To be a writer, if you are any good, is to be a blasphemer. Humanity is an entropy engine because each person decides on what view of the world makes them look the best, and so the constant weight pushing down on us is that of the herd, of a group of individuals united only by selfishness, come together into a mob for the purpose of asserting their right to be different and unique, constantly leading away from an understanding of the world around us and any meaning that can be found in it.
In fact, this group is hostile to both reality and meaning because these things interfere with the pursuit of being unique and different precious snowflakes who seem like verbal monkeys but (if you ask them) are actually something akin to gods. People are pretentious, self-aggrandizing, and vain, and the dumber they are the more they display these characteristics. That in turn leads them to be manipulative, because if you see past their constructed personae and the aegis of posturing that they project, you will have seen the monkey behind the man and even worse, have glimpsed the insignificance of them. They fear the literalist nihilism of recognizing that we are alive, are indeed little furry creatures trying to make a place for ourselves in the world, are mortal and are not participants in a universal truth, but instead isolated actors in a chaotic world trying to find what makes sense to us with our unequal and varied abilities. What is the veil of Maya, again?
Piercing this veil requires blasphemy because we must sidestep the need to affirm the usual sacred cows, and by pointing in another direction, we are quite unintentionally speaking in the taboo areas of inequality, insignificance and mortality, and that outrages the herd and they begin throwing fruit and poo while howling in their own simian dialect. Invariably they pretend to be the injured party because a victim has rights among those who encounter the situation after it has happened, and observe one monkey howling in pain and another not; their instinct is to assume that the uninjured monkey is the aggressor, and since aggressors “threaten all of us,” they attack, and so the many weak take down the strong few. If anything deserving blaspheming, it is this process of entropy.
As the rain falls on Texas today, and the pipe blazes in the pensive storm twilight, desire to exist in this human world fades. Our simian construction is so fragile, with so many no-fly zones and sensitive areas, that it is impossible to communicate with others directly, because anything real — derived from the world, and the order larger than us found in nature, logic and perhaps the metaphysical — is blasphemy to ears that are attuned only to that which flatters the human animal, creating the “social space” in which people exist that consists of self and others, but not anything beyond the human. In one breath, we are lost in thought and the tokens we use to communicate, pondering how others would react, judge, feel, analyze or emotionally interpret our thoughts, as if we are watching ourselves from afar with borrowed eyes. In the next, we are staring again into the green world of nature, seeing how it forms patterns time and again, revealing the underlying structure of its rules and tendencies. Our memories swim with attempted solutions from the past, as if we were prisoners contemplating our crimes, stinging us with failure and inflating our emotions with each recollection of success. In this way, we flicker between the world we are in during the present tense, a world without time where only our thoughts command the change of events, and a shadowy corridor of the past in which we dwell more than we would like to admit.
This in turn leads to darker thoughts — and a re-lighting of the pipe — about the nature of humanity. The present tense is too close to future for our comfort; the future is unformed, and can bring failure or death at any moment. The past is safe, including the present that is in the process of happening and therefore its results are already clear, making it safe because it offers no challenge to our selves, where something unformed with the attendant possibility of failure is a threat both to how we appear to others, and our consequent raising or lowering of self-esteem. Like the cycle of reality versus memory, the circular course of raising and lowering our assessment of ourselves throttles us between extremes, forcing us toward a center from which we fear to stray. Worse still, our self-judgment is not even our own, but measured through aesthetics of manipulation, namely how it would appear to others and through that, how we would modify our actions or justify, excuse, validate, explain, legitimize and rationalize our actions. We are prisoners of human judging, especially since our daily successes when working with others depend more on social factors than performance.
It is no wonder, then, that we are a species ruled by wishful thinking. Within the parameters of what we can do or say that will succeed socially, we seek out combinations of activities that are both successful and acceptable, which means that we are not acting directly toward a goal, but toward approval of an action, and we then think backward and invent a goal to match what we have done. This is entropy, and over time humans drift away from purpose, reality and meaning with a force stronger than gravity. Our wishful thinking consists of this social layer and the exegesis of our behavior, with the inference of intention beneath it, because that is how we will be judged. Did we mean well? We choose that which sends out the semaphore of well-intended harmless benevolence, and then spend the rest of our life trying to make ourselves feel that it was good, which is why we act out wishful thinking: posing, projecting, concealing and self-adorning with ideas that we do not think are true, but need social affirmation and good feelings enough that pretend they are real. When it is based on the judgment of others, which outside of strict function like work or aristocracy it always is, our thinking is designed to be a pleasant lie, and this wishful thinking always leads us astray.
No higher right or goal can be voiced than self-expression. It is the basis of The Renaissance™: that man is the measure of the world, and therefore, that for each individual to express himself is the highest goal. This was formalized in The Enlightenment™ with the idea that every person should be able to self-express, and could not be judged by the content, which created an ever-expanding franchise by which people demanded that their free expression predominate if it clashed with social standards, heritage, values, group pretense, appearances and most of all, profit motive.
The natural question regarding self-expression is what we are expressing. That in turn leads us to the question of who we are expressing to. Are these words for a dying God? Or addressed to other humans, at which point we have to view them as manipulative and therefore, highly suspect, because these again reflect the mirror of others, and so we form a feedback loop where they judge and we alter ourselves until we have the right formula, and then hopefully become popular, and through that successful. Our entire civilization is based around the idea of popularity = success: democracy, consumerism, hipsterism, social media… whoever makes themselves into the best product is the one who wins.
