Comforting in a way that if I stopped blogging today, stopped twooting today, stopped skybluing today, and deleted my accounts, it's already too late. I'm siloed in Shitlord data farms with enough content to set magagestapo (trademark, though feel free to use it for a five syllable haiku line (with accreditation, yo)) on me anytime they want, I don't have to worry about incriminating myself, I already have
If I stop incriminating myself - I've slowed down incriminating myself of late - it's not because I fear reprisal but because I can't be canary or weathervane or Cassandra (though still a fool) now that much of what I screamed for decades (people can vouch) would happen has and is and will continue. Have I told you three times we are being reprogrammed? Was true, is true, will be true
Besides, I'm old and nobody. I spent an hour yesterday in a private equity-owned orthopedic superstore while you who know me in real life can guess who saw the bone doc, old people, lots of old people, limping and wincing, limp stop wince, limp stop wince, old people groaning, one old woman screaming in pain, her just as old and almost as feeble husband unable to comfort her, old people with canes and wheelchairs and electric scooters and hired brown people fearing the magagestapo helping them limp stop wince, wheelchairing them. A line of in pain old people waiting to to be told to fuck off go talk to an AI bot about a bill they didn't expect and can't pay
This getting old shit. Who gets me first, the magagestapo when it finally reaches my tier of insignificance in the coming eradications or extermination by private equity-owned doctor stores and their MRI laundromats and AI denying insurance claims and shitlords cheating me on Medicare and stealing my social security. I know which I'd prefer, I know what I predict. When my daughter is my age it will be 2056, the Earth will be here, will the world? See? Same yodel
The waiting room played the shittiest of shitty giftmas songs and of course I was reminded to remind you that there is only one not-banned giftmas song in BLCKDGRDSTN. Revolution, fellowmofos
Pam Bondi is Coming for Domestic Terrorists. You Might Be One of Them
The Bezos Post Editorial Board applauds advancements in racism but demands more far-reaching racism in the future
SCOTUS poised to expand Trump’s power over independent agencies
"Gregg Phillips, a conspiracy theorist with no emergency management experience who helped produce the election-denying documentary ‘2000 Mules’ with Dinesh D’Souza and has faced numerous legal inquiries, has been named head of FEMA’s Office of Response and Recovery"
Just 0.001% hold three times the wealth of poorest half of humanity, report finds
"Between this and previous rulings, U.S. corporations have effectively put a bullet in the head of labor protections, consumer protection, public safety, environmental law, and corporate oversight"
The shitlord billionaire family poised to rewire U.S. media in Israel’s favor
"The State Department is instructing its staff to reject visa applications from people who worked on fact-checking, content moderation or other activities the Trump administration considers "censorship" of Americans' speech"
"Ever notice how you don’t hear about the Proud Boys or the Patriot Front or any of those other right wing fascist white supremacist groups anymore? Because all those Nazi fucks work for ICE now. ICE is a government-run terrorist organization"
DoJ moves to eliminate sexual abuse protections for LGBTQ+ people in prisons
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"An unambiguously and unabashedly pro-rape administration"
Trump could call a female journalist on-camera a stupid skankwhore cunt and it'd blasted and tictokked (tictoked?) around the world and there would be zero repercussions
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"Not one reporter in the White House press pool chose not to be a sniveling coward and stand up to psychologically damaged, 80-year-old loathsome piece of shit after he attacked ABC's Rachel Scott. NOT FUCKING ONE"
Torture Techniques from CIA Black Sites Were Used at Alligator Alcatraz
"The system is built to prevent wages from rising too fast, to prevent workers from gaining leverage, to prevent any restoration of the purchasing power we’ve lost. When wages go up, the machine treats it like a malfunction and corrects. When corporations gouge, it’s just the market at work
"This is exactly what the bosses who put Trump into office were trying to achieve. Crushing the tight labor market from the early Biden years that gave workers - for the first time in my adult lifetime - leverage over their bosses"
"They told us there’d be breadlines and poverty under socialism yet under capitalism we have breadlines, poverty, endless war, and 3 billionaires who hoard more wealth than half of our nation. We need to shift the economy from production for profits to production for social needs"
Go placidly when noise and haste increase, And know what peace a quiet hour may hold. As far as you are able, without cease, Be on good terms, and let your warmth be bold.
Speak truth, but let your tone be calm and clear; To others listen, even to the dull; Their story also merits patient ear. Avoid the loud who vex and grate the soul.
