The “Wall”

Immigration is a complex thing.

It can be managed, to some degree, and managing it involves a lot of things, policy, administration, staffing, payrolls, technology – but when we’re having these high-level conversations, immigration policy and whatnot, do you know what we don’t add to the list of requirements?

Lumber, cement, barbed wire, building materials generally.

There are Nazis in the White House, they make no secret about their attitude towards immigrants and black and brown people in general, and exactly where they might want internment camps for their policy, they are placing a “wall” and it’s such a big deal, we all need to know how many billions of dollars worth of lumber it’s going to cost to build this “wall,” and we must all be complicit, we wanted this “wall,” remember? They have to build it. They promised us, just like taking away our healthcare.

Trump is sitting there, on camera, on take the people in the matrix to work day, giving everything away, as agreeable as any doormat you ever met – except one little thing, we gotta give him the “wall.” It’s the only thing that matters to him, apparently. Why do you suppose that is? His promise to the American people about it? If you think so, you are blocked as a troll instantly.

I have been screaming this since Trump threw his hat in the ring, I’ve been trying to start what I thought might be a catchy hashtag, #notawallatall and I don’t think I’ve seen a single like or retweet, almost no-one responds to me about it, and no-one else is talking about it . . . it’s a national self-deception, all Americans are reserving their right to plausible deniability about it, no-one will acknowledge, which ensures the Nazis’ success in the project.

The “wall” is the death camps.

There. I have a few hundred followers, some of you just lost your deniability. Talk about it, stop this shit.

You know the Democrats have this self-deception in place in a less escapable way than regular citizens. They are going to give him his cursed “wall.” How the Hell did America go from “Never Again” to no-one’s allowed to say this stuff to warn people about it?



Jan. 14th., 2018


Personal Circumstances, Part #2

Oh my God, how many times have I written that? This must be the third identical dry heave on the subject, I saw one from half a year ago and it brought half a memory of an earlier one . . . I am just not getting there, not dredging up the last toxic bit of bile. I’m fucking looping, is that a verb now? I spend half my year getting ready, working up the courage to face this task, work through this, figure it out and when I finally decide I’m feeling strong enough, I go back to the toilet to try again. Then I document my spasms and my view of the world from there.

I think I’m planning a Part #2 every time, but I never do, because it’s going to be toxic. That was my life plan, that’s what good Christians do, we absorb pain and nastiness, take it into ourselves and out of circulation in the world; the idea isn’t to groom it, grow it and unleash it. The idea is to grow a cyst or a pearl around it, quarantine it, and take it out of the world permanently when we die. It’s supposed to be strength and will doing what it can to alleviate evil and suffering in the world, it’s not supposed to be Frankenstein and his monster or Teller and his bomb. Now, I don’t recall Victor saying that he must create it or die himself, or Teller either, and I am a very patient sort of a person, but I’m afraid I don’t see a future for myself, I don’t see more than one solution for my pain and angst at this point and my life all day long consists of the awareness that I’m just delaying, holding out for as long as I can.

That, and the moral consideration that so long as the lights are on and I’m consuming resources, my ungrateful life is raising the sea levels and killing poor people the world over.

Hmmm. Does it bother anyone that in this metaphor, my personal sadness and my worldview/philosophy are interchangeable? This must be my major malfunction here, right? To me, it’s all one, but there can’t be another human being out there that isn’t saying, ““warrior society” and divorce? Really?”

I can make the case with “rational” babble, it’s what I do all day, “yes, the state of the world hurts, the human condition hurts,” but the world wants details, right? Make it personal, or no-one else will feel it, I know. It is going to be my life’s crusade if I make one, to merge the two, because public is personal, and our personal problems are too common not to be public ones, but not today.

Part #1 was January 10th., what seemed like a productive day, I was exhausted after writing it in the morning, which made me falsely imagine I was getting somewhere with it, and despite a bone weariness, I got a few errands done in the afternoon and even took a walk, although I gassed out and cut it short. I hadn’t realized the repetition of that blog yet, and I was telling myself that I needed to push forward, and that probably I needed to go to a dark place, let out some of the nasty stuff I wasn’t admitting I was thinking. It’s always something you’re afraid to say, to yourself or whomever, that is the problem, right? So, I was brooding on that overnight, hoping I’d be able to write my way through something in the morning.

I write in the morning, before the pain killing effect of marijuana accumulates and stiffens me up, body, heart, and mind, and I don’t know why everybody else writes, but one big reason for me is, that’s the way I can see my own thoughts. Promises made to ourselves in silence, no-one can hold us to. It’s a dangerous way to learn about race and such on Twitter, writing to see your thoughts and finding out they’re shit sometimes, but Twitter is sort of amazing. There’s a lot of bile, but if you’re really trying, someone will appreciate it. Total honesty almost works as a life strategy in that place. Anyhow, I was trying to get to a dark place, planning to write this part yesterday morning when I got a phone call, a crisis call, very possibly a suicide call from a good old friend who was absolutely on the edge – and guess what sort of a speech I had loaded up. Not only did I paint a horrible picture for the guy, who responded that he’s driving around with a rope in the trunk, but I said it, spent any righteousness I may have had about it by basically trying to murder a friend with it – and lost it.

Toxic AF, that’s me. I wanted to purge some negativity, truth above all, no fear, push through, and before I put my two fingers to the keyboard, I’ve already killed someone. I spent the whole day knowing this would be the end, that I would never be able to say anything to anyone ever again, before he answered his phone just before dinner, and it’s not over yet. He’s a lot closer to the edge than I am. It’s a serious addiction thing, as serious as it gets, and he’s been in the rehab system already, so, head in the clouds self-appointed situation analyst for the world that I am, I thought I’d get back to basics and try to cut past all of his learned stuff from the rehab industry, and say, “Man, we’re addicts because we’re not happy, that’s the thing, that’s about as specific and scientific as it gets. And if we’re not happy, then there is nothing and no-one making us happy and we need a new life, right?”