At that point, we realize that whatever we express, it is not self as-it-is, but the self according to wishful thinking, and that this wishful thinking will be taken over by the needs of others, and no longer express ourselves, but those others, and not just them as individuals, but them as a group, which means that not only does the lowest common denominator thrive, but that which is honestly offensive — not merely the combination of provocative and titillating of Howard Stern, pornography, edgy mass culture and even Hollywood Nazism — to any person will kibosh the whole thing. Negative emotions are stronger than positive ones because this is how we survive; we react to threats first, and that snaps us out of whatever happy thought was dominating our minds at the moment before the bear burst out of the woods or the nervous fellow at the edge of the parking garage whipped out his Saturday night special while his brain churned over the words “your money or your life.”
What would we express, if we could express anything? The answer here might be too mundane for us to consider. Instead of a world of possibilities, we are living in a world of impulses, and those are guided by our biological and social needs, not some enlightened sense of seeking truth, in most cases. Even more, for those who do seek truth, there are only so many paths to take because similar paths quickly converge. There are no new ideas, and combinations of ideas are only valuable where they bring greater clarity or emphasize previously under-noticed aspects. Some will be great novelists, painters, or musicians, but ironically to our social minds, this is because they are studying reality and reflecting on its nuances, rather than discovering that truth within themselves or the herd. Those are few; the rest are merely LARPing, but unlike a good honest LARP, they are acting out a pretend role in order to make themselves seem more important to others.
Pipe tobacco provides many layers of understanding. At first, there is one tin or another that catches the eye, but as with all paths, one cannot stay in the foyer but must venture deeper, knowing there will be confusion and finding oneself in the laundry room before catching sight of the penetralia and figuring out the real purpose for this edifice. With each experience, learning deepens, or at least can do so depending on intelligence level, potential for wisdom, and the gumption to seize on what is learned and expand it as principles. Over time, with enough effort and ability, every path leads to mixing one’s own blends from some of those pretty tins, or even getting the raw leaf and using recipes of personal invention to make something of it.
Over the weekend, I blended up a variation on a favorite. The classic American tobacco blend consists of mostly Burley, an atavism of Virginia that recalls Nicotiana Rustica, with a health dose of the sweeter Virginias, together making a flavor like toasted grain. On top of this, one can dump additional ingredients: Perique for the citrus, fruit and pepper tones; Dark Fired Kentucky Burley for a spicy smoky flavor; Latakia and Orientals for English, or just straight Orientals for a piquant flavor; Cigar Leaf for a caramel flavor. A personal favorite for me is the intersection of a Burley-Virginia mix and Dark Fired with hints of Cigar Leaf, forming a creamy and deep smoke with a broad flavor that melts down into sweetness. But sometimes, it makes sense to use existing blends.
Last I blended up a nearly full tin of Burley Flake #1 with over an ounce of Brown Twist Sliced and a half-ounce of Straight Grain Flake, a Virginia/Perique mix which is perhaps one of my favorite blends to sweeten a mixture. The result was a nicotine monster with a flavor of some depth owing to the layers of different components. The powerful Burleys melded into the Virginias, creating a honey-oatmeal flavor, with the Perique — always a chameleon — taking on an apricot and lemon flavor, and the Virginias melting into a deep caramel as the Bright and Red varieties combined their differently cured versions of the classic Virginia flavor. Although it is over half American tobaccos, the British Virginias of the Brown Twist Sliced come out in a deep and full sweetness which melds into the Burley nuttiness, allowing the other flavors to emerge as interpretations of this. Quite satisfying.
One of my other experiments involved the Amsterdam Mixture, which is roughly equal parts Bright Virginia and Dark Fired Burley. It has a spicy-sweet taste and because it is relatively dry, brings out quite a bit of flavor that is perfect for outdoors smoking, including the variety known as “lunting” which is walking while smoking, always a meditative activity. At first, I was mixing this 70-30 with the Brown Twist Sliced, which now that my all-time favorite Royal Yacht is leaving the market has become my go-to smoke. Like most of the Gawith ropes, it is dense and damp, designed to be chucked into a pocket and carried around all day, then packed casually while taking a break, giving it time to dry and separate. Ferocious in strength, and intense in flavor, it is one of those tobaccos that one craves simply because when the experience is good, it is so solidly good that it is unforgettable. As I sampled this new concoction, it occurred to me that I had the percentages entirely inverted, and so the next round was 60-40 in favor of the brown twist. This blend was more appropriately strong and mellowed out the extremes of the Amsterdam, while allowing the Virginias to caramelize together and produce a deep sweetness that harmonized with the nutty and spicy flavors, creating something that is easily stuffed in the pipe and smoked all day without a second thought, but enjoyed on the subconscious level.
Sometimes I mix the basic components themselves, having found that most blends are too dependent on variety of internal flavors to allow them to meld as the components in a good sauce do. Variety can be a form of distraction, so that the tongue experiences a wallop of oregano, then the sting of garlic, a sear of jalapeno and only later, a zing of lemon zest in the acidic warmth of tomato sauce. An excellent sauce, on the other hand, becomes its own flavor, and the best of those have depth, which is one of those indefinable landmarks of human experience that becomes immensely satisfying because the basic flavor may be enjoyed, and then within it nuance emerges from its constituent components working in balance to become more than the sum of their parts. It is the opposite of distraction; it demands concentration and rewards that with both endless subtle variety and instruction of the taste buds in perceiving fine distinctions, much like a walk through the deep woods both reveals infinite experience and sharpens the mind, eyes and soul.
