The stories that K told by the time of my arrest and censorship were just the tip of the iceberg: on any subject.
Should the Sabine woman raped by the Romans, tell her son conceived by that rape, about her former Sabine mate, killed by the Romans so the rape could occur? Or should she keep mum and hope that somehow her son will grow up Roman, and live to rape some Neapolitans, or Milanese? Should she tell her daughters? her daughters by the Romans? (her daughters by the Sabine already know about it: having themselves gotten murdered, or raped, or enslaved. or tortured: for fun.
My wife, Hilary, kidnapped our Son, Brian (more than a decade before he became bk), when he was five years old and ready to be coerced into school by the rulers of the kleptocracy: no reasonable discussion possible. I had founded the Free Learning Exchange, Inc., offering the public a way to finance digital infrastructure which could offer cybernetic alternatives to the school system: alternatives politically (and religiously) free: that is, not controlled by any particular enthroned institutions: church, or state.
In other words, the solution to tyrranny is freedom, the solution to prescription by interested parties, is unregulated choice. We shop in the market without the state telling us how much chicken we must buy that week; we’ve sloughed off the Church telling us how many masses we must consume, and how much we must pay which priests to perform the mass; we don’t we have a free internet where anyone can advertise his offering, but no one can compel you to subscribe to it? We submit our child to math on Monday were the school board, not a true scholar among them, decides what your child does on Monday, on Tuesday … where these empty rituals must occur, and how much everyone has to pay in order to make it happen.
The Romans killed the Sabines and raped the women: did they also make the Sabine slaves then pay to have the Roman/Sabine rape children brainwashed in favor of Rome? (Actually, I bet they did!)
Anyway: I offered freedom, 21st-century style, and I offered in in 1970! Hilary though, though she lip-saluted freedom, like anyone else, demonstrated a strong bias toward prostration before secular authority: she wanted to work for minimum wage, overseen by bureaucratic robots. She saw the public’s non-reaction to my offer of freedom. She saw $3 donated to the Free Learning Exchange while thousands, millions … went to the computer dating services that sprung up like mushrooms in the wake of FLEX’s offer: plagiarizing FLEX, reducing digital matchmaking for any purpose to matchmaking for only one purpose, and instead of having it a public (public! not government!) utility, at coast, egregiously profit-making …
Evolution … sense … self-interest … god … offer material for rational assessments. But people prefer to get murdered and raped in the old ways, provided the magicians first convince them that misinformation is better than information.
Anyway, Hilary kidnapped Brian: (I say) so that I would have no say in his education. Note: as Illich argued, learning is necessary and natural, education is artificial, culture controlled: not an evolutionary positive.
Editing will improve the above, if I can budget an edit.
I want to scribble a couple of Hilary stories here, stories not yet told at K.
Brian is my son, Brian was stolen from me, my fatherhood was stolen from me. The society stood there with its thumb in its ass, the same way they stood around Golgatha, while this kidnapping occurred. Nature gave humans family to protect themselves. The state destroys family: while swearing (liars all) that they’re protecting it! Moderns cooperate with the state; sabotage the family. Of course the Church has already done the same, insinuating itself between god and man, convincing man that the Church was god! We don’t need god! we have the Church!
We don’t need to learn; we have education.
We don’t need freedom; we have coercion.
We don’t need wisdom; we have experts.
So: what does the raped father do? My son was trained early not to listen to me. He was drilled before his present formidable intellect developed, to rehearse false logic leaps on this subject, trained not to listen, to prefer rehearsed certainty. He’s scientific; in other areas.
Still, while I hate the pervert that was forced on me, I love my potential son, the one I was denied.
My university still doesn’t understand the things I tried to tell it beginning in 1962. They too are trained in not listening. I admit, what I have to say isn’t easy, it takes diligence. There are prerequisites, that universities elect not to pursue. Mozart Senior was able to drill Mozart Junior in certain musical understandings, in certain keyboard skills. Mozart might have been talented with a different father. Mozart might have been very good had he been kidnapped around age five. But I seriously doubt he would have been the Mozart we know and near-worship.
