The Cuckoo’s Nest; An Evolution into the alt-right.

•August 28, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Let me start by saying that if this race was between Trump and George W. Bush, I would be shouting from the rooftops to vote for W joyfully and with much glee. If that is not chilling enough, let me tell you about some people I once knew.

  He listened to Bob Dylan. He listened to The Doors. There was a copy of the Whole Earth Catalog in our house. He wanted to take the family to Alaska and basically homestead and just disconnect from the crazy consumer world. He took us to a hippy love-in, albeit Christian, concert in the Pacific Northwest called Jesus Northwest. To a place that, to my later surprise, would be Vancouver, Washington at a fairgrounds 3 miles from the house I would later own. He once explained to me in Perfect Keynesian terms why taxes were the best thing that ever happened to Palmdale because it literally employed the entire boom. That it was defense industry was regrettable but still countered austerity bullshit. Once, he in a rage screamed and shouted and demanded that two police officers give him their badge numbers because his family had witnessed those two officers beat a black man to a bloody pulp in broad daylight on a sidewalk of a busy street because that man had said something untoward to the pigs. He had gone with his family to the poorest parts of Mexico with a youth group to give food and clothes and simply to see what the world was like outside our suburban bubble. Yes, Jesus had taken over his soul, but it was a different Jesus. One that was about to be forever altered as the late 80s marched on.
  She made a seven year old boy watch Roots. Utterly transforming that boy as he witnessed the most insane and injust cruelty possible to inflict on mankind. An injustice he would later discover that American prosperity was completely built upon. It may have been cruel to make a boy watch that, but it was what it was. She later showed a thirteen year old boy One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest on a vcr borrowed from the church. This was the first time a vcr had been in our house. This was the first movie that was chosen. It terrified this 13 year old boy, who maybe having an inkling of the mental illness he would later struggle with was now living in horror of mental institutions. Later reading the book, the boy would come across the idea that Chief Bromden had of his father being so large and immense and powerful. Never seeing himself in that projection. One day in 1978, the television broke during a Summer rainstorm. There would be no television in that house until the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. That family read. It went to the library. And it read.
  Now, I don’t want to imply that we are talking about left wing people here. My mother and father were anything but that. Even I grew up basically conservative. Short hair, Decidedly preppy clothing. Polos. Button down shirts. Slacks. To high school, mind you. Nerd and all. I look back now and wonder how many thought I was gay. The mauve polos under a pink button down. The pink UC Irvine shirt. I wasn’t gay. It was far more complex. But I was certainly different. Less concerned to comform. Still comforming. I am reading Steppenwolf right now. I wonder that I never noticed that book before. I wanted to become a preacher for the Foursquare church. A pastor. Go to Life bible college. We are not talking about ordinary prosperity doctrine Southern Baptists in megachurches that you see now. We are talking evangelicals. Speaking in tongues. Passing out singing at church. Literally Christian psychics coming to evening services. (I would later learn that my mother was told she would have to abandon one of her children in the future due to his service to Satan and the new world order; I am sure you can see how all efforts were made to ensure that prophecy came true.) I would read The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged and plant the seeds of libertarian fervor.
  We weren’t left wing at all. Reagan conservatives. My fifth grade class was led by a Mrs. Heare, a teacher who lectured us about the perils of Communism with righteous fervor. Who showed us the inauguration of Reagan on the television in the room. The only time I ever remember it on. Who had Shane, the young scion, lead classroom prayers. Who paddled children in front of the class. Who had Shane check out and present films on the perils of drug use. Unfortunately for all of them, they had got me in the habit of reading.