In these less-distracting blends, the foundation comes from the Burley/Virginia mixture. The general formula is to use about 3:1 Dark Burley to White Burley, mixed with a 2:1 Bright Virginia to Red Virginia mix, in a 3:2 ratio. On top of that, one may add the condimental leaf, such that one can mix the foundation 4:1 with a combination of Latakia and Orientals for an English, or 4:1 with a blend of mostly Perique and more Bright Virginia and a touch of Cigar Leaf for a quality Va/Per, or even my personal favorite, which is to top it in the 4:1 ratio with a well-churned wad of equal parts Dark Fired Kentucky Burley and Cigar Leaf. The latter smokes like a caramel cigar and while only a nudge over medium strength, can provide a smoke of some depth throughout the day. I sometimes pour a half-ounce of Bourbon into a quarter cup of distilled water, then wet to the desired zone of about 15% moisture by weight, so that a pound of the mixture would receive just under two ounces of this flavoring agent, but of late, the flavor of the leaf alone has predominated.
At some point, I would like to make this mixture into a plug. These are an old UK tradition, enabled by the steam press, which uses steam as its power source and does not actually steam the tobacco. These giant machines could apply hundreds of tons of pressure, and so leaves of tobacco were piled on a metal base, alternating between different types: Virginia, Burley, Dark Fired, Virginia, Virginia, Burley, Cigar, and so on. These were lightly soaked in a flavoring mixture, usually based in anisette, honey, vinegar and other natural flavors, and then the press was fired up and used to crush these leaves flat so that they took up a tenth or less of their original volume. This process shatters the cells in the leaves and thoroughly melds internal fluids and flavorings, which then allows the aging process to accelerate, removing ammonia and acids and replacing them with a gentle sweet and broad flavor. The compression enables more of the nicotine to be absorbed by the smoker and infiltrates the flavoring into the leaf itself, so that the day-long smoker could reach into a pocket and extract what looks like a brown square of rubber, trim off a few flakes and stuff them in the pipe, then enjoy the kind of high-nicotine and intense but powerful flavor that enables concentration while appreciating a constant infusion of a pleasant-tasting smoke. If you want to explore these, Peterson’s Perfect Plug is available at most tobacconists and provides an excellent introduction to technique and appreciation.
The flip side of “self-expression” is that others are using their appearance to you as a means to make you like them and agree with them. Human life, since we are sedentary pack animals, is to have a hierarchy, and hierarchy is either won by ability or by social factors. Consider this: everything someone else says or does constitutes an argument, or a thesis about what is true or “should” be true. When they dress in ironic clothing, they are advancing an argument for a certain type of individualism that believes outward traits create or convey inward traits. When they dress plainly, and act forthrightly, the opposite is being proposed: outward traits are a vocabulary that is deceptive, and inward traits create the outer, which if one is honest, does not consist of sending signals or postulates to an assembled audience.
The effects of this can be seen in the history of metal, as described in a comment on the (brief) history of metal after the fall:
In 1994, it was apparent that death metal was slowing down just as black metal was getting popular, but by the following year, it was clear that black metal was slowing down as well. By 1996, “Stormblast” was out and all the kiddies came surging into the genre with the same thoughtless middle-class desperation with which they attached themselves to other trends.
This created a great financial opportunity to put keyboards and howl-vocals on mediocre metal and rock and re-sell it as black metal. In the meantime, a new thing called the “funderground” formed where idiots pretended they were fighting back against this commercialism by listening to old punk riffs repeated with worse production and faster drums, black metal vocals. This was a double-barrelled shotgun pointed at metal: the goofy, vapid and effete mainstream black metal versus the three-chord droning nothing-music of the funderground. Both worked to lower standards. At that point, the record labels do what they always do, which is to start making “innovations” that are really deviations to the mean. So we got rock-metal, punk-metal and emo-metal, and eventually the latter took over as a new generation of clueless millennials fled the ruins of punk rock.
At this point, metal has not existed for over two decades, but idiots keep insisting it does, while a few lone voices like DMU champion the good stuff that is neither pantywaist nor funderground, because we know that metal will return after spending a generation in the mainstream or otherwise incubating outside of the strict genre. We are mostly waiting for it to become unpopular again so all the idiots, glad-handers, scenesters, hipsters, poseurs and middle class gaping mouthed teenagers leave so that they no longer exert a market force that rewards moronic music and punishes ballsy or intelligent music.
Outward replaced inner here. Early black metal was intensely antisocial, and so the musicians created a communication which was designed to create a certain meditative space associated with an outlook on the world, and then to tell stories of experience within it, taking the listener from unformed perceptions to complete visions, even if these were more focused on the existential side rather than the practical. That is what art does; advertising, on the other hand, expresses something so that those listening will perform an act of a finite nature. In most cases, this is to adopt the music as a type of outward adornment, and to use it to excuse behavior, much like the outwardly cynical but inwardly conformist teenager who likes rebellious music but wants it to be at its core very similar to the rock ‘n roll that his friends like so that they have “common ground,” much like a committee seeking a compromise so they can stamp out another project or product and despite its mediocrity, claim it as relevant.
