Tuesday, February 8, 2022

Bimbo-ism vs. Jingoism

“A mind is a terrible thing to waste…perhaps the most terrible,” thinks Ivanka, an ambitious glory-seeker, “and there is glory in superlatives!”  Regardless of fame or infamy, mere duality, a former senior advisor to a president of united-states ruminates.  “Minds are what end up creating disunity, fractiousness, and innovation,” the latter sacrificial to stability.  There is enough innovation to coast, “and the last thing we need are more coming uppity to have us conform to new standards. By paradigm inculcation we can create something akin to religious fervor over fates of statuses.  By making people care about how they appear on the outside, we can infiltrate the interior world through a sort-of German engineering, intelligence through dissection of parts, we establish control over people’s spending-habits and through that, control behavior en masse!” 

Flirting with disaster, she wanted to be tied up again, so I recorded.

How are her physical pain and her mental anguish not tyrannical to me?

I sigh exasperatedly, I was just trying to listen to music in the other room, while she was in bed making plans that involved a brown study of what it is about me that makes me as evil as she is.  Something to use against me.  Here’s a single dog-mother:

Start of recording from 10/2/21 23(11pm):12:23:

Her: “You have a negative entity that’s latched itself – because I can see it, it’s on your fucking left shoulder, niggard*!  Like, that’s why I can see it, because it is latched on.”

Me: “There’s a negative entity latched onto my left shoulder that lives in this place?”

Her: “mm-hmm”

Me: “ok, if that’s what you see.  I don’t know where that came from.  I don’t know if I believe that. Or what you’re talking about, but…”

Her: “You’ve treated me like shit since day one…” She says something incomprehensible to audio recording.

Me: “If I were treating you like shit from day one, why are you following me around?”

Her: “I’m not.  My place. My money. My car. My shit. It’s (what’s) following you.”

Me: “Technically this is my place, now,” having paid the rent here.

Her: “And you can act like you’re hot shit.”

Me: “I’m not acting like I’m hot shit, I’m just trying to go into the other room and listen to music.”

Her: “You act like you’re hot shit and you write.”

Me: “I work, I write, you write, you have a notebook, you have a journal.”

Her: “Yeah, but I don’t talk shit.”

Me: “Ok, I wouldn’t know, I haven’t seen it,” this was a dig at the fact that she had recently breached my trust by reading my journal without my permission while I was recovering our travel documents in Wichita, (an oversight I was blamed for, perhaps justly).  She had been trying to use my own words against me ever since.  Am I not allowed to express an opinion?  Part of the reason I have for recording in a (private) journal is that I intend to keep my opinions to myself, which is what I believe to be good behavior/etiquette, at least until I discover whether the opinions that I maintain within myself may be observable to myself in an objective fashion.  Many of those opinions remain where they belong, in the past, once gone over.  

Her: “You can read my journal, but I don’t fake myself and I don’t talk shit about people to make myself feel better (as a) persona – that I’m not about, I don’t fake my persona. I don’t fake what I say and give myself this alter ego, but you do, (there’s a) difference.”

Me: “Do you think my co-workers have a false perception of who I am?”

Her: “I don’t know that.”

Me: “Ok, it’s just the way that I treat you is bad?”

Her: “I wouldn’t say ‘bad’. I would never say that.”

Me: “What’s the issue then? I don’t understand what the problem is. Can you just not sleep?  That’s what I see.  You need me to be there for you to sleep.”

Her: “I just need your love.”

Me: “Which you have an abundance of!”

Her: “Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me?”

Me: “I’m loving!”

Her: “I’ve only wanted your love since day one. You, no. You do not love me. You do not love me. You do not. I know you don’t love me. You don’t give a fuck about me so don’t even fucking repent. Like, I’m supposed to fake that you do; I know you don’t.  When you secretly think in your head ways to kill me and that I could die so you’d never have to deal with me. I’m not wrong in saying that. I know that’s how you feel. “

Me: “Why do you think that is?”

Her: “It’s not thinking, I felt it.”

Me: “Why…” (Hart, K.)

Her: “Because you looked at me. You looked at me, why do you fucking think that way? I’m not going to ever question myself about how I dealt.  You are fucked up, not me. So why do you think that?  Fuck you, I’m great. And I know I’m fucking great. And I know I’m fucking loveable. So fuck you again!  Fuuuuck you. Fuck you. You’re wrong, I’ll never feel bad about myself to where, ‘what did I do…’ fuck you. Fuckyou. Fuck you.  We had a conversation about (my) shit, other than that, take your insecure ass and your trivial bullshit, shove it up your own ass and deal with your own insecurities…I’ve been beaten down too many times, I’m not trying to jack your dick. No. Rude.”

Me: “I’m sorry, what did I say that was rude?”

