God is calling ...

It is interesting that out of all the sad and miserable global stories we take in every day, scaled from big to small, the one that sent me on the thought trip into what life must have been and will be soon enough, and how the events in a world such as ours, in these times, culminated for one Shaquan Duley.

Shaquan: where are the childfathers? Look at Shaquan now. Look. You see the face of generational child abuse maturing, unimpeded anywhere along the time line from 1604, likely earlier, likely as early as the upending of an ancient culture - as in genocide, civil wars, religious and social upheaval and its partner, lifelong oppression and the ever unfolding results of ethnic prejudice. You see an abusive grandmother, her abused daughter, two abused toddlers [murder being the ultimate abuse], a granddaughter [unprotected as of this writing] and the ugly thread of domestic violence weaving throughout their lives with nonstop crises.

But wait, there's more: the violence perpetrated on a people, the stolen potential, the disappeared opportunities, the dearth of literacy and intellect, the mindfulness to handouts and scraps of cooperation, the assuaging fictions, eventually the complete belief in your own inability to function at all, but you do, weakly, just enough to get through the day.

What kind of food did Shaquan like? What food did she prepare for her children? How did Shaquan come to possess a vehicle she could dump into the river? Now, Shaquan will go off to the big house where it is destined she will continue as tragically as she has begun, a blip on the radar, another statistic filling the cesspools of the deviant mind.

What is it that makes one child oblivious to abuse and another cower and fall ill at the moment its shadow appears over the horizon? What is it that allows one person to be unfeeling towards someones suffering but another experience compassion? Anyway, such stories of humans-gone-bad have gaping holes and appear to come from some dirty script hiding in someones metal drawer for when the need arises as it does now, in a national dialogue on race, an outdated term btw, the Anthropological update is Phenotypes. You get the idea that Shaquan's region of the US is a suburb of the southern outclasses and to be avoided at all cost. I don't know, but I'm in no hurry to explore the relic hotbeds of Plantation lifestyles or its current metamorphosis, its still all about cheap labor.

It is only too recently there were no Civil Rights for African Americans. Even though things were written and sealed, life is lived in communities which have attitudes of some sort or another. The more you read, thus educating yourself, travel and communicate with friendlies, the more you can understand some of what happened to make this world what it is. Obviously, Shaquan had no inspiring literature available, seldom left familiar turf and rarely dealt with anything of the larger world, especially that of creativity, art, drama, music, etc., which could have been a way out, but in her case is victim to abuse as well in that the abuse foisted upon her was that of stealing her potential for a reasonably meaningful tolerance for life's situations, deprecating even her worthiness to live and stealing her only means of survival, spiritual and social. Without the murdering of the toddlers, somehow she still would have found the big house because she was only allowed to get this far as a breeder for cannon fodder. If you asked her point blank, "Are you a person?" She might have responded with "You know what I'm sayin? " which is standard for get out of my face. Thank her Mama's mama's mama for that, moreover thank the Dutch slave traders and their extensive oceanic cruises provided African immigrants by our literate aristocracy penning for an incubating Big Agra. When Shaquan's trial comes around, it will be a prosecutor's slam dunk with nary a nod given to the horrors visited upon the factors which give rise to the actions of all the past, present and future Shaquans. In addition to the two dead boys, she has a five year-old daughter at "home". What chance for a life will this little girl have - especially in light of her sudden change in circumstance? And if those circumstances had been absent would it be the same cowardly, abused and abusive, straight line to incarceration? We hope not, but statistics are not on her side, still, something could intervene. Its always a good idea to offer support, even if its in spirit.

The people who make it out from under despite all extra judicial efforts to the contrary, at least have a fighting chance to discover life's a bitch on any level, so your level isn't that different in reality from anyone else's. You can change your situation, but first you have to break the chain. To break the chain however, you have to SEE it.