Ideology — thoughts contrary to realism and based in what “should” be from an entirely human perspective, a.k.a. a social outlook — is mind-programming that attempts to make all minds identical on certain topics. Naturally, the first task in ideology club is to disguise that through deceptive language or symbols so that the “mark” — the sucker whose mind you are trying to program — does not realize he is being conned, and thinks that the idea developed in his mind, when really it was a natural extension of the concept you gave him. A simple ideology is “Support the Underground.” On the surface, it means simply to take part and buy the stuff. But then categories deceive us. If a band is labeled underground, you kind of have to support it… because you support the underground, namely the whole thing. This benefits mediocre bands who slap out some junk and then tell everyone to support the underground, which really means to buy their stuff, and then everyone else gets in the game as well. It is not like you signed up for “Support the Good Stuff in the Underground,” or even “Support Talented Underground Musicians.” You are there to support this thing as a whole, and anyone can join in and then you are obligated to support them or feel the sting of guilt, which is really fear that others will see and not approve of you anymore. Another one is to favor “peace.” If you want peace, any time a war comes about, you have to realize that it is the opposite category of what you support, and so your friends expect you to be against it, even if that war will bring about greater peace later. You can try explaining your more complex rationale, but when you are facing a group, you know that whatever is simplest and makes people feel good will win, and having everyone join together in a simple pursuit then makes everyone feel included and they all have warm feelings, and if you deviate from this, they will think that you ruined their good time and turn on you.
Politics is Like AIDS
Maybe you have never had a mental virus grab hold of you and compel you to be obedient. The point of a mental virus is to make a crowd, because then when someone says to do the good thing because the bad thing is bad, everyone does what the controller says. That causes a problem because in a crowd, anyone can shout out that something is bad and have a personal army, so the herd instead develops all sorts of little in-jokes, memes, tokens, riffs, tropes and trends, and so only those who use the right combination of these can unlock the witch hunt mob. Generally, the most successful controllers are oriented toward witch hunts because destruction is more immediate than creation, and so it seems more powerful when you are in the moment, which means that being in a crowd means that you can feel good about destroying things because you have rationalized what you are doing as good, which means that whatever you oppose is bad, and people love destroying because it makes them feel powerful.
The core of the impulse to destroy is not a disinterested non-opinion, like a nihilist would have, but an affirmative opinion by those who need something external to substitute for the parts of their personalities removed by ideology, abuse, underconfidence, alcoholism/drugs, body issues, dirty secrets, neurosis, mild schizophrenia, sociopathy and other deficits. When you have something to hide, the best camouflage is a strong opinion and a ¡mission! which makes you look self-possessed, together and guided by higher purpose. This is why most empty or confused people LARP as being artists, philosophers, peace activists, martyrs, religious leaders and ideologues. It lets them cover up that hole within by using some kind of cover story that they eventually buy into, at which point they lose the sense of irony and it takes over their brain and they become followers, which is why so many of them self-sacrifice or are willing to face incredible negatives. That is not as simple as suicide bombers, although they are part of it, but is more commonly seen in people who like getting beat up and arrested at protests, or even going to jail for committing pointless crimes. They may have screwed up, but they screwed up for “our team” and so they are no longer fractured souls, but remade men who are going to dominate the world, even if they will only be doing that after they get out of prison. Suicide bombers just take this to the immaculate suicide level: they cannot screw up after they are dead, so they go out on a high note. Alternate Biblical interpretation: Jesus was a suicide, and God decided to screw up his plans by making him come back and be the non-immaculate guy who forgets where his keys are, eats too many donuts and throws up in church, forgets to pay the electric bill and all that. The real suffering for people of damaged ego is that they must be imperfect, whereas if they manage to die as heroes, they remain heroes forevermore, or until the crowd like a magpie discovers the next shiny thing and forgets all previous history as is its wont.
I wrote a little bit about this in “The Politics of Heavy Metal” and slipped the philosophical background into The Heavy Metal FAQ (“FAQ you,” he said, in a thick Boston accent) but the big point about metal is distinguishing surface from depth. We see beauty in darkness and goodness in power, instead of demanding that people paint day-glo butterflies and peace signs on everything, argue promiscuity as love and cowardice as peace, and insist that we are morally good for demanding equal representation so that every decision can be a compromise. You heard it here first: the people who mean the best often do the worst, and democracy is death. No one can sanely argue that humans make better decisions in groups. Think about your average committee or your friends arguing over which movie to watch. Whatever satisfies the most people is usually the least ambitious, most directionless and least interesting prospect. The metal idea comes to us from European Romantic Literature which tells us that there is this thing called “transcendence” where instead of focusing on how much you are afraid of being eaten by bears or having too small of a penis, you pay attention to the bigger order and see the beauty in its function, because even that chaotic and bloody regime creates excellence by making a stable world where the stronger wins out over the weaker, and so over time, the more beautiful emerges from the disordered. Nature and death are tied forever in the human psyche. We fear natural selection because then we do not die as heroes, but as zeroes… and most human activity is covertly hoping to find a way out of that loop. Alas, it is not to be. Metal affirms the loop because it knows that hard times (in an age of quarrel) make strong people, who then long for the best instead of the merely adequate, which makes them blasphemers to the crowd which hopes that mediocrity is made the standard so everyone (roll your eyes here and look hungry to show that you are properly herd-cordycepted) is included. Metal beats that with its own severed limbs.