  So I went to university. And when I got back, I found out that Rush Limbaugh had happened in our house. I had been forced to leave school after only a year, move back in with my parents, become a busboy again. Rush Limbaugh was on in the mornings. I was enraged hearing what I was hearing. I was enraged in the same visceral way I my gorge rose when I even saw William F. Buckley’s face. They were dittoheads. The Fairness Doctrine had been revoked in 1985 and here was the fruit of it. Right wing radio. The birth of what would later give us Bill O’Reilly, Sean Hannity, Fox News and later Alex Jones.
  Those people who raised me began to accuse me of changing. The left wing media and liberal professors had gotten ahold of me and changed me. Arguments raged over morning coffee. I had nothing of the nuanced view of the entirety of political economics that I do now. There was a rage. A rage.There were no longer rational arguments. The truth of a thing was determined by the degree to which an emotional reaction could be invoked. I remember a comparison I made at the time that still sticks with me: As a kid my father was our baseball coach in Little League. As in all games, umpires make decisions good, bad, controversial.Sometimes good decisions go against your team. Lets call that truth. My father would rage against such decisions loudly. In public. Belligerently. I was mortified. Our player was definitely out but my father didn’t even see what happened. Our team was the right. The only right. What benefited our team was the only thing that mattered and reality could be perceived only in terms of our team winning. This began to happen politically for my parents. My brothers were joining them. I was, once again on the outside completely. Yes, I had changed. True, but less true than they thought as the seeds of that had been planted long ago (as early as age 7 with Roots). But what they didn’t see was how they had changed.
  A conversation was no longer rationally acknowledging that Israel was a functioning democracy with legitimate claims against terrorist actions; a conversation was now about how we should murder those bloody Palestinians, their women, their children, raze their homes, turn the sand into glass with nuclear weapons and support the Jewish People as our allies in the coming Apocalypse. This is not exaggeration. The conversation was no longer about how a black man should not be beaten by police men; a conversation was now about the obvious and clear difference between a nigger and a black man. So far as I could tell a black man was one that had assimilated as fully to white culture as possible and behaved properly. A conversation was no longer about how beautiful nature was and how camping in the Sierra Nevadas and its national parks was an amazing family adventure; the conversation was about complete private ownership of the entire earth and denial of global warming and a rallying cry to deregulate everything in the service of the most rapacious form of capitalism available. Now that man who had been outraged at police brutality was willing to scream at his 33 year old son that his son was the racist when his son had gently pointed out casual bigotry.
  I believe that is background to the Alt Right. Now I don’t know if my parents are Trump supporters. I don’t know to what degree they have fallen. I have not spoken to them in more than 4 years now. But lets face facts: on account of the dangerous socialist California laws and all of the god damn Mexicans and Blacks, they packed up 3 families and took them and their assault weapons to a compound in a part of Idaho that has the highest concentration of white supremacist groups in the country. That could be coincidence.
  The summer of 2014 is when I saw this cycle that has resulted in the Trump phenomenon really begin. The tea party had certainly already made its mark. It was evil enough. But in that summer of 2014 two things happened that unleashed the worst of the bigots. Israel began to bomb Palestine and Ferguson happened. Things like this had happened before, it is true. But not in the age of the comments section and twitter. Previously I had only seen such rhetoric in the dark corners of the Internet like 4chan, a hive of scum and villainy: never go there. But now unleashed was all of the bigotry and racism and hatred came out; all that had been repressed since the Carpetbaggers took over the South that wasn’t really inclined to change at all. Only it was everywhere. The people that weren’t frothing at the mouth over the righteousness of bombing Palestinian hospitals were frothing at the mouth over the inherent evil of the Jew. The hatred of Muslims became vocal, real, tangible, memed.  