We had a maid who was very much a "member of the family" when I was growing up. Others had live-in maids, a position that made me feel sorry for them having to be away from their own families often a month or more between day visits. My earliest impression of Annette remained until the last time I saw her. Even as I grew taller, she didn't age beyond her initial appearance or dress. It was always the same plaid cotton dress, same broken down shoes, same overworked shopping bags, slowly stepping off the bus wheezing from her side of town into mine. Her shoes were the black lace up short-heel type with huge round bumps made from her bunions. Her stockings were rolled at the calf, her hair in a bun with stray grey curls pressing into the sweat on her forehead. She was hunchbacked from seventy years of dusting antique table legs and under beds. She had a Penguin's walk, swaying but sure, and a worldview shaped by her love of God. Her entire posture spoke of incredible suffering. There'd been a fire, she'd lost her house and her only daughter whom she often spoke of as if she was still alive. [and why not? ] I already knew enough to know some of what had happened to her and her people at large. In fact, I was fascinated by segregation, it made no sense, it was incomprehensible such a thing existed. That Annette's suffering had been so brutally compounded was simply inexpressible, but felt on the emotional plane. Every Christmas we visited Annette's house and took gifts, my mother lavished her with hams and woollens for winter, I believed this was because we could see the daylight between the slats of her uninsulated walls. On her mantle she kept the rubber leg that had fallen from my sister's toy. In order for Annette to get to our home in exurbia, Annette's bus would have taken her through the downtown city route which displayed every type of off limits to Negroes symbols thought up by Satan through which his vessels printed and hand-scrawled sloganry as well as lawfully providing two of everything, one nice something and around the corner one nasty something of the same item for Negroes such as toilets or water fountains. Everything having to do with the body/mind was segregated to prevent the ohmygosh possibility a mixing of some sort could come about. [It reminds me of the rare earthworm with salmonella that may nibble an almond fallen off the tree in which case all harvested almonds must now be pasteurized and microwaved before sale.] Annette didn't talk to me about racism, but Alberta, her fill-in, did. I learned much. Alberta was tall, big boned, glamorous in red lipstick and matching fingernails. She had a nightlife and some days called in sick. I imagined her off time spent in front of a mirror applying fakes. She knew I was a most willing listener and held nothing back. I'd sit cross legged on the carpet and let her roll while she ironed away the day. My mother said Alberta was the world's best ironer. Actually, she was even better with inspiration since I followed up on her recommendations and became a child gospel authority for my clique which meant eventually, I dumped them and made new friends beyond exurbia more to my liking. In no time at all, I found myself rolling on the floor between rows of school desks locked in heated scuffles with some of my former friends and classmates. I started taking the bus downtown to see some of what Alberta mentioned which was always either a club or a gospel tabernacle during choir practice. The lesson was these people I'd mingle with were a lot more interesting on every level than the people I'd met anywhere else in my adolescent life.

That's enough on this, except to state unequivocally, the person you are as a child is the mold for the person you are today. I'd just as rather listen to the Pearly Gate Singers take on Heaven with the Royal Telephone as I would Bach Harpsichord or Falla: Nights in the Garden of Spain, and that's saying a lot.

It is a statement on family denial that my parents and every one of my many aunts and uncles passed away within a comparatively brief time of one another, services attended when feasible, often the same attendees experiencing profound personal loss, the gathering of the clans in mourning and so forth, and yet, I was never notified of Annette's passing and it is impossible she is still around. There is no one left to ask and I don't care to know because I already know she went home for the last time.

May Shaquan have it better next go around and may her little sons rest in peace. Most of all, may her daughter possess the character and insight to break the chain.

Have you ever given any thought to your own reincarnation - should you have to return? You could be dropped into any time period, anywhere, into any level of enlightenment, facing the lies and mentality of that moment.

photo: unknown, c.2010

silence of the lambs

The commenters are eager for a new read. Well okay, there are plenty of items on the radar that invite further scrutiny, perhaps some deliberated speculation, maybe produce a few inspiring thoughts on how to improve an awful situation, I step off my cloud momentarily to look into some of these stories. Yes, I said "stories" as in entertainment, busywork, addictive filler inbetween physical activities. For whatever truth we think we are looking for, these flat screened information picture boxes we're using don't have a lot of truth to share. They do have an agenda however. Does it matter to me? To you? Does it make any difference to read about frothing at the mouth, terror sexual harassment payoffs and takeovers of the new self-created celebs? You should be bored to tears with their nonsense. Its all so predictable, and yet, once in a while, there are jewels in the ruin, but like everything else, they're being supermined into expendable resources, so expect these jewels to become increasingly more complex and sought after, especially as the gates are quickly closing.