The only reason this storm is crushing Texas right now is human arrogance. We thought that we could treat the world as if our actions had no consequences, and as long as we humans approved of them in our social group at the pub, everything was wonderful. Every person wants their own slice of paradise, so we let them all come here — most from California and Mexico — and they each wanted a house and an office job and places to shop and be important, so we covered up a whole lot of the land with concrete. This does not create global warming, but local effects: it reflects the sun and displaces the plants that cycle moisture and thus heat, so creates “hot spots” which then displace air currents. This makes a stagnant, roasting wasteland into which we dump millions of engines emitting exhaust and lots of humans, each generating heat and methane. Without the air bathing the earth below, the heat disrupts whatever cycles and ecosystems were there, and the place has erratic weather. On top of that, it cannot absorb water, and instead of having millions of plants and animals to slow it down, channels it directly into flash floods which then accumulate on the same concrete.
People love the drama. Just like everyone who goes to a rock concert thinks that he is up on stage because the rock stars are performing for him, forgetting that he is one of many and what they want is his money, when people see their hometown on the news they get all excited. Finally, importance – significance – relevance! This gives them a chance to bemoan their misfortunes, attract sympathy, and then posture at being Gandhi by saying, “Oh, it’s nothing; others have suffered more than me!” Suffering is your ticket to crowd power because now everyone else owes you something, if only attention. The news media, on the other hand, make their bucks by providing entertainment that makes other people feel good for the fact that they are not suffering, because suffering without it being noticed is the worst thing ever since you get no power from it. Their interest lies in making every news item seem like the end of the world because then the neurotics talk about it and everyone has to participate, so papers or television commercials sell… everything is clickbait now because it has always been clickbait, and we just stopped making it subtle. Make yourself a media superstar with this One Simple Trick!
Rain is only a problem when it hangs around. If you are on a hill surrounded by a big old plain with a river on it, it can rain for days and the water will run off the hill, down the plain and go away with the river. If you are in a city comprised of concrete plates with boxes on them, and it rains not just hard but across a wide plain of maybe a hundred miles of this concrete Death Star, then all of that water is going to go rushing to whatever drainage you have, which will not be enough, and so you will soon be floating. Texas grew like a weed because everyone else was incompetent. All of them looked at the fat sheep out there and thought, no one will notice if we take just a little… or a little more… and soon like shoplifting, it became a pathological habit. All the people taxed to death in California and New York, or starving in Mexico because of the incompetence of their social order, came to Texas and started living the good life, which made people rich for building houses, roads, schools and shopping centers. This in turn killed what made Texas productive, which was that it was one of the last few places on Earth where someone could stand out for being competent, and instead made it a place where everyone showed up at jobs and went through the motions. The growth slowed down, but now with all these people here, there was nothing to do but keep as many of them employed as possible, which quickly made jobs lobotomizing, so the good people dropped out or fled and the incompetents took over, as always happens. It was the exact same feedback loop that happened when Metallica realized that people liked “Fade to Black” because it connected them to self-pity and then made them feel righteously angry, and they like that because it is easier than fixing their lives, so why not make a whole album of it? The crowd goes wild.
Love Me Tender
Dave Sanchez-Wong threw open the door and flopped on the couch in a snit which was entirely circular. He had messed up at his job, and the job was mostly to blame, but he was mad at himself and so he blamed the job, because otherwise he had to feel really bad for a few hours instead of being mildly pissy for a few days. He heard a harmony of giggles from the kitchen. Turns out his sisters, the twins Sara and Susan, had also had a bad time of it, and so they had opened the wine-in-a-box his Mom kept under the sink for “emergencies.” The empty box bounced on the floor near the trash can. “Oops,” said Sara, and they both laughed, almost falling out of their chairs. “Don’t tell Mom,” said Susan, and a dark light came into his eyes. “You are the best sisters ever,” he said. “I would never tell on you because I love you more than anything else.” Sara looked confused. He came up behind her and kissed her full on the mouth. She pulled back, but he slapped her lightly on the ass and said, “We always take care of each other.” Susan nodded before she caught herself. He kissed her next, feeling the sweet tantalizing intensity of the forbidden, and then kissed his other sister. She resisted, then relented. His hands found her back, then her buttocks. Sara began to rub herself under her outfit, which par for the course for both of them consisted of gym shorts and a spaghetti-strap shirtlet. His hands ventured across Susan, grasping her braless breasts under the shirt. She gasped, and he spun her around and pushed her gently onto the kitchen table, removing her shorts and provocative thong. He nodded to Susan, who removed her own shirt and then unbuckled his belt and pulled his jeans and boxer shorts to the floor. She went to the other side of the table and kissed her sister, holding down her shoulders as Dave entered Sara from behind, sliding fully into her as she gasped and struggled, but soon gave over to the pleasure. As he felt her legs stiffen, he gently twisted her nipples, and she exploded into orgasm, retreating into a pool of protoplasm on the floor… Susan threw off her shorts and hopped onto the table, presenting him with her neatly-trimmed mound. He dove in, attacking it with his tongue, feeling her hands in his hair as she twisted in place, calling out obscenities and blasphemies until he threw her down and entered her as well. When her quivers ended, he pulled Sara upright and inserted himself in her mouth with a rough command. Instructed in the ways of such things early in life, she satisfied him directly and he groaned as he felt the release of a great leaden tension within, whipping his organ into Susan as the convulsion finished. For added relief, he cleaned up their comingled fluids with torn pages from the family Bible. Hours later, he lay on the couch, his rage flaring again. He heard the twins upstairs and felt his weapon rise. There were benefits to being born a triplet, he reflected, and began to stroke himself, finally spraying his DNA all over the couch as he realized in a moment of cold sweat shock that he had been having sex with himself all along.
