Atheist Supervision

/ Religion /

Kleptocracy necessitates atheism. Kleptocracy invented God to give itself authority: authority in the sky, ultimate authority, untrumpable. But then kleptocracy itself must be exempt from accountancy: therefore: the kleptocracy itself must not believe in its God or in his authority.

Kleptocracy says that God is the highest: but that’s not what they mean: they mean that they are the highest: no judgment above their judgment: their criminal judgment.

Yesterday’s start:
Emperor Constantine made Christianity compulsory. If you’re coerced to “believe” something, theres no telling what you actually believe: what you might believe if you were free.

thanx luc

George Bernard Shaw’s Androcles and the Lion has a Caesar order his Praetorian Guard to become Christian the second he hears that Christians aren’t afraid to die:

Christians aren’t afraid to die,
Caesar wants brave troops,
Therefore: the troops must be ordered to become Christian.

Now they’ll die like soldier ants: obeying.

That’s like ordering bankrupts to trust the bank (like when FDR ordered the banks to close, to not pay out any drafts …

Several years ago I contemplated dancing at the Elks Club. The membership application asked if the signer believed in God!
Whoops, are we still under Constantine? Yes, I guess so.

I declined to fill in the app. I declined to answer the question.
How can these morons ask me if I believe in God?
Am I not a messenger of God? Did I not try to convey Ivan Illich’s Christian anarchist internet to the public in 1970?
Wasn’t my Christian internet inspired by God? by Christ?

Does one ask the Western Union guy if he believes in Western Union? No. He works for Western Union: obviously he believes in Western Union: or, it doesn’t matter if he believes in Western Union: he works for Western Union.
If I’ve had all my money in the Highlands Independent Bank since 1990, isn’t that a hint that I believe in the Highlands Independent Bank?
Nonsense: Belief is irrelevant.

I’m writing this fast, posting it immediately: I’ll research, and edit, expand later, over time. First get the general ideas, ignore typos, forgive less than sublime diction.

I was just reading up on other examples of compulsory “belief”: apropos of Salem witch trials. (I’ll re-research, and share.) Colonial America was full of populations, local groups, who acted on the belief that morality and orthodoxy went hand in hand: you want a moral society? demand conventional belief. Demand it, enforce it, punish deviance.

Trouble is, where you have coercion you can’t have sincerity.

A pope can burn and torture anyone who doesn’t reflect some prescribed pattern, but the opinion of the person afraid of being burned can’t be trusted.
You need to find someone who wants to be burned, who demands it: someone like me!

There: I say something, something good, then I say something else. Good. I find a pic, I’m ready to post, immediately a second drafts weaves its way in … and I don’t even realize that I’ve only sketched my foundation, not yet précised my point.

That point is: we think we lie in a world where believers in God are identifiable; not so. I can prove, I can at least argue, that all those priests, all those rabbis, shamans … are atheists. No representative of anything legitimate would compel belief.


St. Paul. Father of Protestant Christianity. Rhetoric. Gibberish to confuse anyone. Saw, correctly, that reason is overrated: poisoned reason for ever.

faith, hope, charity
Faith, Hope, Charity
thanx jonathanlinton

Any literate person who studies the Bible sees that the book they hold is published by humans. Humans make mistakes. Humans also cheat. Tribe-members cheat without even knowing they’re cheating.
Bibles are published by humans.
Still, there’s a chance that what the humans publish is inspired by God.
I still insist that nearly everything I write, and I write constantly, have been since 1948, or, I’ve been writing since 1948, writing constantly since 1982, is inspired by God (of course it’s a different God than the one conventional Bible-writers and -readers write about). I don’t say it’s dictated by, I say it’s inspired by.
Those who say their Bible is dictated are stupid or lying or both: stupid and lying.
But they run the society, run the schools, own the publishing systems.
They’re in hell, we’re all in hell, they run everything from hell.
(Of course, me, I’m in ecstasy wherever I am.)

Do those who put me in jail while saying that God will judge all, really believe that God will judge them? do they believe that God will be right?
No. Since they don’t believe in truth, can’t tell the difference between intelligent honesty (Galileo, Newton, Darwin) and Big Brother propaganda, they can’t believe that they’ll be judged, rightly. They’re atheists.

