slapped my ass twice the day after we did it?
The problem being that I can’t ask her about it without making her so aware, and so self-conscious, about it, the fact that she slaps my ass sometimes the day after we’ve fucked, that she stops doing it. Therefore I will never ask and never know what she really likes but perhaps that’s for the best.
If we did what she really likes, every time, would she still like it?
My boss in the Club I worked in c. 1990-1992… a character straight out of “London Fields” (but in Berlin; his father a big club owner in Paris) who called me “Romeo” and would materialize out of nothingness, whenever I was slacking, with the jolting admonition “YOU MUST MOVE!” meaning “clean up that sick in the Ladies’ WC!” or “help out serving Becks at the front bar!” instead of hiding wherever I thought he couldn’t see me in the throbbing fog of the L-shaped club. Cash and phone numbers in my back pocket at the end of every night and shades on as I left the club at 10am to stagger home through the incoming tide of high-street shoppers and marching-to-work secretaries. Crash in a temporary flat until 7pm, eat breakfast and report to work again at midnight. Best shitty job in history… I was thirty-ish, passing for twenty-ish and rapidly putting the bulk of my pseudo-bourgeois misconceptions behind me.
What White Liberals blithely refer to as “Black Culture” is a mixture of Slave Culture and a postWar concoction of ignorance, self-hatred and deprivation designed and policed by “The White Man”. My grandmother wrote short stories and book reviews for “Colored” newspapers in the 1930s and she was a strict grammarian (having mastered her native tongue) and she participated in a bookish, self-respecting drive, among Black Americans of that era, to seize a claim on Humanity and Citizenship equal to that of any Euro-American’s. This momentum was cleverly derailed soon after the legal victory of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, signed into effect by the racist (and murderous) LBJ, a legal document that was more an artefact of the Cold War than a milestone in Civil Rights (Uncle Sam couldn’t very well talk down, from its moral high horse, to Nikita Khrushchev while keeping its Darkies in the back of the bus). And this legal document was cleverly, as I say, countered, with COINTELPRO programs by the FBI and CIA alike, masquerading as Pan African Consciousness, advocating the opposite of genuine self-development, self-reliance, self-mastery and a competitive sense of self worth. A century after the end of the Civil War, after a century of forward momentum up the steep hill of America’s supposed promise, Blacks were rolling right back down the hill, with the help of patronizing Liberals, who called Ghetto pidgin English “Ebonics” and encouraged it (though I’ve never heard the term “Cauacasonics” applied to Appalachian pidgin, nor have I seen Liberals encouraging it). Still, the backwards downhill slide wasn’t fast enough for the CIA, so they hosed down the Hood with Crack in the 1980s (killing two birds with one rock: Black genocide in the Hood and Leftist genocide in Central America) and Liberal Jewish Label Heads winked and pushed Gangsta Rap in the 1990s et voila: “Black Culture”. Mega-weaponized with self-hatred’s Nihilism, profound developmental deficits and secondhand surplus arms shipments. Fat White Crypto-Nazi Cops will have to work plenty hard to compete with the body counts of Black-on-Black shootings, no? That’s “Black Culture”: as White-engineered and toxic as any GMO.
Okay: so Why?
Well, A) never underestimate the fervency of Race Hatred as a concentrated (pure) form of Xenophobia… and how it informs the policy objectives of the lingeringly WASP “elites”. B) Blacks in North America are the domestic equivalent of Arabs/ Turriss on the world stage of the lumpen perception of Foreign Relations (sharpened by the needs of Zionist Expansionism): a powerful fuel source. KEBF (Keep the Electorate Blinkered and Frightened) is the core principle of Electoral Politics. One viral clip of wild Black juveniles running amuck is more cost effective than a high budget green screen production of Turriss Beheadings (such as produced under BHO) in the herding of public opinion : the pants-shitting Purple State bourgeoisie will green light any number of draconian police state policies after being exposed to such content for long enough. In fact, Hamas, I would argue, doesn’t come close: if Izreel wants a Public Opinion blank cheque** for apartheid/ genocide, they need to crossbreed Palestinians with Gangsta Rappers for 20 years and…
Academic training: designed to subvert the gift of clarity wherever it may find it.