Justice Served All Day
Clem Jeffers-Rosenberg sat in the saloon, spitting Days O Work plug into the bucket by the door and nursing a Shiner Bock. He had not meant to get fired from his gig as a roadman at the oil well, but when a man tells you something that just isn’t true, there is not much that you can do except clock him one. He thought about the boot at home stuffed with twenties, both confident that it might last and feeling a faint quiver in his gut at the knowledge that it just would not, because the truck would blow a gear or the roof of the trailer would start leaking again, and then he’d be back, cap in hand, looking for work from the same chinless manlet who fired him. In the midst of this dark cloud of thoughts, Sheriff Clifton flung open the double doors. “Boys, there’s a feral Negro about, and he done insulted the honor of Miss Eula Mae Harrington-Moskowitz!” Every man in the place jumped to attention. It was not that dry spindly aged spinster Eula Mae was a prize, but more that something had been insulted… something that let them all keep going, even when things were bad. This was a town, hell bless it, and they were gonna defend it. The cruel black eyes of the Sheriff sized up his new deputies and he handed out tin like candy on Halloween. The only problem was that Eula Mae was blind as a bat, so all she knew was that it was a large-sized Negro who had sullied her reputation. When the sun hit the far orange corner of the sky, the Sheriff was standing in front of over a thousand black men who had been beaten, bullied and hauled along to the edge of the forest. “Which one do you think it was?” asked Clem. “Heck if I know,” growled the Sheriff, “but we can’t let him escape!” So they tossed up ropes over the trees, put a chair under each, and on the count of four, hung all hundred of those Negroes. Clem waited until the last of the kicking stopped and then let out a holler. The other boys did the same, and hopped into pickup trucks to speed into town. The Sheriff went last, riding his white horse. Clem looked around and realized it was just him and one hundred dead Negroes. Well, ain’t that the shit, he thought. It was everything he hated about this town. How the jobs were all stupid, and all of them knew nothing but that life, and so they took it on the chin from manlets all week and then drank themselves cockeyed at the saloon, and the only people who had houses instead of trailers were the Sheriff and the saloon owner, Binyamin Chavez-Wang, who was a little slip of a man but he gave credit when you got angry, so he never got the fist to the face he deserved. Clem had to walk back, have them all laugh at him, then because they had city lap dog levels of obedience bred into them, go suck it up and take his job back at half pay and then go do it all over again, until he got too old to work or drank too many Shiners and drove his truck into the reservoir like Jim Bob had back when Clem had friends. “God Damn It, I hate white people!”
World Tard Death
Jamison Matthews-Eleuterio crouched in his dorm room, the computer playing a remote lesson in the corner. It was his third semester of law school and he already hated everything in it. They were basically glorified Roombas, sucking up the words in laws and cases and finding some niggling little reason why they could claim their side was right, just so they could bill that side and go home rich, but then what was the point, if you had a dozen non-sleep hours a week to yourself, and most of those had to be spent watching rom-coms with the snotty girlfriend or worse, pretending to care about her brats, which would do nothing for him. Although he was a success by any measure, and with his top scores and grades would be an easy fit into a major firm, Jamison felt like he was on the bottom of the pole. Work all day, almost every day, pay lots of taxes and spent your time fixing the problems of idiots at work and then people who knew nothing of the world at home. He opened a new document and started to list everything he knew was true, then everything he knew was wrong, and then clumped them together to find where the two did not align, labeling those “Causes.” Eventually he got to the bottom and, as he often did, nodded off. When he woke up the document was empty except for three words in bold: WORLD TARD DEATH. He realized then his path to greatness, and grimly returned to his studies… twenty years later, grey at his temples, he commanded the most powerful corporation on Earth. It was easy to buy congresspeople and a presidential candidate, so he choose a black crippled trans-woman and won the sheep vote by a mile. She signed the bill he authored easily. The next morning, armed men in black began rounding up all of the retards, idiots, fools, pedophiles, entertainers and lesser men, and put them to death in an elaborate display involving the gun from an A-10 Warthog and Tabasco enemas. That night, Jamison did a line of coke off a hooker’s breasts and drank himself into a stupor. The next day, he found himself explaining again to a subordinate why a proposed plan was never going to work, and he felt himself drift into his old angry stupor. The tards had never died; they had merely changed form. In fact, they were all around him, and he was their servant. He took another drink and swept the papers off his desk in a snowstorm of meaningless words.