First off, the shiniest jewel in our pouch is Arthur Silber, gleaming with extraordinary brilliance. Do not miss his entire Wikileaks series. I don't believe there is anyone else that can dig down to the fundamentals like Arthur does, blowing the arguments of others sky high, friends and fellows alike, no one straying from the white chalk line is spared as he takes you on his trip pointing out the flaws and multitudes of misconceptions. In reading Silber, you just understand meekly that however much you study, look, search, learn, you will never, ever be able to lay out the complexities like he does unless you are him. His area of discussion is of course, not the same area as some of our other favorites, such as Master Visible, no word slouch himself, there is slim basis for comparison except that of fearless inviolate trust in one's own judgment, that ageless, absolute requirement for authenticity as well as the shared inate ability to sift through the dimensions of garbage we endure and go deeper, far deeper than the general public allows themselves the time and exercise in connective thought or even chooses to approach. Most thought it seems, is dressed up in the tattered baggage of our lives replete with mental polaroids, creased and fading from having been pulled out so frequently to illustrate yet the latest version of our own stories. Oh yes, wait, I have one for that somewhere in this stack. Silber shreds all of that. Be forewarned, it is not light reading under any circumstance. But if you follow along, note for note, you will find the great tragicomedy wrenchingly amusing and horrific. I did and do. How did I find this guy? Heh, my heart is warmed just thinking of that day, last fall, after so many years, AGHHHHHHHHHHHH digesting the terrorfried messages of the ruling class:

Give Me the Hippies. Please.

To begin, let's again note this passage from the Washington Post story about Hoh's resignation:

"I'm not some peacenik, pot-smoking hippie who wants everyone to be in love," Hoh said. Although he said his time in Zabul was the "second-best job I've ever had," his dominant experience is from the Marines, where many of his closest friends still serve.

"There are plenty of dudes who need to be killed," he said of al-Qaeda and the Taliban. "I was never more happy than when our Iraq team whacked a bunch of guys."

I discussed the second paragraph in detail in my earlier post, showing why I consider it unspeakably awful. Here, I want to talk about the very first sentence: "I'm not some peacenik, pot-smoking hippie who wants everyone to be in love."

Many of those deeply opposed to the U.S. presence in Afghanistan seem to regard this statement as strengthening the case for the truth of Hoh's objections to U.S. strategy, as if to say: "See? Hoh isn't some drugged-out nutcase, who's opposed to war like some disgusting appeaser! He's not against all wars, just against this war! That's why we should listen to him!"

They appear to think this is a good argument. People should be careful about the premises they (perhaps) inadvertently accept in their eagerness to advance their case. I have a very different view of Hoh's statement. My immediate reaction when I read that statement has remained unchanged, and it is very simply this:

Why not? What the hell is wrong with that?

See what I mean? Now he's got a five part series, more to come, on Wikileaks' liberation of raw intel. (UPDATE: Its now a seven part series as of Tuesday, August 10th.) Whether or not you think this is an important issue (it is an extremely important issue), I suggest you do yourself a huge favor and see "what real revolution looks like." (Silber's words.) Revolutionary indeed.

Without jumping into overview, we are doomed to wallow in the cesspool of what life has become, a cynical, sleezy rip off, always peering over our shoulders, always seeing the same old shams playing out with different words, new disguises, endless losses until there is nothing left to lose (we think) but life itself, which in previous posts I've warned against Power from the Grave. You think you'll be safe in death? Our reincarnated selves would beg to differ. What we want is to be unbothered, left alone for God's sake, most of all we want a better life for our offspring. If we never get down to it, leaving our thinking to profiteers somewhere in the distance, our children sleepwalk into the same traps. We may think we have come very far, we may think we are smart and hip to the game, but take my word for it, we haven't even begun to grasp the extent of the hole we find ourselves inside on this bright sunny August afternoon.