Every slur, every bigotry that had been tamped down during whatever progressive evolution had happened in this country was set loose. Then Ferguson. Then there were civil officers in military gear on top of trucks with sniper rifles trained on crowds of black people who were tired of extrajudicial executions. Then those officers were joined by armed militia partisans with literally fascist ideas also on rooftops ostensibly to protect property, truly to protect white interests. They were called the Oathkeepers: the brownshirts of what is coming. Housewives with flag icons on their facebook and twitter accounts were screaming to shoot the niggers to implement martial law. To bring law and order to the animals. Housewives. Not neo-nazi troglodytes in their mother’s basement ranting about minorities and projecting their own failings onto entire groups of Others. Housewives. And millenials. Oh so many millenials. Video gamers and entitled snot nosed kids (yes I am an old and cranky too) who grew up sheltered from everything were joining the chorus finding ‘rational’ arguments to support raw old-fashioned bigotry. Then ISIS happened and not only was the name of the Goddess co-opted and villified but old culture wars were reborn. The hints at Bush’s crusades mentality were now puerile and generic. We now had the real thing. Christians fighting the Caliphate. A dream come true.
  Alex Jones, a conspiracy right wing nutjob with a huge audience was now mainstream. Birther, truther, anti-Illuminati fervor had become part of a much much larger crowd. Yes, it started as a highly vocal minority. Yes, it does not define this country nor is it pervasively taking over our children’s schooling. Yes there is some hype to the fear of it. But you have to understand that people who had changed to rage addicts  during the 2 decades of Fox News had fully stepped over a line. There was no going back. Legitimate concerns about immigration in a nation-state system (if you have to have such a silly thing) became mass deportation, walls and old ladies screaming at people speaking Spanish in the IHOP lobby. Fundamentalist Muslim extremism became blanket bans on all Muslims entering the country from basically anywhere. Hilary Clinton, a fairly normal politician in this day and age with actually higher than normal honesty ratings, was vilified on the most heinous of crimes: being a woman seeking power and she better knock that shit off (I believe right and left are both guilty of this.) Everything became backwards. The people against bigotry were called bigots. Obama, about  5 inches right of center, was called a far left socialist. Irrational hatred of a FUCKING REPUBLICAN HEALTH CARE PLAN became a rallying cry. And then, the real crazy starts. In an era where everyone is screaming about corporate influence over government, people start voting for a Billionaire. Who hires lobbyists with ties to Russian Oligarchs? Who praises Russian Oligarch methods and their leader Vladimir Putin? Who brags with a sly wink that he has peddled influence for years with the wealth he has worked Oh-So-Hard for? A fucking Oligarch. That’s Who. They began to vote for literally the source of the problems.
  A year ago it was still hyperbole to call Republicans fascist. I had done it and honestly I am a bit ashamed of it now. I would kill for a choice between Romney and Clinton. Or even John McCain. Trump doesn’t even matter any more. He is too much of a buffoon to do anything but land himself in jail even if he were to get elected. I don’t think he is smart. I don’t think he is a good businessman. I do not even think he is good at marketing. Listen, when a 3 year old throws a temper tantrum in the middle of Target you do not call him a marketing genius because suddenly he has everyone’s attention. The ‘media’ wanted a dramatic story and they helped create one. I don’t blame the media. I blame the millions of people who now have woken up to their worst fascist instincts. The dog whistle has been blown. There is no going back now. A major Presidential candidate is being cheered on by white supremacist groups in this country as he retweets memes from their arsenal. There is no such thing as Republican any more. It’s small comfort though.
  There are no good outcomes to this. There is violence even before we know who is President. Less than a mile from me, there was violence in the streets just because Trump showed up. There has been violence in the Trump rallies that are straight out of Hitler’s Germany. Either side winning will spark the most violent elements from either side into a rage that will not be contained. I hope I am wrong.