So they’re censoring the Alt Right and they have the right to do it because they own all those machines we all use to keep updated on the projected lives of the friends we do not even trust or know, and we cannot stop ourselves. We are addicted to being heard. And if what you are saying is not wanted, then that is just too bad. The Soviets had a similar idea, but theirs was more malevolent. In the Soviet Union, artists found themselves in the gulag for making art that was not necessarily anti-Communist, but it was not-Communist, and that was enough. Here we are subtler: we create a circle of things that are accepted, then cut off what is outside. Then we constrict the circle. Eventually, the only people who will be fit to walk among us are those who are in the very inner circle, the True Believers who know that human equality means we all get what we want, which means that those untroubled by concerns for any order at a level higher than themselves will triumph. There is a reason these regimes are atheistic and perverse, materialistic and controlling. The human heart contains a very tiny black hole, a cosmic oddity which occurs when matter loses its animating form, and is crushed into something so compact that it sucks in everything else and not even life can escape. When the heart is suffused with power, it grows emotional, and the black hole grows with it, because most emotion is simply self-pity disguised as concern for others. Eventually, the black hole gets big enough that it consumes everything else, and then the human becomes like a victim of hydrophobia, manic for water but unable to drink, having given itself entirely to the disease. The black hole people live in Ivory Towers and never see the world as it is experienced by most, but those same towers protect the black hole so that it can grow. The problem occurs when two black holes meet. They consume one another, cannibalizing the opposite, and become instead of stronger, weaker, causing a chain reaction. All light vanishes and the blackness overcomes all. It does not matter whether they are with the State, the Media, the Corporation, or the local hippie corporate NGO; they join into one, driven by a hunger so all-consuming that it even eats their eyes. It calls to mind the words of a cynical realist:
Somewhere there are still peoples and herds, but not with us, my brothers: here there are states.
A state? What is that? Well! open now your ears to me, for now I will speak to you about the death of peoples.
State is the name of the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly it lies; and this lie slips from its mouth: “I, the state, am the people.”
It is a lie! It was creators who created peoples, and hung a faith and a love over them: thus they served life.
Destroyers are they who lay snares for the many, and call it state: they hang a sword and a hundred cravings over them.
Where there are still peoples, the state is not understood, and is hated as the evil eye, and as sin against laws and customs.
This sign I give to you: every people speaks its own language of good and evil, which its neighbor does not understand. It has created its own language of laws and customs.
But the state lies in all the tongues of good and evil; and whatever it says it lies; and whatever it has it has stolen.
Everything in it is false; it bites with stolen teeth, and bites often. It is false down to its bowels.
Confusion of tongues of good and evil; this sign I give you as the sign of the state. This sign points to the will to death! it points to the preachers of death!
All too many are born: for the superfluous the state was created!
See how it entices them to it, the all-too-many! How it swallows and chews and rechews them!
“On earth there is nothing greater than I: I am the governing hand of God.” — thus roars the monster. And not only the long-eared and short-sighted fall upon their knees!
Ah! even in your ears, you great souls, it whispers its gloomy lies! Ah! it finds out the rich hearts which willingly squander themselves!
Yes, it finds you too, you conquerors of the old God! You became weary of conflict, and now your weariness serves the new idol!
It would set up heroes and honorable ones around it, the new idol! Gladly it basks in the sunshine of good consciences, — the cold monster!
It will give everything to you, if you worship it, the new idol: thus it buys the lustre of your virtue, and the glance of your proud eyes.
Through you it seeks to seduce the all-too-many! Yes, a hellish artifice has been created here, a death-horse jingling with the trappings of divine honors!
Yes, a dying for many has been created here, which glorifies itself as life: verily, a great service to all preachers of death!
It is difficult to decide who are stupider, the European or the American conservatives. Conservatives by nature are stupid because they understand that man is a fallen god become a prey animal, and yet they want to appeal to the better instincts of these mice and make them into men and then gods again. Conservatism becomes an ideology, mimicking the Left which it claims to destroy, because of the great secret of humankind and The Human Problem, which is that everything we do becomes a cause in itself because we use it as a substitute for our own absent purpose, and therefore become dependent on it like the addict to drugs, the obese couch-dweller to cheeseburgers, the hipster to novelty and the social power that it conveys. European conservatives are right when they insist that all ideas must relate to the health of something organic, or self-arising and composed of unequal but interlocked part, but the American conservatives are right when they realize that this does not mean “all of our people” or “every person” but those who demonstrate competence. Socialism is death, but so is ideology, and when you find yourself working for freedom or the Constitution or even capitalism and the rule of law, your mind has been replaced by a machine which clicks YES for the right things and NO on everything else, effectively eliminating the links between things, converting a forested planet into a series of uniform boxes. The human mind loves that, because evenly-spaced identical boxes are easy to think about, which makes the brain feel powerful.