And if you measure what you have and lack, You risk a vain or bitter heart's disease, For some will stand behind you, some ahead. Enjoy your work, the plans upon your track, However humble; this true craft will please Amidst the changing fortunes being bred.
Be cautious, for the world has tricks and lies, But see the virtue under human skies. And do not think that all ideals have died; There’s simple heroism, deep and wide.
Be who you are. Put no false love on show, Nor scoff at love because it sometimes fails; It waits, like grass, through drought and winter snows. Take kindly what the passing year entails, And yield the things belonging to your youth. Grow strength of spirit as a vital truth To guard when sudden trouble draws its veil, But do not feed on fears which strain and pale.
Be gentle with yourself past due restraint. You are a child of stars and ancient tree, And have a right to be without complaint. The universe unfolds as it should be. So be at peace with what you name divine. Amidst the noise, let inward peace be thine. Despite the sham, the grind, the fractured schemes, This world is beautiful. Be glad. Have dreams.
if this reminds one of an indiana poet's meditation on things to be desired, the resemblance is intentional - and perhaps this paraphrase is just one more example of the universe unfolding - another explication of "don't worry, be happy"
a Chinese-built, allegedly by an order of magnitude more energy efficient, nonmeatbased information-processing conversational system responded to my request this way - I've edited it a bit:
Here is a North American Stoic-Existentialist take on the Four Noble Truths, set as a dialogue between a narrator and the Apparition of Anna Swan in James Tate’s Tatamagouche—an imaginary revision of a poem that did not need improvement - this new version has the dead giantess utter words to the awakened wayfaring acquaintance, instead of silenting soothing him as he sleeps on his sofa under the stars - and once again, the surreal serves the unbearably real.
An Interview with Anna Swan’s Apparition at Tatamagouche
(I) The Fact
The stationmaster’s house smelled of wet wool and loam. She filled the parlor, not with ghostly light, but density. “I am Anna,” she said, “and I am dead. But that’s not why I’m here.” Her voice was the sound of a spade cutting sod. “Tell me,” I began, but she spoke first.
“Look at your hands. They tremble. Not from fear of me, but from the mortgage, the diagnosis, the way the premier’s face on the screen makes your throat close. The ice sheet calves a continent away and your tea goes cold. That is the fact. The world is poorly made for comfort. It grinds, it aches, it breaks faith. Do not call it tragic. Call it physics.”
(II) The Cause
“Then what wants fixing?” I asked, a notebook in my lap, useless. She laughed, a low, graveled chuckle. “You do. The part of you that expected better. That thinks ‘I deserve’—deserve safety, deserve meaning, deserve a future that resembles the past. That craving is the mortar in every prison wall. It is the fuel for the strongman’s promise. It is the reason you burn the forests of tomorrow to heat the hollow house of today. You are not evil. You are thirsty. And you drink salt.”
(III) The Ceasing
I was quiet then. The clock ticked in the hall. Outside, the Nova Scotia night was absolute. “Is there a stop?” I whispered.
“There is,” she said. “But it is not a cure. It is the moment you stop asking the cliff to be a meadow. It is the unclenching of the story you tell about yourself. The dictator will not soften. The sea will not retreat. Your knee will not remember its youth. But you can look at the raw thing itself, without the veil of your want. You can stand in the ruin and say ‘This is a ruin.’ And in that saying, you are, for a moment, free. It tastes like cold water. It feels like an end.”
(IV) The Path
“So what is left to do?” The question hung between us, a final, fragile thread.
“Do?” She seemed to recede into the solid dark. “Tend your garden. Even on the volcano’s slope. Be kind to the one beside you. Especially when it is useless. Speak the true word, though your voice cracks. See the world as it is—a severe and temporary gift. Then act. Not to be saved, but because action is dignity. Not to build an eternal city, but to patch the roof. The path is not toward happiness. It is toward meaning, which is made by walking through the meaningless with your eyes open.”
She was gone. The smell of wool remained. I sat in the chair, in the house, in the world. The great, grinding fact of it all. And for the first time, it was just a fact. My hand, when I reached for the cup, did not shake.
ESTRAGON: I can't go on like this.
ReplyDeleteVLADIMIR: That's what you think.
Advice for Inner Peace in a Chaotic World
ReplyDeleteGo placidly when noise and haste increase,
And know what peace a quiet hour may hold.
As far as you are able, without cease,
Be on good terms, and let your warmth be bold.