I had a neighbor who while she was dying of lung cancer continued to be mad at the doctors who told her that her agony was related to her lifetime of smoking. Did she understand that her dying was a fact? did she imagine that the truth of her dying was independent of her trust in her cigarettes?
The Mistry of Lies publishes the lies, enforces belief in the lies; but does the Ministry itself believe the lies?
Is there any reason to believe the Pope believes that the Church can guarantee salvation while publishing lies? while torturing messengers from God.
Do Bible publishers really believe that the day will never arrive when God says

This is what I wrote!
This is what I dictated!
This is what inspired!

In contrast,
This is what you published!
This is what you assigned, compelled consumption of!

Will the churches, the temples, the napalm droppers, the crucifiers, still be able to tout their forgeries after God has shown us his manuscript?
Shouldn’t the fake stocks lose value after revelation?

Not while the liars remain in charge.
Not while God merely offers life, doesn’t insist on it, lets us commit murder and suicide:
For profit.

I say this and that. I say it again and again.
At Judgment, am I going to run judgment?
Certainly not, I want to disappear into the audience.
I just want truth to prevail.
Truth as corresponding with experience, with fact.
Not propaganda.

Gee, today is the anniversary of Thomas Cranmer’s martyrdom! Have you read Cranmer? Do you realize that a good part of what Engish speakers think of as biblical sonority is Cranmer? not the “Bible”? (Cranmer authored the Book of Common Prayer: how many Anglicans can tell the difference between Cranmer’s authorship and the collective style from King James translation scholars? The latter were much influenced by the diction, the cadences of the former.)


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Second Delay

/ Media /

Incumbent Kleptocrats

thanx imdb

Everyone knows that lawmakers impose a time gap of several seconds between data and information: data being the signal, information here being orthodox interpretation.

’15 03 24 Not at all the information I write about at Information, Macroinformation.

The “agreement” forced down our gullets channels the idea that we’re protecting the innocent — children — in case somebody says something vulgar f— (or, fascists forfend, c—). But the real reason is to make sure that Macbeth’s fingerprints aren’t found on any recent corpse’s throat. The government’s illegitimacy must be protected, no matter the cost (the more so as costs are routinely on the people: the government pays only rarely).

Real Reasons vs Pseudo Reasons

thanx storify

Innocent Children

I’ve said again and again, watch out for people curtailing liberties in the name of protecting the innocence of children. Do we forbid traffic because a toddler might appear in the street? No: we keep children out of the street! Don’t want your kid in porn: keep him off the internet.
(Never forget, lynch mobs used to march their children before them so when their victim screamed, “Get the hell out of my yard”, they had reason to lynch him: he cursed before the children!)

Time Gap Scrapbook

The famous seven-second-delay is a political buffer, giving censorship a head start. But there are natural delays too:

People used to think that the universe was instantaneous: what you see is how things are, “now”. Then light was discovered to have a velocity, a finite velocity: the star you’re looking at, now, may have blown up … a million years ago. My girl friend, sitting with me, flank to flank, touching thighs, hips, shoulders, my hand on her knee, whispers at my ear: she spoke a fraction of a second ago: I hear her, another fraction of a second ago: and by the time my mind processes what she says, another fraction of a second has passed. Even the lightning bolt that shivers the tree fifty feet in front of you is in your past, not your present: your present is, like so much else, an illusion.

more comin


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Victorian Forever

/ Social Order / Property / … Social Survival /

I’ve been commenting on Henry James’ What Maisie Knew over the past couple of weeks. Now my reading of the novel is complete I’ve got to say something not about novels, literature, movies, but about social order / and social survival:

First I hark back to my first class on Victorian novels, 1959 or so. I had little business then (or since) studying Victorian literature: read it, fine: but study is too pretentious, too immodest: it’s all too long, I’m too slow. I can read Dickens, Eliot … (as well as Tolstay, Dostoievsky …) and love it. It took me years to read the first hundred pages of Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend, but only the rest of the afternoon to finish reading the whole thing: 800 or so pages! You need a head of steam, it doesn’t come automatically or in the first hour. Anyway, My Vic prof was an odd bird, had a stammer: would utter a phrase, his wheels would spin, he’d go have-have-have-have, then get out another phrase. I came to love the guy, what character to stand up before a Columbia class and stammer!