They banned Stormfront, the white nationalist forum, along with a dozen other sites and thousands of social media profiles. Perhaps this is growth. There are two types of humans, those who are driven by realism and purpose and therefore can accept that many ideas exist and only some can be chosen, and those who want only the right ideas to exist, so that they too can be uniform rows of blocks. The former type recognizes that there is an order above that of the individual, namely reality or the patterns of nature that live within us as much as outside of us, and so it is possible to choose ideas based on what fits into that larger order. The latter type have no perception of that order, so they want only the boxes that make them feel good about being themselves, even though they are strangers to themselves as well as others. Leftism is death… but it is only one variety of death. That does not mean we should not support the Physical Removal of Leftists, but only that it is half of a solution, and the other half is to find that order in ourselves, and then go looking out there in the world for clues of its existence, so that we can piece together a continuity of self and world. Very few will do that, which is the paradox of conservatism. There is only one conservative thought: “good to the good, and bad to the bad,” which if you think about it, is a type of bubble sort. You compare each thing to all other things, bumping it up if it is better, kicking it down if it is worse. Soon you have a sorted list from best to worst, and you take all the guns and money and give them to the best, knowing that even if they are massive assholes, they are competent assholes, and they are going to beat down the worst kind of asshole, who are the people who are incompetent and in denial, and will enslave us all for their own end, which is to make life into identical cubes. Think of apartments, boxes on voting forms, cubicles and the fact that you will eventually forget the names of your ex-girlfriends and whatever they, in moments of distraction, revealed as their actual concerns in life, in unguarded moments they would regret because knowledge is power and you now had something that limited their power over you. In the place of Stormfront, maybe we need a place where everyone is assigned a number and they anonymously speak what they are actually thinking, so that the best ideas can rise. From identical boxes to a topography of startling complexity.
If it was fair for Siberians to cross the Bering Strait, come to a new world and kill off its big animals, displace whoever they found here and claim it as their own, then it was fair for us to do the same to them. Custer had a vision. It is also fair for us to send all Leftists to Mexico, because there they will find the same type of society that they want to create here. Alternatively, we could sell them to the Arabs, but that might be too kind, because every controller secretly desires to be controlled, because at least then they are needed. Cue girlfriend. Whose bitch is this? Voting makes people pretentious. It gives them the power to order around others and spend their money, all with zero accountability. When it comes time to blame someone, blame the voters. Never accept that you made a wrong choice or did not act enough; find someone else to blame and get pissy over it. Their actions blasphemed your sense of self-worth. Of course, all of social media is Red like Red Square, because to be Red is to say that everyone gets to be whatever they want to be, and we can all ignore reality. It is not about the money, the problem with socialism, but that it makes our vital abilities atrophy. The State will do it, so we forget about it. And when it fails, we can blame the State… the voters… the politicians… Jesus… Mohammed… Moses. Someone, anyone will do. Just let us feel good about ourselves for another twenty-eight seconds and then, hey, hot pockets. Or maybe nuclear war. There is only one group of people that hangs out on the internet all day, clicking like their self-esteem depended upon it, and they all want the Union of Soviet America because then they finally have a cause, a purpose. What will that do? Nothing, but they are too Dunning-Kruger cordycepted to know what the Christ that is all about. All of our media is State propaganda. There is no money in anything else.
The Human Problem has a name: obliviousness. Most people know nothing but themselves, and instead of treating them like prey animals, we the few with the potential for a clue treat them as if they are self-sufficient and therefore, wiser than us. In reality, people are as predictable as bacteria when you zoom out to the statistical level. We act like yeast colonies as well, seizing anything good and digesting it, then dying in a pool of alcohol when we realize we never found a purpose, and glommed on to something convenient instead, only to realize we needed something bigger all along. You can even make God into an ideology; “I do this for God” — why? He does not need You. There are reasons why gods do things, and those relate to what is bigger than God, a form of logic that few humans grasp without wanting to die. Collectivism is individualism; the individual refuses to be driven by a larger order, like reality and its intangible/invisible cohort, the pattern language of the logic of existence. Conservatives are individualists who recognize a larger order, but cannot escape themselves; Leftists are individuals who recognize no order other than themselves, and are consumed by those selves. Socialism, anarchism and communism are failed experiments. Capitalism is how you figure out how to pay for good things, not something you for its own sake, unless it is your hobby and in that case, buy yourself a model boat and work on it until you are passable. At least then you have challenged yourself, and your soul, without anyone else knowing. When a trees falls in a forest, it makes a sound. When a human falls, it is always invisible, but only centuries later, becomes visible.
No ideology should lead you to disregard concerns for fairness and making life better. Profit cannot be your guide, nor can popularity, which is profit measured in attention. Tempering that is the knowledge that not everyone can come along on the ride. Most people in fact want to be yeast, if ironic, unique, different, quirky, iconoclastic yeast. The Holocaust was one of the great evils of history, but it did not occur in a vacuum. Any time 2% of a population makes up 40% of its secret police like the NKVD, there will be an equal and opposite reaction. Newton’s apple, full of cyanide. Wishful thinking is emotionalism, a megalomania of the self bigger than Hitler’s (Stalin did not have megalomania; he was the ultimate pragmatist, and is the model for all future leaders). The Human Problem is the dark specter over a battle of realism versus emotionalism, which is individualism, or denial of the order above the individual. The rain keeps falling. South Texas needs us to build giant tunnels to funnel the water away, or to wake up and become Agrarians who live in small communities and realize that nothing can fill the emptiness; we can build in the middle of it, floating in a space of intangibilism, but we cannot fill it, because it is infinite and expands to accommodate whatever we put into it, simultaneously opening a black mark in our souls like happens in paper held over a candle. We are all living for the nothing, when we should live in the nothing for the rain. Rain in the hands of a Michelangelo or Da Vinci becomes the timeless and infinite; rain in the hands of the human black hole becomes death, swirling around us as we alternatively cackle and scream. The nothingness is all. Accept the darkness, and you will see that blackness, like infinity, has different degrees. Some black is light. But all light begins in blackness, in the parts of our souls that we cannot see but will certainly feel.
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