Birthday Vow

/ about K. /

2014 09 01 Labor Day, my birthday! Happy me! 76!

In grade school I looked like I might have something to say. The teacher could prevent it by sending me, or anyone, to the principal’s office. The principal could hold us there until the school’s preposterous bullshit had been served: once you’ve swallowed Democrats and Republicans as choice, then it doesn’t matter what the prophet might be obliged to say.

The school taught that a kleptocracy like ours was blessed: not just good-at-heart, well-intentioned, but good: killing four million Vietnamese was good: good for the economy: prosperity trumps all else: the kids get killed so the bomb-maker gets richer. The school taught that coercion — school, taxes, the draft — meant choice: we had to go to school (schools run by illiterate morons) to be told that force from the state was freedom. (What an utterly unCalvinist waste to warehouse all those profit-marshaling bombs without dropping them on somebody: on gooks! on gook children!)

In graduate school I saw how Shakespeare’s Sonnets demonstrated human behavior by pageant as well as by drama, but NYU had the kleptocracy’s imprimateur: it could sort without listening, it was under no obligation to understand: it din’t even have to read my papers to grade them, never mind understanding them. But school, however expensive, however ruinous, can be addictive: ten years later I was still hoping that my next rephrase would be received with understanding, with approbation.

Meantime the US had seen to it that my expensively-acquired livelihood got smashed: the military machine flushed what little intelligence remained in the university system down the drain. 1969, eleven of twenty-one faculty members in the English Department were fired. (I’m curious to know what happened to the other eleven: did they kowtow? go into real estate?) I was illegally fired. I sued: I won: Colby gave me victory money, but my use of it was restricted: I had to give to NYU! as a fellowship. (Tuition! Tribute to the kleptocracy. The slave masters pay the penalty for being slave masters to themselves, the save masters!)
It didn’t matter: NYU went right on still not understanding a word I’d said: since 1962!
1970, already having played with ideas of an “internet” since 1968 or so, I met Illich, offered to offer, to institute, his cybernetic learning network.
Understand that this internet, this plagiarism, is in effect the kleptocracy stealing the serfs’ last weapon: Illich and I wanted to break the state monopoly over information; the state squeezed its control tighter.

How come you don’t know that? It’s been true for near half a century? No, no: truth is what the rabbis who crucified Jesus teach, it is not what God teaches!

Anyway, 1990 I met still another woman who tried to be my patron: she had only a little but all of that little she gave me. I went onto the government’s stolen internet, this one, to tell the tale. By 2006 nothing had been learned. Catherine’s last couple of dollars were swirling down the drain. OK: all in, all or nothing: I wrote a masterpiece of Swiftian irony: I told NYU that if my last dollar got squandered without my so much as hearing from them acknowledgment of the charges, I was going to come up to NY and bloody some noses, paint the town red. NYU sent the FBI. The FBI threw me down, handcuffed me behind my back, shackled me: and the fed court, the fed public defender, the fed judges … treated me about the same: another two thousand years of total intolerance for truth tellers: don’t allow the testimony: and you don’t have to disprove the charges.

The court censored my set of NYU files, February 2007. My host freaked and destroyed all my data: six domains, my business (my only hope of an income), my personal files, my science, my Shakespeare … nearly 4,000 text files, some book length (including Illich books), another several thousand of images: paintings, logos, pix … The judge said that if I tried to restore them I’d be put back in jail. My parole officer repeated the threat monthly.

Well, I couldn’t do anything: at first. The FBI had confiscated my computers. The FBI destroyed what was left of my life after my couple of pennies were gone: my distress signal was taken by the killers as a call to kick the ashes of my annihilation. But: by 2008 the FBI returned my computers: all disassembled, no longer networked, no longer online, their synergy evaporated … My six domains had cost me about $100 a year; now I got a dialup acccount and started recreating my destroyed files via my several blogs, adding a new one: a substitute this one: pKnatz blog at WordPress, thank you. Six, seven years have passed. I still haven’t been put back in jail. Oh, people make a display of snubbing me, ignoring me, whispering lies. I was ganged up on before, never had not been, but the gang is now woven together firmer, stronger, more absolute: more absolutely moronic.

But there are some things I haven’t yet done: at all. I haven’t yet filled in my Shakespeare Sonnet teaching section: I’ve paraphrased the thesis, but not closely read the Sonnets. So: it’s anecdote, not “proof”. Also essential: I have not yet dared try to recreate my NYU indictment. Here, today, I paraphrase it, but have yet to quote it.

Please: save this file. save subsequent files. When I do remount my NYU masterpiece the thugs may destroy this blog as it did my six domains. Then nothing will remain: until I get help saving it.

But why should I get help? 1970 was the time to help. or 1962, 1963, 1964 … It’s too late now.
Worshipping Jesus doesn’t undo the crucifixion.

I offered a free internet. All the money in the history of the world since agriculture couldn’t compensate for the perversions we visit on God’s messages.

I vow to add my NYU files: and to … explain them! But what good are explanations when it’s the people who threatened Galileo, who castrated Abelard, who supervise the explanation?

About K.


About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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