Anyway, something he said sounded like more pablum in my mind then but rings deep in my mind since. He said that the Victorians

thought their prosperity would go on forever.

thanx BBC

Maisie came out at the end of the Nineteenth Century. Queen Victoria died soon thereafter: but the Victorian Age flowed seemlessly into the Edwardian Age … Then came WWI: and all bets were off (other than the bet that we’d continue to accelerate social catastrophe).

I deal with James’ third period prose elsewhere. (Further elsewhere I comment that Maisie is my first third period novel completed: I’ve read lots of James, but not complete, late, long-long run-in-circles-forever James.)

Maisie is a young girl. Her parents are divorced: a modern couple. The courts (offstage) act King Solomon to Maisie’s upbringing: cut her in half: half to the mother, half to the father. Meantime the father meets the governess. Meantime the mother meets a string of rich men, one brutally rich: another, Sir Claude, rich, well bred, nice. Meantime Sir Claude meets the governess, while the mother meets a whole string of rich men, while the mother has saddled her own frightful governess, Mrs. Wix, onto her daughter.

Et voila: modern life: money counts, only money counts, breeding is nice but only money counts. And the hell with the family. Except for Mrs. Wix: she still believes in family, abhors adultery, wants Maisie to grow Christian in close-your-knees habit if not in theology.

thanx austinfilm
Forget the movie: the movie is abhorrent.

OK? At the end, Maisie now a young teen or thereabouts, Maising picking up some of her mother’s grace, her father’s good humor, her governess’ etherial beauty, and Sir Claude’s (and a couple of her mother’s rich men’s) polished manners. Sir Claude helps himself to the same governess Maisie’s father had helped himself to, the governess making sure in each case that she’s firmly planted in a house with the key in her hand, and with the only thing approaching the appearance of character Sir Claude pays the bills: oh, not endless: but he even promises Maisie that Mrs. Wix won’t be out on the street.

Dig it? Sir Claude gets his bed made, his breakfast cooked, his whistle blown … He’s not very very rich, but somehow he’ll still have a little something in the bank tomorrow. He’ll never need employment, his shirts will be washed, tea will be served. He can hop on the boat and go to France, hop on the train and go to Paris.
And, Sir Claude believes, and apparently Maisie, and the governess, and apparently Henry James,

it will last forever.

Sir Claude, and Maisie, like Henry James, take being “white”, Christian, civilized … literate, informed, educated … for granted.

It will go on forever.

Sir Claude walks with Maisie in the park, or the other park. These London parks: benches to sit on, cabs to rent, walks to walk, gardened, tended, moved, all perks of a wealthy city, polluting a prosperous river. And just a boat and a train ride away is Paris, a wealthy city, polluting a prosperous river.
Not only that, the prosperous needing-no-employment gentlemen, and ladies, sitting on the benches, are white! Christian! civilized!
Not only that, the guys clipping, moving, tending are also white! and civilized! and would happily sit on the bench, with the ladies, if they didn’t need the employment …

And why shouldn’t it last forever?

(Hitler bragged of his Thousand Year Reich. In 1933. In 1933 it was manifest.
How long did it last? By 1944 it was sliding, by 1945 it was dust. (And had it not been, Berlin, Munich might have met a nuke.))

(Walk in those London parks today, they still exist. How white is it? How Christian?
Try Paris. It ain’t just “black”, it’s (“half”) Muslim!
Would the white Christian imperialists reached so blithely into Africa if they’d seen themselves turning black? I laugh myself almost helpless when Charlie Hebdo insults the Prophet, then gets a bomb for breakfast.)

And how about the money? How many of those in the park, no matter the color, the religion, have their shirts cleaned? have money in the bank tomorrow? without employment?

What would James have made of President Obama?
Well, he looks like Sir Claude (except for the skin), he behaves like Sir Claude … Maybe he didn’t go to Harvard and Yale, but he went to Columbia and Yale, or Harvard, or some damn place.

But you know at any point in Victorian culture (or Edwardian culture), Sir Claude may have been sitting on the bench with Maisie, and the governess, with the girls; but out of sight, in their offices, behind closed doors, the movers and shavers had their tea served and their shirts washed while they were plotting and planning, never resting: Trollope characters, not James characters.

I don’t think though that even Trollope saw London as the desperate pest hole anyone may see in another generation to so: if we’re “lucky”.
Thank God I won’t be so lucky. I’m 76. And 1/2. My luck shouldn’t last much longer.