Οὐρανός

•May 14, 2013 • 1 Comment

Uranus (pron.: /ˈjʊərənəs/ or /jʊˈrnəs/Ancient Greek Οὐρανός, Ouranos meaning “sky” or “heaven”) was the primal Greek god personifying the sky. His equivalent in Roman mythology was Caelus. In Ancient Greek literature, Uranus or Father Sky was the son and husband of Gaia, Mother Earth. According to Hesiod‘s Theogony, Uranus was conceived by Gaia alone, but other sources cite Aether as his father.[3] Uranus and Gaia were the parents of the first generation of Titans, and the ancestors of most of the Greek gods, but no cult addressed directly to Uranus survived into Classical times,[4] and Uranus does not appear among the usual themes of Greek painted pottery. Elemental Earth, Sky and Styx might be joined, however, in a solemn invocation in Homeric epic.[5]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uranus_(mythology)

Rosarium Philosophorum

•November 14, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Image

 

Trust

•November 14, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Trust.

trust (n.) Look up trust at Dictionary.com
c.1200, from O.N. traust “help, confidence,” from P.Gmc. *traust- (cf. O.Fris. trast, Du. troost “comfort, consolation,” O.H.G. trost “trust, fidelity,” Ger. Trost “comfort, consolation,” Goth. trausti “agreement, alliance”). Related to O.E. treowian “to believe, trust,” and treowe “faithful, trusty” (see true). Meaning “businesses organized to reduce competition” is recorded from 1877. The verb (early 13c.) is from O.N. treysta “to trust.” Trust-buster is recorded from 1903.

I think about trust all of the time now. Understanding where a word comes from and its related connotations can be very helpful. I see words like comfort, consolation, belief, faithful, alliance.

Intangible concepts like trust can be deceiving because you never know what the other person’s experience might mean when they use words like this. Love, hate, joy… these are nuanced concepts that can not be trapped by denotative definitions that really lock down their meaning. Scientific materialists will suggest that because of this, they are not real. They are simply biochemical. The random firings of neurons which are interpreted by a mind that by definition does not know what reality is.

I dispute that. Evidence? Nah. I don’t trust evidence. Evidence evolves, just like the rest of the universe. Any shallow dip into the history of science will show you that yesterday’s evidence is today’s absurdity. Evidence is nice when you need to prove Material things, but not everything is Material. Spirit is involved. Yet another intangible context that is all too easily rejected.

I have broken trusts. I have broken my word. I have done things that diminish the confidence of people I love. I regret these things with all of my heart. Morally, ethically, spiritually, I feel I have failed them.

In a lot of ways, this breaking of trust is basically an ego-driven manifestation. It is a refusal to acknowledge that the self we think is our self is nothing but a mask. We spend so much time trying to fortify that image that we forget about the system we live in, a system of souls like our own. Our ego-self, mask-wearing self wants to define itself, to scream out its individuality, to foreswear all allegiance to any other individual. I am ME! And Fuck the rest.

It never works. Respect works. Respect always works.

I am not an island. I have not arrived where I am by myself. The good things in my life are not the product entirely of my own actions. There is a web of interdependency that informs every single good (and bad) event of my life. And when I break Confidence with another person, I invoke consequence (karma) which results in diminished returns. (Even that is an ego-driven conclusion as it postulates that returns are the goal. It’s hard to escape the ego. Give it a try. Don’t be scared, I guarantee it will be there when you get back.)

Is trust a currency? Can it be bought? Or is it more like Faith, a belief in unseen and unproven things? I don’t have answers to these questions. I am interested in what you think. Some people say trust is something you give someone until they break it. But there are complexities there, too. I don’t trust everyone I come in contact with, nor should I. I have been places where that could be deadly. I don’t immediately abandon trust when someone does something that I do not like, or that harms some part of me. There are mitigating circumstances; intention is a weighty consideration.

But here is the one conclusion I have reached. Like most things (even models of a scientific materialist universe) these are only words. Words are so much air without action to back them up. Trust is a cumulative account of the actions a person has taken in relation to you. It seems reductive to analyze this in such purely economic terms, but there is a sense to it. As I think back on the people I have wisely or unwisely trusted, I find a catalogue of actions that I consider.

How have they treated me? Were their actions moral? Ethical? Life-affirming? When they were not, was their intention to harm me? Or were they just dealing with their own shit and am I being narcissistic to think that it has a damn thing to do with me?

I realize this isn’t very conclusive. I don’t really understand variables like Trust. I only have questions. It is an ineffable quality, much like Love. And utterly related. They appear to be functions of one another. Without love, I feel no compulsion to trust. The phrase “trust, but verify” seems to be completely contradictory, but it is how we treat the people who are not part of our genuine relationships. It seems in that phrase, there is a persuasive rhetorical feel that is simply trying to mitigate the fact that it’s nice to keep using the word trust, but I don’t really trust.