(5 Minutes in)

(2/4)

Non-violent Hitler (oxymoron?) struggles (Kampfs), confiscating what isn’t his to begin with, vis. (namely) authority.  A ruler writes (Reichs) a story about how he came to be such and such, with virtue dignified of kingship.  A noble dictator here to keep the peace, to show how things aren’t so bad, and if they seem to be, there’s a way of identifying and dealing with these situations on national scale, situation by situation, without guns, and ammunition a metaphor for/to be used on demons.  The sixteenth, like a man named Lincoln, raises a scepter from a holy sepulcher.  Zombies, dude. Is it his fault his scepter happens to have two barrels and an infinity cheat?  Video games, bra.  In den-like bunker with Eva B., controller in hand, slow felo de se (suicide).  Isn’t there virtue in following the core topics, central themes, or main theses of journals, books, articles, or magazines (etc.)?  Isn’t someone who reminds you of a friend, simply a friend, or is that antiquated physiognomy?  Babies, ma.

“Totalizing meta-narrative…Freudian psychoanalysis, the hydraulic system of the mind, it subsumes and legitimizes all other narratives.  Post-modernity. Have we forsaken legitimacy?  (If you care to be a screaming Foucault!)”  To what extent can we trust the story that helps one sleep at night, (if that helps one sleep at night, selling oneself on the big lie, on a personal-level)?  To what extent does one doubt oneself (what is a healthy level of dubiousness?)?  To what extent should one doubt one’s own meta-narrative?  If men are merely metaphors, as some sources of authority suggest, then isn’t ego-death the final frontier (that we know of)?  How does one give up on oneself to such an extent that faithlessness is a legitimate option (Mike Patton)?  How does one give up on others to prove one’s worthlessness?  To our local economy, what are we buying and selling for?  What is the nature of one’s secret garden?  To a disc-golf course-designer, “put the thorns there by the green!”  To a priest, to an usher, to a collection.  From the pinnacle, to the pit, an excavation point.  Am I skirting?

My ‘Y’ advocates her illegitimacy? Or the legitimacy of her ((untreated/exacerbated) mental) illness?
You be the judge! (unto the nature of her general ad-vocation):

Her: “What makes you think that you’re so special?”

Me: “I never claimed that I was!”

Her: “No, that’s what you said to me…”

Me: “I mean, everybody’s special in their own way!”

Her: “And I said, ‘Go fuck yourself. I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about it.’ K? Night-night. 

I walk away.  From the bedroom:

Her: “I want all my car-keys, now. “

Me: “Ok.”

Her: “No.  I want lights on, and I want all my fucking car keys, because I don’t trust you.”

Me: “Ok.”

Her: “Lights on, now.”

Me: “Ok.”

Her: “You want to walk away with lights? With my shit?”

Me: “I don’t have your shit.”

Her: “Ok, cool, you want to act (that way), I want all my car keys.”

Me: “They’re right here.”

Her: “I want alllll.”

Me: “You have the other one.”

Her: “Cool.”

Me: “Cool.”

Her: “I want all my fucking car keys and I don’t trust you. Now, you want to leave someone and then go sit on your fucking dumbass phone and call, what are you going to call, one of your girlfriends? Yeah, you’re so fucking cute.  We’re literally in a place by ourselves, and you’re trying to comfort and like everything and you’re on your phone.”

Me: “I was just going to go listen to music like I was doing before.”

Her: “No you weren’t. No the fuck you weren’t! Cause I’ve seen you texting people all fucking night.”

Me: “I wasn’t.”

Her: “I’m not dumb. I’m not stupid. And (some whispered incantation).

(7:00)

 

Manifesting a meta-narrative of distrust, a narcotics officer, justified by the governmental plan.  A self-controlled, government-mad mentality sings to the tune of 100k.  Another donor with a self-righteous agenda enters the political arena, seeking burden-relief.  Fortunately, it’s the future, and we’ve got robots for that, no blacks.  “I’ll take the chrome-magenta, thanks.”  What an opinion!  But a robot is made to serve, regardless of stripes, spots, or leopard skin, meow!  An emotionally-supportive robo-cat steals jewelry and wallets like a trained monkey of Agrabah.  Hum-bug,” Scrooge snorts a rail and the ghost of Christmas’ drug-bust appears through the door with a battering ram. 

“What Foucault has done in organizing knowledge, he has Kant’s a priori knowledge of human cognition.  Fixed and eternal things baked into the human psyche…episteme, phases of the Geist…paradigm of knowledge…the greater part of the domain… but what if there is no logical transformative structure?  History is discontinuous!  A Parody of Hegel!  No necessary correlation.  Unpredictable.  Arbitrarily or randomly transformed.  Discontinuity.  Epistemological breaks.  The Renaissance episteme is based on analogy, finding connections between qualities in two different things and reifying the two.  One we get to the age of the Enlightenment, with its analysis, it’s just what comes next.  A series of progressive changes without internal telos.  The age of analysis over, 1950 or so, the first generation of post-modern thinkers.  Judgments legitimized by meta-narrative: class conflict (Marxism), psychoanalysis (the hydraulic system of the mind), etc. What is legitimate discourse?  Have we given up?  Have we forsaken?  We can no longer legitimize our moral, aesthetic or political outlook.  We lose the possibility of legitimization (Beyond Good and Evil).” 