Bombs for Breakfast

I still remember vividly a party I attended in Westbeth, mid-1970s. The guest of honor was an Irishmen who’d just gotten a big spread written on himself in New York Magazine: Irish terrorists were all in the news, some English lord had found a bomb in his egg cup. I asked the Irish shaker and mover how come the English weren’t embarrassed at how many bombs they’d served the Irish? for centuries and centuries: and I saw zero recognition that he knew what I was referring to! Bombs for breakfast is something nice people don’t serve.

Oh, really?

Read my Race: A-Scientific Myth before you think you know what I mean by white or black.

Social Epistemology Social Order Social Survival
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Kite Fight

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: / Personal / Stories / by Age / Networking /

Yesterday I began watching The Kite Runner. It’s been on my queue for years. Jan read the novel and saw the movie. Now as we start to talk about it I get the impression that she didn’t know enough Asian culture or class systems in Islam to really get what she was encountering: after five minutes of it I saw that I had run into one aspect of Kite Runner culture: just enough to be confused. Now, 2013 03 14 I’ve surfed a few things, I begin again, leaving the earlier post to follow as a tail:

Since my mother threw my father out when I was maybe five, I missed a lot of normal father/son stuff, but not all. I remember flying kites on the beach. Wind came stiff off the ocean, kites breezed straight into the sky over Jones Beach, ascents easy, reliable. That was the early 1940s. Then I didn’t kite again until the early 1970s. I was running my Free Learning Exchange on NY’s upper west side. Hilary got tired of being the only sponsor after three years of my getting next to zero support from the damn public: she grabbed the kid, moved to her mother’s. bk and I got to spend some time together: so long as I “accepted” that I had no say in my son’s training: he would be “normal”; not the eldest (and only) of the deschooler.

Well. one day I bought a kite 79¢ or so, including some Egytian-cotton string. I’d long seen kites riding the sky above Grants Tomb: wind rode stiff up that hill much the same as it came in stiff at Jones Beach. I spent a lot of time on that turf with my tennis racket: it outta be just like home to fly a kite at Grants Tomb. bk and I, and I don’t doubt our dog Angus trudged over there. The hill was well occupied: mostly by Asian black people: Indians I thought them. These guys flew kites like I’d never seen before: huge, spangled, gleaming: metal and glass, mirror, as well as fabric, ribbon, and bamboo. Some of the tail of the kites went on and on, ribboning the sky. I set up our kite, attached a modest tail, tied on the string, and we were up, up, and away.

Except immediately our humble kite was attacked by these Indian kites. I didn’t recall any kite wars from my childhood, and we were in the middle of World War II! At the beach wee jut flew our kites, they rode the wind, in a row, colorful, peaceful. But Grants Tomb was different. A kite the size of a Tyrranosaur gobbled our kite up, tangled in our string, parted our string. Our kite rocketed the wind to parts unknown. North for the moment. Bear Mountain, Poughkeepsie, here it comes.

The predator handlers of the predator kite laughed, chortled, notched their belts, and ran off.
Now I know that their kite cord would have been impregnated with ground glass: those predator kites could cut flesh.

Now that I’ve seen even a minute of The Kite Runner I’ll venuture that these Indians weren’t Indians quite as probably as Afghans. I don’t know what they were. bk and I were WASPS. We were the American majority; but not on the hill at Grants Tomb.

bk was, what, four? six? I was thirty-something, 5′ 8″, one forty or so pounds, an intellectual warrior, but not a physical fighter. bk and I walked home. (His address was right by Grants Tomb; mine was a dozen blocks south: I ran FLEX from Riverside Drive and 103rd.

Barbara Tuckman opens her Distant Mirror, her history of the 14th Century, with peasants in France tilling their fields when they’re attacked by armored knights a-saddle. The peasants had never heard of knights (the peasants didn’t even know there were in France, or in Europe. Imagine dealing the seven files of solitare when suddenly the six file snarls, turns on the seventh, and shreds it.

I did nothing. We walked away. bk didn’t say, Dad, aren’t you going to kill them all? Angus did his usual dog walk type things, he showed no awareness that we’d been attacked. Attacked and defeated, gobbled, killed.

I’m gonna watch the movie. I may need to see it more than once, what do I know about Hazara people or Twelver Shia Muslims? or ordinary Muslims? What do I understand of Farsi? or Shīa Islam Isma‘ilist seveners?