Not only was my son kidnapped from me; my son’s father was kidnapped from him!
An alternative future, much richer, was disallowed. And Brian cooperates with it: that’s what I hate most!
Imagine taking Jesus’ son so that he’d get his Hebrew training from Caiaphas’ underlings, not from Jesus!
Imagine taking Mozart from Mozart Senior so he’d be trained in piano by Miss Tilly, and not by Mozart Senior.
And of course the moron kleptocrats say they’re doing it for the family! They’re so inveterately stupid they don’t even know they’re lying!
Still, I treasure the little contact I have with Brian. I’ve told him some stories about his mother. I don’t think he absorbs them. I see him as not wanting to.
And I’m well used to the society punishing me for trying to make certain unflattering points. We’d rather die of stupidity than become honest and live: the honest is just too unflattering, too uncomfortable. Head in the sand.
Damn the torpedoes. Here are some Hilary stories. Most Brian doesn’t know. Some he’s been told, but didn’t respond to. Some may come that he both knows and tells.
I set this one up with a related story where Hilary was present, but not the principal of the story:
Hilary and I were guests in a vacation house on Lake Winnipesaukee in NH. Our hosts were John, one of my best friends ever, and Charlotte, his wife: a woman I didn’t respect, who knew it, and who cordially hated me. (Charlotte and John were one guests at Hilary’s winter cottage. John had been a guest many times. Hilary announced that there could be no baths, in the next hour as then there would be no hot water for dishes. Charlotte went straight to the single bathroom, locked the door, and stayed for hours, in a bath.)
Charlotte, Hilary, and pk, were in the kitchen, just the three of us. A story came into my head. I said aloud: “Oh, I just thought of the greatest story!”
Charlotte abruptly left the room. Hilary remained silent. So did I, after that.
OK, now the Hilary counterpart:
Hilary and I are in our apartment at 305 Riverside Drive, the apartment from which I ran the Free Learning Exchange, Inc. from 1970 onward. I said, “I just thought of the greatest story!”
Hilary left the room.
In this Charlotte, Hilary … Brian … are just microcosms of humanity. We tell stories of the Jews not listening to Jesus, of a pope ot listening to Galileo, of a school district not listening to Darwin … but somehow believe that we are different, that familiar lessons have been learned.
One of pk’s perennial points is that familiar lessons have seldom been learned.
Or, as Bucky Fuller said (of the army), “They refused to learn what they had learned.”
(pk quotes files are maintained at pKnatzQuotes blog.
Brian was kidnapped from me in 1974 or so. Hilary and her mother made all decisions about his schooling. I was given visitation privileges, but Brian knew what to shut his ears to. Many a visiting hour was wasted in struggles for the right to speak and the right to block out. Brian hated this too, but he was already half-robot. (As are we all, as are we all.) Anyway, one weekend I’d gotten hold of a guitar. I never learned to play it well, still can’t, not well. but I could strum a few things a pick a few others, and I devoted a major part of the weekend to trying to share a modicum of that skill with Brian. Finally, Brian actually tried it: didn’t pretend to try, actually tried. And, of course, in a minute or two, he got it: part of it. His face lit up! Suddenly he was rehearsing the skill over and over.
I took him back to his grandmother’s house where Hilary had fled with him in 1973, fled seeing me determined to be the deschooler (search the DeGate category), no matter the consequences: damn the torpedoes. (Jesus, Paul … priests are right about not having children!) Brian was bursting to show off his little guitar pattern. We walked toward the living room. Hilary was scrunched up against a tiny TV with a broken screen: there were Corot paintings in the room, but no undamaged TV). I handed him the guitar. “Look, Mom,” Brian chortled, “look at this”: and he prepared to show his guitar pattern. “Not now, Brian,” Hilary scolded with severity, “I’m watching television!”