The hold on our psyches desperately needs release. If we stay stupid, they win. This appears to be happening as of now, regardless of how many brilliant jewels gleam in our immediate presence. Certainly, you didn't miss Survival Acres post on technology. We ask, what is the point? The point is money. If there was ever an argument for leaving the money economy and dumping your laptop, this is it. Lately, the focus has been on corporations as the ruling class with our rulers being CEOs shape shifting from one product push to another as easily as passing through a revolving door. Why this is a lifestyle at all is absurd. These CEOs know money, from their enormously insatiable perspectives, but do they know their product/s? Of course not, that is why we see repetitive disasters handled by the very people creating them. This is why we see business highlighted as major breaking news. Its juicy news of the weird generally illustrating the out of control hunger displayed by salavating beasts one upping each other in predation. Obviously, somebody is responding positively to predation or these beasts could not continue to haunt the planet. Needless to say, all of this is made exceedingly more absurd by CEOs as politicians, lobbyists and lawmakers. Whenever you read a little business story trashing a particular business luminary you are reading the manipulations of making money, very big money, dirty money, bloodstained money and without "outside of the Zombie Food Court thinking" you could easily misinterpret what is happening resulting in further reinforcement of those rules from the rulers who love it you think that way because they don't, but insist you do.

When we speak of collapse, we are speaking of the way things are at this moment in time and in our recent memory. If you want to see into the future, all you have to do is multiply what you see today by however many years ahead you want to see. As the beasts stumble over themselves elbowing, thrashing, shoveling press releases into their bullhorns to nail everything in sight, it looks like collapse, but don't get excited. Nothing has changed for the better. Indeed, bubbles have burst, but that means nothing, more bubbles are being blown as we speak. Every bursting brings forth a higher level of streamlined corruption, theft and reforms funneling the illusion of legality to home invasion, serial killing and re-education so that you may aid one another in blowing bubbles on autopilot, completely unaware of your participation and compliance. I don't need to show you the charts, or links to statistics sites taking your breath away that nothing has been repealed or reversed or improved any better than it was. You are fighting the riptide in an uphill battle without armor. In other words, what we call collapse is the way of the world now. This is where we started by the way, sex and money makes the world go round. Its just exaggerated itself perfectly paralleling population growth.

Is there a way out? Do you want a way out? Everyone reading will have a different answer, many will have a different answer depending on what day it is, some depending on what hour of the day and what side of the bed they greeted their day. While Wyclef Jean runs for president of Haiti, Sean Penn reminds us it is more than a possibility the sweatshop corporatocracy sees a soulful reggae star as putty in their hands. Our best intentions can and will be undermined and you will never know what happened if you don't smarten up fast. It has happened easily millions, billions, quadrillions of times before throughout all of recorded history, human nature is at once gullible in its goodness and forever searching for supremacy. Everyday somewhere on this planet, the little lambs are led into the lions' den under the impression its a grand improvement. The very key that could release them, courage coupled with intelligence, you see, evades them.

How does one find courage? If you've never possessed that quality before, you probably think courage is something that just happens naturally in an emergency (emerge and see), an immature and ultimately escapist definition. It can not emerge permanently when you attempt to command it. Courage comes from disassociation to something you cared about deeply and discovered to your increasing disappointment such selfless caring was not deserved or to be feared or supported by your attention. When you decide and know beyond all doubt, your singular relationship to the world at large offers nothing equal in return but further loss and seemingly inescapable tragedy, true courage can be born, courage to see people and events as they are, courage to deal with them as they must be dealt with, courage to survive them and master them on your own terms. This means most of us will never experience real courage because we are loathe to untie ourselves from morphing illusions served on a sterling platter starting with harmless flatteries gradually growing into full blown lies of glorious heritage and promise.

One cannot progress beyond what is promoted without suffering seriously. And by now you know suffering is the requirement for enlightenment, but suffering is exactly that which is most avoided. Often, it is hidden from us in the very language which would make it clear that we are suffering and therefore unrecognizable in its magnitude. We cover it up willingly, courage absent, satisfying ourselves with illusions, making do while the better than it was before never comes around as it is imagined. The key then would be to cease imagining, hoping, wishing and expecting, but to disattach and attain courage from the starkness of reality. Good luck with that. There is a reason addictions are so difficult to treat. Aside from the addiction growth industry, reality is not exactly everyone's favorite subject. However, it better move up on the charts, and soon.

More later.

photo: Julian Assange, c. google images