Funny: WW3 started two years ago and almost nobody noticed. We already knew “The Revolution will not be Televised” but Ultra Modern Warfare is even trickier than that: Ultra Modern Warfare means bribed and infiltrated national institutions attacking their own populations while half of each of these populations sing and dance and give thanks for the carnage! “Trippy,” as we used to say. Children die and the singing gets louder, the dancing more jubilant… And the “Shot Heard ‘Round the World,” as the attack commenced, wasn’t heard at all as it sank into the flesh of the target, which was Humanity itself. WW3 is a very strange thing.
Perhaps WW4 will be fought to avenge it.
13LETTER TO A TEACHER OF MY CHILD
Dear Mr/Ms ______:
The institutional default seems to be either A) treating parents as reactionary (but well-meaning) provincials or B) regarding them as sinister possible abusers. The institutional tendency appears to be that one avoids considering the extreme probability that parents are, overwhelmingly, the C) loving absolute experts on their own children. Especially when a child is gifted.
The topic of giftedness itself is fraught, for the parents of such a child, because teachers too often behave as though this giftedness is their (the teachers’) discovery; as though the child with above average verbal or math skills, and/or an unexpected level of pre-institutional education, appeared out of nowhere, or blossomed as a result of the teachers’ (as opposed to the parents’) efforts… independent of the hapless, unsophisticated parents.
When parents are committed parents, dedicated to the health and happiness and development of their child/children, there is very little an outside observer (without medical training) can tell such parents, about their own offspring, that the parents don’t already know. Rather, the converse is clearly the case: teachers need to learn to take parents seriously as the world’s top (non-medical) experts on the topic of their children. How can any outside observer claim to know more about a child’s moods/ needs/ habits/ talents/ strengths/weaknesses than the parents who birthed, diapered, fed, bathed, raised, played with, taught, guided and protected these children, involved from the moment of conception, living with them day in and day out, intimately aware of who their children are when they aren’t wearing their public masks?
Institutional arrogance regarding the role and value of parents, in their own children’s past, present and future is an unnecessary obstacle to building a fruitful parent-teacher partnership. In such a partnership, the parents are, necessarily, the senior partners. In order to teach well, teachers must be able to learn well; the unilaterally pedagogical relationship between teacher and child cannot be, but too often is, applied, in the mind of the teacher (and/or administrator), to the relationship between teacher and parent. The parent has more to teach the teacher, on the topic of his or her child, than the teacher can possibly teach the parent. Parents who delegate pseudo-parental responsibilities to teachers (as moral guides, disciplinarians, sounding boards and sympathetic ears, etc) are another matter entirely: such parents are shirking their natural responsibilities. Parents who gladly assume the real weight of such natural responsibilities are exercising a fundamental human right. The educational system needs to reacquaint itself with this truth.
Institutional arrogance undermines parental authority and calls into question Society’s conceptual goal in Education itself: knowledge qua knowledge… or conditioning?
14THE POWER OF THE CHARLATAN
“What, then, did the charlatan do first when he appeared in the turmoil of the market place ? He wanted to be seen; he must elevate himself above the crowd. His natural stature being insufficient, he resorted to artificial aid: he sprang upon a bench. “Mountebank,” “he who jumps on a bench,” is the English term corresponding to the French and Italian expressions, “saltimbanque” and “saltimbanco.” With this first visible action, the charlatan captured the attention of the audience, the prime injunction of every kind of advertising; as Samuel Butler wrote in 1678: “Charlatans can do no good, Until th’ are mounted in a Crowd.” But once all eyes were fixed on him, he had to hold his audience by costuming and stage effects. And he must be heard as well as seen immediately; and so the charlatan began to speak, or rather scream, as soon as he gained the bench, in order to overreach others by his voice as well as his figure. To this he owed his German name of Marktschreier (market crier), and the onomatopoetic English term, “quack.” Skeat maintains in his etymological dictionary that a quack is one “who makes a noise like a duck.”
–The Power of the Charlatan (1939), Grete de Francesco, pg 87
**I suddenly realize that a very old part of my brain still thinks that “Exchequer” is the fanciest word I’ve ever heard.