In the Brecht song, Pirate Jenny says that though she’s dressed in tatters and only washes the glasses and makes the beds in the whore house, one day a ship will dock, a ship with eight sails, and fifty cannon, and Jenny will smile, and the ship with flatten the town, and when the pirates drag the populace before Jenny, deferring to her, they ask which ones shall we kill? And Jenny says, All of them!
And when their heads fall, Jenny says, “Hooray!”
I tried to save us. I failed. I’m not the first to try, I’m not the last to fail. And I don’t expect a pirate ship, with fifty cannon, of a god, with five trillion cannon, to arrive, and I don’t expect the god to defer to me, or to Jesus. I don’t expect any god to try to reason with us, to try to explain, or prove anything. I think the thing in itself, the ding an sich, is already manifest. Any god would have to be a moron to try to show us beyond that.
Brian could have been raised by Paul and Hilary together: in theory anyway. Brian could have been raised by me: maybe. Had Hilary died, I’d have had to face my commitment to deschooling differently. In fact Brian was raised by Hilary: and her mother: that Hilary: in that apartment: input from pk, everywhere acknowledged brilliant, 99% squeezed off.
I was telling my beloved Jan how astonishingly cute she is at age 79 and a half. I added how breathtaking Hilary had been in 1961 or so when I met her. I was totally addicted to her: her amazing bottom, her distinct calves … her English accent: her convenience, a few doors away from me. Such addictions never last more than five years. By 1973 I’d had plenty enough of Hilary: but not nearly enough of my son.
Imagine taking a string quartet away from Beethoven after he’d composed only the first five measures.
When the Romans killed the Sabines, to carry off a few of the women, what the Sabines were would have been visible to anybody present, to some extent. But take Beethoven’s MS away when it’s barefly begun, there’s no telling what got murdered. Except by guessing based on other Beethoven. Well, I sure wish the world had a grasp of even 5% of my work: even 1%. But the world institutions were already dedicated to arbitrary blindness before I’d begun .0000001% of my work.
Oh, but I’d been starting to say: I was addicted to Hilary. One time in 440 Riverside Drive, in bed, me on my back, resting, she was climbing around the bed on her knees, climbing over me, and she planted her knee right in my balls! My testes squirmed out of the way, my scrotum stretched, then popped free, no harm done, no agony endured. I wasn’t squirming there helplessly retching. But I did think Hilary should have been aware of how close she’d come to hurting me, if not injuring me, and in a highly taboo place, and way. I looked at her, expecting a response.
Not getting one, I asked, “What did you do that for?”
Elevated over my supine form, elevated on her knees, she said, “I like to see you jump!”
If the Indian raider cuts the Indian maiden’s vulva off and wears it as a hat, a c. cap, as it were, as General Custer’s raiders, to give one example, were known to do, I don’t see how it would be unfair if the butchered maiden’s brothers or father, or the butchered maiden herself, could somehow castrate the raider … (and annihilate the population of Boston, New York …) The Sabine woman raped shouldn’t have to show normal reticence in what she does to the Romans, if she finds herself able. Women don’t owe great politeness to a man who’s raped them. I don’t see how women who overlook (or make light of) the groin injuries they inflict (or almost inflict) deserve the protection of the guy who’s balls they’ve flattened.
Quite the contrary: once decades have passed, and no remorse is shown, nothing is shown that would hint so much as the possibility of facts being established! Well, Pirate Jenny’s attitude makes sense.
Though so does St. Francis’, Jesus’ …
Nietzsche: don’t interfere with your enemy while he is busy destroying himself.
The most evolutionarily positive thing we can do in an unrepentant kleptocracy is nothing!
I’ll tell a nice story about Hilary soon: and a story from very early in our relationship. I still feel some love for her; but mostly hatred, resentment, contempt.