Speak truth, but let your tone be calm and clear;
To others listen, even to the dull;
Their story also merits patient ear.
Avoid the loud who vex and grate the soul.
And if you measure what you have and lack,
You risk a vain or bitter heart's disease,
For some will stand behind you, some ahead.
Enjoy your work, the plans upon your track,
However humble; this true craft will please
Amidst the changing fortunes being bred.
Be cautious, for the world has tricks and lies,
But see the virtue under human skies.
And do not think that all ideals have died;
There’s simple heroism, deep and wide.
Be who you are. Put no false love on show,
Nor scoff at love because it sometimes fails;
It waits, like grass, through drought and winter snows.
Take kindly what the passing year entails,
And yield the things belonging to your youth.
Grow strength of spirit as a vital truth
To guard when sudden trouble draws its veil,
But do not feed on fears which strain and pale.
Be gentle with yourself past due restraint.
You are a child of stars and ancient tree,
And have a right to be without complaint.
The universe unfolds as it should be.
So be at peace with what you name divine.
Amidst the noise, let inward peace be thine.
Despite the sham, the grind, the fractured schemes,
This world is beautiful. Be glad. Have dreams.
if this reminds one of an indiana poet's meditation on things to be desired, the resemblance is intentional - and perhaps this paraphrase is just one more example of the universe unfolding - another explication of "don't worry, be happy"
Deletea Chinese-built, allegedly by an order of magnitude more energy efficient, nonmeatbased information-processing conversational system responded to my request this way - I've edited it a bit:
ReplyDeleteHere is a North American Stoic-Existentialist take on the Four Noble Truths, set as a dialogue between a narrator and the Apparition of Anna Swan in James Tate’s Tatamagouche—an imaginary revision of a poem that did not need improvement - this new version has the dead giantess utter words to the awakened wayfaring acquaintance, instead of silenting soothing him as he sleeps on his sofa under the stars - and once again, the surreal serves the unbearably real.
An Interview with Anna Swan’s Apparition at Tatamagouche
(I) The Fact
The stationmaster’s house smelled of wet wool and loam.
She filled the parlor, not with ghostly light, but density.
“I am Anna,” she said, “and I am dead. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Her voice was the sound of a spade cutting sod.
“Tell me,” I began, but she spoke first.
“Look at your hands. They tremble.
Not from fear of me, but from the mortgage, the diagnosis,
the way the premier’s face on the screen makes your throat close.
The ice sheet calves a continent away and your tea goes cold.
That is the fact. The world is poorly made for comfort.
It grinds, it aches, it breaks faith.
Do not call it tragic. Call it physics.”
(II) The Cause
“Then what wants fixing?” I asked, a notebook in my lap, useless.
She laughed, a low, graveled chuckle.
“You do. The part of you that expected better.
That thinks ‘I deserve’—deserve safety, deserve meaning,
deserve a future that resembles the past.
That craving is the mortar in every prison wall.
It is the fuel for the strongman’s promise.
It is the reason you burn the forests of tomorrow
to heat the hollow house of today.
You are not evil. You are thirsty.
And you drink salt.”
(III) The Ceasing
I was quiet then. The clock ticked in the hall.
Outside, the Nova Scotia night was absolute.
“Is there a stop?” I whispered.
“There is,” she said. “But it is not a cure.
It is the moment you stop asking the cliff
to be a meadow.
It is the unclenching of the story you tell about yourself.
The dictator will not soften. The sea will not retreat.
Your knee will not remember its youth.
But you can look at the raw thing itself,
without the veil of your want.
You can stand in the ruin and say ‘This is a ruin.’
And in that saying, you are, for a moment, free.
It tastes like cold water. It feels like an end.”
(IV) The Path
“So what is left to do?” The question hung between us,
a final, fragile thread.
“Do?” She seemed to recede into the solid dark.
“Tend your garden. Even on the volcano’s slope.
Be kind to the one beside you. Especially when it is useless.
Speak the true word, though your voice cracks.
See the world as it is—a severe and temporary gift.
Then act.
Not to be saved, but because action is dignity.
Not to build an eternal city, but to patch the roof.
The path is not toward happiness.
It is toward meaning, which is made
by walking through the meaningless
with your eyes open.”
She was gone. The smell of wool remained.
I sat in the chair, in the house, in the world.
The great, grinding fact of it all.
And for the first time, it was just a fact.
My hand, when I reached for the cup, did not shake.
excrementalords
ReplyDeleteinfoconstipated by
megagestapo