Buddhism as Storytelling, Storytelling as Buddhism –

Inverted throat – root chakra.

“I am inferior to everyone else because I haven’t accomplished my goals, but I’m superior to everyone else because I aspire to higher goals,” thinks a real beauty, a pleasure-seeking epicurean idealist, Byronic. 

Big bald Bob and his brother with the smaller-head-by-comparison Tim talk shit about Tim’s common-law wife, Karen, behind her back about her drinking-and-talking-shit, while they’re drinking and talking shit in supposed privacy as hypocrites are wont to do.  Untrustworthy people are naturally distrustful, but they still need desperate, disempowered, or empathetic friends as a mode of supporting and loving a particular persona that by its bastard nature seeks validation.  And what about Karen?  “No, you don’t understand, she’s a Karen.”  As if the inflection makes a difference upon my opinion about his opinion upon his internal validation structure/technique.  Words matter enough to use as tools to prove points, but not enough to de-materialize into totality.

Profoundly funny, but not actually funny::Not funny in action, but hilarious in non-action, threats. 

A spider, living in a palace, experiences royalty.  A dry fly on the wall, a veiled threat. 

 “The impasse of this general categorization is the ‘damned if you do…’ and ‘…a rock and hard place.’ Catch-22.  One way of looking at this is that there is no sympathy to be had for those born bastards, without a positive paternal, father-figure type role, for which there is no quantitative determination-factor for conclusiveness, save the forbidden science of what used to be called ‘eugenics,’ the new ‘gene-therapy,’ wherein anyone in theory is helpable with the advent of future-tech, even non-invasive behavior modification, what is meant to replace a ‘nuts-and-bolts’ lobotomy.  The other way of looking at it is circuitous as I’ve already touched upon the nature of the first problem through logical deduction.  To its roots or to its core, the subject will continue to be objectified as a textbook example of how bad parenting and mental illness overlap heavily in the Venn.  And while flaw may be found in my logic, the example before you should suffice to bolster the fact, at least, that my client acted (in a way) without malice. The best current treatment for psychiatric disorders (seeing as the ethic of behavior-modification itself is still up for debate (shall one behave more liberally or more conservatively?)) is psychotherapy, which presents itself as a series of discourses that is meant to ground (spiritually) one suffering what might be described as an existential ailment.  Another impasse is that therapy-sessions cost time and money, which a mentally disordered individual is not likely to foot nor appreciate, thus the burden upon society is, generally speaking, great (at the moment),” defends the defense.

Another impasse is that laws discourage corporal punishment domestically, so the ancient behavior-modification solution of violence is punishable in itself, that a rogue might find justice in a courthouse while one who attempts to keep order is vilified for private judgment simply because it is yet to be made public by nature of linear time.  What I mean by this is that in nature, things start out small, with love, if nurtured appropriately, it grows, but ‘what misplaced seed is this?’ A farmer may think of a weed in his row of corn, (a weed with yet unrecognized future-tech potential!)  And simply remove it without adequately consulting conservation status.  What seems obvious to a hard-working professional farm-hand, this leafy stalk is basically endemic in the population of plants in general and speaks to the non-differentiated nature of the genes of this seed.  ‘Be removed of my monocrop!’ our farmer shouts with his strop and sharpened scythe with an eye for outsiders.  I’m off the rails.

What I’m getting at, is that if her story is real to be true to be trusted, I must be dreaming:

Her: “I’m very sorry, but never talk on your phone.  You didn’t?  You want to lie? Did you text?”

Me: “You can look!”

Her: “Are you lying to me? Did you text?”

Me: “Text who?”

Her: “Any girl.”

Me: “No.”

Her: “For real f’real.”

Me: “For real f’real.”

Her: “Lie.”

Me: “Fine, don’t believe me.”

Her (walking away): “No, I have the proof, you’re a liar (…something about having nothing to do with me) you’re a liar! You’re a liar!”

Me: “No I’m not“

Her: “You’re such a liar.”

I sigh exasperatedly again, an audible eye-roll, a sign of the contempt I'm mirroring.

Her:  “And where’s my dog?”

Me: “He’s under the bed.”

I get into bed myself.

Me: “Is this where you want me?”

Her, sounding pacified: “No, I want you wherever you want to be, away from me…”

Me: “Well, this is not my wish.”

(9:00)

Silence. She has seemingly exhausted herself, my presence is by her side, and now I remain awake ruing in silence so as not to reawaken. This supposed demon on my left shoulder is consoling her now.  At 14 minutes I get up again to cut the record. 

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