All I know is this: only my actions can restore trust. My sincere commitment to be an ethical, moral and trustworthy human being are all I can offer. I am too handy with words for anyone to trust me on that basis alone.

So tell me, why do you trust? And when you do, is it like faith, subject to doubt and loss?

And when it is lost, do you feel any obligation to restore it; and why would you?

Kronos

•November 7, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Kronos

The Problem and The Plan

•November 6, 2012 • Leave a Comment

So this is another new day. A delicious cup of coffee is beginning to make its way through my system. A gorgeous half moon waning is poised over the Bay Area. Life begins to proceed along its normal course. Children prepare for school. Parents prepare for work. Students prepare for study. Politicians shake hands with the servants of mammon. And life does what it does. It thrives, it spreads, it overcomes adversity.

One can get a very jaded view of this simple process,  because we are a part of it. It is natural to simply attend to business and let some of these basic fundamentals of our society fade into the white noise of the background. After all, we are saturated with information. It is a very good thing that our minds have the capacity to deprioritize, ignore, forget and focus on what is most important. And what is most important is the next step. Although every journey begins with a first step, it is easy to forget that we took steps to get to this metaphorical first step, and unless we take the next step we will never get where we are going.

I have a long journey in front of me. Fortunately (or unfortunately), I have done this before. In 1995, I experienced my first grand mal life crash. It was a similar experience to what I endured in the months of May, June and July of this year. Hell, similar? It was the same thing. The same symptoms, the same outcomes. I had gotten myself to a place in my life where, in pride and hubris, I thought everything was about to be perfect and somehow, someway, I sabotaged everything.

Here is the thing about Mania: It feels fucking amazing. The sense of power one feels is intoxicating. The speed of thought is faster than I can even describe. Energy pours through one and sleep and food seem unnecessary. Delusions of grandeur are common. Identification with mythological characters is a particular manifestation of my episodes. So, honestly, I never wanted to treat it because I was getting by “just fine”. Sure, the flip side of the roller coaster is hopeless depression. But I self-medicated for that, got prescription anti-depressants, meditated, tried to stay focused. I failed almost every time because I was treating the wrong illness. But what I knew, my little secret that I kept from everyone, was that I Wanted the mania. It was the only time I felt alive, normal, more than normal.

I come from a family of fundamentalist and conservative christians who do not particularly believe in decadent theories about biochemistry and brain chemical imbalances. It is all a matter of willpower. I don’t blame them. Much. The other aspect of my lack of treatment, however, was an attempt to use simple willpower to prevent episodic problems.  I can not allow this to ever happen again, so I am abandoning that course of action.

Abraham Maslow has a well known psychological model of the hierarchy of needs. Envision it as a pyramid and at the bottom are the most basic needs that we as humans must engage in. These are eating, sleeping, breathing. Next, in the hierarchy comes the needs for security, warmth, shelter from the elements. This particular stage also includes the need for gainful employment, property, self-reliance and proactive thinking. The third stage is love. Family, friends and the attendant concepts of simple self-worth that are associated.

This is what I am working on. Everyday, all I think about are these three things. Do I have food available? Am I out of the elements? Do I still have my backpack with 3 changes of clothes and the books I got in jail? What steps can I make toward public assistance and a job as soon as possible? How can I get psychological help and the appropriate medication as soon as possible?

“Maslow used the terms Physiological, Safety, Belongingness and Love, Esteem, and Self-Actualization needs to describe the pattern that human motivations generally move through.”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs

What is interesting is that by engaging in this writing, I am actually able to engage those upper levels of Esteem and Self-Actualization as well. So, due to technology, and due to friends who are helping me out, I am able to satisfy some of those other needs. It is greatly improving my positive outlook. I’ll talk more about the undeniable value of lines of communication and what happens to the consciousness when they are cut in later posts.

So what is my plan? I am sure a lot of people have been wondering that? Wondering what my limitations are and why I have not returned to the State of Washington. The short answer is that our legal system provides me no legal right to leave the State of California while I am on probation. It does not matter to the system where my support network is; it does not matter where my job prospects are; it does not matter where my family is. If they release me at 1 am into the rain of downtown Sacramento and I end up homeless, it is no concern. It does not matter that I am not a career criminal; my extenuating circumstances are not part of that equation.