I should add, I should correct: bk and I were not really white or WASP, we were not majority. Had we been we might have been able to rouse a retaliatory mob before we had walked a couple of blocks. Those Grants Tomb blacks would have had no place to run.
Gandhi raised mobs; but not pk.
God made me a pacifist Christian this time, a Tolstoyan.
Wouldn’t it be funny if you brought me born into some other universe as a warrior some time? Maybe I’ll be one of those guys chopping up the peasants in France, half-a-dozen or so hundred years agone.

I just paused , only a couple of minutes into it. It looks very promising, but I instantly see that I first have to tell a story about flying a kite, being quickly victimized in a kite fight: from the hill by Grants Tomb.
2015 03 14 I launched this scribble innocently enough: 24 hours later I see I have to develop something serious: and relate the Asian kite fights to humans-everywhere’s myth wars!

Grants Tomb: that’s Manhattan, Riverside Drive, 120th Street. bk was a toddler. I’d bought us a cheap kite, ball of string. Our dog, Angus, tended himself, sniffed around, while we rigged up. Wind comes off the Hudson, hits that hill, ascends swiftly: a cripple can get a kite aloft. It was bk’s first kite flight, my first in ages: quite likely my first since the mid-1940s.

Here it’s 1971, ’72, maybe ’73. Our kite goes up, hooray. Easy. Except: we found ourselves in a war we hadn’t planned, hadn’t been warned about. The hill was dominated by Asian-looking men. I thought of them as “Indian”: now my guess is Afghan: Muslim, not Hindu. They were flying giant kites, as aggressively as a pod of tyrannosaurs. These kites were made by the hobbyist hilltop warriors. They were big, heavy: Caliban, not Ariel kites: decororated with metal, with mirrors, with every kind of glitter, ribbon and frill. These dark-skinned men connected themselves to the sky via stout cord; no mere little Egyptian-cotton string like we had. Our kite hadn’t been aloft more than a minute before we found ourselves attacked. These guys brought their predator kite toward our kite and under our string. Our string parted on the instant, and our kite ascended, kept going, to parts neverwhere. The men laughed and looked for another victim.

A sympathetic observer whispered to us to notice that the attackers had their kite-cord imprenated with ground glass: designed to cut stout line: and to atomize mere string.

bk was crestfallen but didn’t fuss. I don’t think he expected his father, thirty-one or two, one hundred and forty pounds maybe, an intellectual fighter but no martial arts warrior, to attack the Indians: they were each bigger than me: and they had shown that they were the aggressors. We left. We vacated. The bird bullies the worm but flees the hawks.

kite fight

kite fight

bk and I were the “white” guys, WAPS, the only such on the hill. The hill was occupied by dark-skinned Asian-ethnics (“Asian” no matter where they were born). bk and I subordinated our valor to our discretion. But later I fantasized about retaliation: maybe bk did too.
i’ll edit

Now I’m gonna watch more Kite Runner: and absorb the wikipedia article on the subject. There the Asian boys get their kite string cut. I don’t know yet how aggressively. I’ll watch, maybe report back. And I’m tempted to flag bk, now father to Benjamin, about that same age: does he remember it? did he have revenge fantasies? Did he wish I’d done something more bellicose than we did? just leave?

Soldiers don’t normally counterattack with their babes in their arms: or their women on their arm.


Barbara Tuckman introduces her history of the Fourteenth Century with a story of French peasants minding their own business when they’re raided by armored knights on horseback. They’d never near of knights, may never have heard of any damn king. Suddenly they’re getting slaughtered.
This side and that side square off in a naval battle; but should a battleship bomb a fishing dingy that it happens upon?

Stories Hierarchy vs. Conviviality Stories
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Metabolizing Nukes

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: & / Personal / Writing / Satire /

To date, 2015 03 12, I’d sampled only a couple of my ironic letters to Nixon’s White House: today I add one I hadn’t expected to showcase thanks to Luc Besson’s movie Lucy, with Scarlett Johansson, which ghosts my second novel, as well. I post the letter, then comment further:

Bureau for Research in Visceral Defense
Time-Life Building
New York City

25 May 1970

President Richard Nixon
The White House
Washington, DC

Dear President:

My report on the progress of our secret project is not due for another six months. Nevertheless I am writing you now because I wish to abandon our present research and re-channel your funds to a scheme wich would better insure our defense and which would be less personally painful to me. Not that I mind my discipline or danger – I would not have agreed to try to learn the process of metabolizing dynamite in the large intestine by practicing with my own viscus were I not prepared to give my life to our Government – but I am convinced that my present project, requiring even greater self-discipline, would be even more efficacious in assuring your continuing rule.