Of course, I am an exception. The majority of inmates are from the county where they are jailed or imprisoned. The majority Are career criminals who will simply return. The majority have a support network, gang oriented though it may be, that they can return to.

Some will consider the concept of Providence (divine or otherwise) to be far too mystical and woo woo for serious consideration in this age of Science. But, let me tell you, I have experienced it. Directly. Without photo ID, I managed to end up in a hotel for 2 nights due to the awesome efforts of my friend Peter. A man I met in jail put me up for a week after that, while I helped him with a landscaping project, carting 5 yards of gravel and other fun stuff. When I discovered that I could not board Greyhound even without photo ID, I called upon my friend Joelle in Oakland, which is where I am now. I am safe. I am eating. I am going to be OK. I have to keep reminding myself of that, even though at every step the opportunities keep presenting themselves.

From the probation department, I obtained permission to leave the county and go to Los Angeles County. Ok, that works, sort of. I have friends down there. I have a place that I can probably stay for a little while as I rebuild. But it’s not where I want to be. I am sorry to say that my opinion of California has somewhat soured. I do not want to stay here. But I am trapped. Violating my probation will do one thing: result in a warrant for my arrest and a return to jail. Hello recidivism: it’s quite literally built into the system. Though that may be a bit unfair due to the amount of repeat offenders, it bears thinking upon because in this era of austerity, budget cuts and stripped down government, rehabilitation is quite simply not a factor. It is someone else’s problem. Another department of the State, possibly, but not the problem of the legal system.

Right now, I am awaiting documentation to be sent to me so I can obtain the simple expedient of a Photo ID. I lost my wallet during my madness and it is now a problem to be solved. Again, simple things are so important. Once that happens, I can catch a bus to LA. Very possibly, I will be riding to LA with Joelle in the week before Thanksgiving. I do not know yet. Everything is in flux and the story develops every single day.

Once I get in LA and get the assistance I need, I will petition probation to move to another state. This is not an easy process. States do not want new felons in their state. They have every reason to reject it for any reason whatsoever. And since we are dealing with bureaucracy, it could take 60 days just to hear from them that they have turned you down. At this point, I do not even know whether it is best to return to Washington or go to Utah where my beautiful wife and daughter are. But I will try every option available. I will research every option and I will prevail. One thing I know: raising a daughter in Southern California is a really fucking bad idea.

At least I am in the Bay Area now. From here North is the only part of CA that I would even consider living on voluntary terms. My choices are not all voluntary, however. What I did (and I do not deny that what I did was wrong and violated law) has put me in the position where limitations exist that must be dealt with. All I know now is that I want to be with my family. Fortunately, at Thanksgiving, I will be able to see my daughter and wife after 5 long months.

I also contend with the difficulty of obtaining gainful employment with a record. There is a possibility that I can get this reduced to a misdemeanor. People have suggested it, but I do not know the details. I don’t know if I will be working with computers again, contracting, landscaping, cooking on a line, picking fruit, or writing books. Doesn’t matter much. I must make money. Must. My family needs me desperately. They were and are as affected by my actions as I am. This is something I feel intense remorse about. My daughter misses me. My wife misses me. There are heavy emotions involved and while it contributes to a feeling of hopelessness and fear at times, I can not let that overcome me. I must stay positive. I must make progress.

So this is the skeletal outlines of the Plan. I hope it explains my current situation a bit better than the snippets found on facebook.

One thing for everyone to keep in mind (myself included): there are people in far worse circumstances than mine. I am so blessed with good friends, my wife, my daughter and I thank Creator every day for this. I have my intellect still. I have my skills. I have some seeds of wisdom that may germinate over time. While I sometimes consider my situation dire compared to my previous lifestyle, I must acknowledge that I am actually in a state of mind, body and spirit that can find a path through the wilderness.

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

-JRRT

Ankh

•November 5, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Ankh

Eternal Life