The chronic spastic colon and the piles with which I am plagued as a result of our experiments are but part of the revelation that the solution to our problems lies not in the body but in the mind. In meditation on achieving the fifth level of consciousness last week, it came on me in a flash: if I could metabolize explosives in my own body by reaching that esoteric realm of concentration, perhaps I could, by pressing on to the seventh level of consciousness, command such powers that I could disassociate and reassociate existing patterns of matter and energy. That is to say, instead of blowing up, I could dissolve your enemies.

I did not like the idea at first. You and I have had too many failures over the last nineteen years from changing tactics midstream. It also occurred to me that our country would be only slightly improved by the dissolution of two thirds to three quarters of its population. But then I realized that if I could evaporate people, I could evaporate their specific environments too. Just imagine this country purged of the campuses of Columbia, Harvard, Berkeley, and Yale as well as of their radical inhabitants. An additional benefit of my plan is that, ;unlike your current methods, it does not in any way constitute a further pollution of the general environment. I would eliminate the need for defoliation and pacification. (Besides, I’m not sure that those methods would work as well here as they do in Southeast Asia.) On the contrary, it would eliminate a great number of the polluters quite cleanly.

I am not asking for more money right now. Present funds will be sufficient until the next stage where I teach my methods to a select loyal group. But it is exigent that you approve my new plan. Time is running out. Our expectation of another six years in which to work has been pruned by circumstances to less than another two years. It does not look like you could win another election. If fact, there is talk of impeachment. We had better work fast.

Yours truly,

Rex Publican, Director
Bureau for Research in Visceral Defense

PS: You might send me some more LSD though. I don’t trust the stuff you get on the street.

God, I’m so proud of that, now that I see it again. Maybe I should just publish all my letters to Nixon: though I feel it’s way too late to do any good: it was way too late then, forty-five years ago.

I hope Luc Besson sees this, notes the parallels. But, Luc, more important still, notice how your movie also duplicates my second novel, Beginning.

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Hindu Feminism

Tradition vs Change: The World Before Her

What a nifty film, I love it:

  • A girl, “Prachi”, says she ought to be able to do what she wants. She’s agitating to “free” Hindu women.
  • No! says Prachi’s father: a woman’s duty is to marry, and to bear children.
  • Shut my mouth, behaves, not says, the mother, wordlessly, soundlessly: deferring to the father, to the culture, tradition.
  • Now me, I offered the Free Learning Exchange, in 1970: the worlds first offer to the public of an internet: states, corporations had networking; the public needed unsupervised networking: to protect itself from the corporations, from the state, from the greedy-greed-greed marketplace … So, obviously, few people in history have as much right to agree as I do. But! I tried to fascilitte change. I stand and take my stripes, try not to buckle, to break, not that it does any good no matter how I stand: freedom gets sabotaged, stays sabotaged (and no one sees it!) But: I’m for tradition too! Can choice really be as fundamentally important as reproduction? family maintenance? So pk is for the new-Hindu; pk is also for the old-Hindu.

    It could be argued that I’m a more important figure in history on the subject of freedom than Thomas Jefferson, or would be if societies allowed truthful record keeping; but I’m also a male, a heteroxexual male, an opportunist feeder. The Hindu girls get trained for the beauty pageant. The surgeon corrects their proportions: add to the chin, the lip, the boom, the butt … Meanwhile the girls look Indian: that is so say compliant, perfect sex slaves: I can shove myself right up on this girl, she looks like she’ll cooperate, won’t whimper … But then here are these other Hindu women doing matial arts! preparing to die protesting if anyone tries to rape them …

    The world goes in multiple directions at once, very fast, accelerating.

    Back to the film: the filmers ask Prachi’s father if he’s ever hit her. Yes, he says, a lot. She cries. He says he doesn’t want to see tears in her eyes, he wants to see flames!

    Just remember, once upon a time, the abolitionists thought God was on their side; the slavers knew from (stupid readings of) the (stupid) Bible that in the Bible slavery was OK! God was on their side!
    These are truly incompatible views. Reason is irrelevant. Tradition vs. revolution. Nobody can be both: alternately, one at a time, yes; but not both together.

    A minute later we visit one of the pageant girl’s proud parents. Just beautiful.

    Ai, torture: a minute still later Prachi explains that she cannot be angry with her father when he hits her, because violence to her is his right: in traditional Indian family, she says, girl-child is not permitted to live: her father let her live, therefore …

    2015 03 11 I’m taking my time with this documentry, watching a bit, then a bit more, I’ll be happy if it goes on and on.

    Ambivalence is key to my reaction: I agree with everything, I disagree with everything.
    The militant women are rifle-training: inept, embarrassed, squeeze their eyes shut rather than aim. Prachi says that all the gods have weapons, that good people must have guns to kill all the bad people …
    Um, Prachi: shouldn’t we add a time limit? Shouldn’t we notice that we’d had guns, for a long time, and there are more bad people than ever. Notice, girl, it’s not working.

    Yesterday’s snippet included some stats on how many Hindu women aborted female fetuses, no telling how many families murdered the infant daughters: sounds horrible, how unpleasant. But: there are still a near billion Indians. Maybe we should be aborting more, killing more, killing boy babies too. and famale and male adults. Then invade China and kill there, left and right, male and female. And then invade political rallies in the US, extirminate. Never mind fertilizer, spread rat poison.

    No, no: look at these wonderful female Hindi: I love the beauty contestants, there’s something so vulnerable about female Indian faces, perfect patsies: wallpaper the masturbatorioum with Hindu.

    Prachi asserts the opposite of Gandhi and his civil disobedience. “I hate Gandhi”, she says.
    I see her point: but also argue: Gandhi was probably far more practical in actually pushing English imperialism out of India than any weapon waving Che (or Prachi) would have been. Never mind how many died or didn’t die; just acknowledge: he did push them, finally the Brits shrivelled, left. Now they’re left looking like what they are: pasty kleptocrats.

    I’m glad it’s India, China, that are so, so overpopulated; not the US. Ugh, things are horrid enough.

    Old memory: back in the 1950s I heard some ordinary American report her confusion with Indian customs. She’d asked some guy if he’d like a kiss, a doughnut, some damn thing. the guy smiled and nodded his head back and forth. In US that means No; but in India that means Yes! There’s a lot of head shaking in this movie.


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    Macabre Religions

    / Social Epistemology / Cosmology /

    Once upon a time we were all religious: we were all trained from our first breath to the religion of our tribe (our family, etc. then our nation …) I went to a famous college, heard of comparative religion: whew, that’s a novelty. Only now at 76 1/2 do I see how very shallow my rarely deep knowledge is. One thing I must do with what remains of my life, is study the morbidity of known religions. (No budget for travel doesn’t help.)

    Macabre Religions
    thanx pinterest

    It’s easy to think that your father, etc., your nation, etc. is the best, the worse, the strongest … if you have nothing to compare them to: Ali, Dempsey, Sullivan … nah, you gotta get them into the same ring, at the same time, duke it out. (Impossible, of course: another nonsense fantasy.)

    But, one this is sure, whatever else I find: Christianity is pretty gross, with its Passion in your face, everywhere. Satan worship is pretty hellfired-up too, isn’t it? But that’s really the same religion with a word changed.

    Macabre Religions
    thanx heart


    Gee, it looks like there’s an eye in that skull! hard to concentrate when her breast is right there.

    But pk, vodou (however you spell it) shouldn’t count: that’s just tripe dished out by Hollywood!
    Seriousy, I watched a documentary on the Caribbean recently that treated vodou with some seriousness. I readily believe that all I’d heard prior to then was a pack of lies. I like one thing about what widipedia says, just read a minute ago: Haitian vodou believes in a supreme creator, but at a great distance: and further believes that that god does not interfere in human affairs: therefore, they’re no point praying to that god: so vodou seeks other gods, lesser gods: vodou will try any god, other that the top god.

    But never mind Christian-type theology, never mind classical vertical hierarchies; the subject is morbidity, the macabre, obsession with death, decay … mortality.

    Hey, I just “learned”: the etymology has been traced to Judas Maccabius: you just can’t get away from Judeo-Christianity!

    Society Social Epistemology Cosmology Etc.
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