I have this idea that when we feel trapped and that there’s no way out that there is something we’re hanging onto, something we’re protecting, that of course we have locked at least one of those locked doors ourselves, in this case, I’m bitterly divorced, I think he’s trapped in a loveless marriage, and hanging onto that for some reason. I guess if he overdoses while still married, he never had to be as alone as me. Stay alive, my friend, please, don’t let me be writing how I pushed you over and don’t let my readers have to be reading it. He responded with what I think is a normal meme from psychology and rehab culture, that it’s not up to other people to try to make you happy. To which I freaked out.

“So, what, they’re not supposed to care? Are we not supposed to try to make them happy? We are not our brother’s keeper, every man for himself?”

And then it’s worse, if only for me at this point, and maybe you, going forward. I’m sorry. If you read my main blog, you know I see things as quite a bit worse along this vector, that I see human beings as discipline-obsessed warrior groups, and not only are other people “not responsible for our happiness,” but quite the reverse. We are responsible, charged with making one another miserable. “We are not responsible for the happiness of others” sounds like a nasty truth we’re avoiding, and so we want to think that’s the bottom, the worst of it, but the truth is rarely only one step away. So, now we’re in my trap, alone in this second layer, and I’m pissed off. I haven’t yet clued in that my man is on the precipice, or quite so close.

“Addiction is about happiness, and the world, the warrior society is geared up to piss us off, the whole world creates the situation, but rehab tells you it’s just you, and figure it out yourself.”

Of course, rehab is my friend’s only fucking hope, I am a toxic, insensate monster.

. . . 1:00 pm, he’s OK.

. . . morning again, January 13th., and I can’t believe it but it’s true, what I’ve been trying to get at, what I’ve been looking for, I said to my friend when he absolutely didn’t need to hear it, and now I can’t fucking remember it. It was some connection from my warrior society argument, that the human world’s majority function in terms of our happiness is to destroy it rather than create it and . . . women. His wife, my wife, both of our daughters. It’s what’s in the dark place for me, I think, women and my ambivalence about them in my life, but although I can make the “logical” case for a connection, it’s what I think I do, in that blind passionate moment where I was steamrolling the whole world including my friend’s immanent suicide to express myself, I think I found the personal connection for a second . . . and it’s gone. I can’t seem to re-create it in my mind since, and he’s not going to remember it, or I hope not for his sake.

So, this happens to me now, either marijuana is finally having the desired effect of wiping my memory out, or it’s because I’m crazy now, or psychological blocks are in effect that always have been, surely some combination of these and more unseen things besides, I can’t get there from here. Not a solution, just a new attempt, we’ll jump in at the end, try to work backwards. Straying into the sterile, I’m afraid. I’m trying to find my way back.

Women can be warriors! Women can do anything men can do except for specific physiological things that define the sexes, reproductive things, and men sure can’t do what women can in that area either. I’m not globalizing, not defining roles, I only mean this at the level of sperm, egg, and zygote. Women can do any human role except grow and ejaculate sperm, and men can’t do lady reproductive stuff, not news. Women can be warriors, and they are, and they have been – and if someone magically turned all the world’s beer to chlorine tomorrow, a lot more of them would be. It’s warrior society, is what I’m saying. If all the men disappeared tomorrow, women would be fearsome defenders of their homes and their children, game theory would still apply, and fighting would ensue where resources came into conflict.

We can see the world in positive or negative light, and of course, as a complex mix of both, etc., but if we can view humanity in a dark light, then I’m, sorry, but it’s not some few of us, the power elite – and it’s not just half of us either, the males. It’s all of us. If we’re walking out on that limb, making value judgments of our species, if that is in any way useful to do that, then let’s not explain our species by the behaviour of half or fewer of its members. If life on Earth for humans is a fairly constant state of détente or war, there are not half or more of the humans actually creating peace. Succeeding at it, I mean. We’re trying, but if what you got is detente at best, our efforts to make war are outstripping our efforts to stop it, and I’m sorry, but God has left us in charge. All the energy spent on both sides of this debate, war or peace, that is human effort. We have to understand that we create the human world.

And women are creators, powerful ones. The ladies’ efforts are not washed away in a flood of testosterone, their power stolen by men, they are creators, and this world is as much women’s’ creation as anyone else’s. I know we all want peace. Women want peace. This is where I invoke my consequences mimic meme, mothers trying to civilize their children by un-civilizing force; our intentions are peace, our behaviours are war. Now this.

It’s our behaviours, this is what I’m trying to get at.

“Male aggression” is not a thing in itself, not some Socratic essence; aggression is a strategy and a behaviour. If men disappeared tomorrow, women would get aggressive really quick, because that is human behaviour, to act believing that the best defense is a good offense. Is this not the so well received feminist message of Wonder Woman, women can be warriors? It’s part of my worldview, that in this fantasy, men disappeared or the Amazons’ land, that the girls get beaten as hard as the boys are in male dominated warrior cultures. I think that’s human behaviour, I think “the best defense is a good offense” is almost the human motto, and a good offense is guaranteed through systemic child abuse.

I’m ready to be pleasantly surprised, someone show me an all female peaceful society, I want that world, but the women are raising the kids now, in this world, and it’s not working out. Ah, maybe this is it!

And they’re trying the same tactics with me.

Eureka. This will be my take-off point tomorrow.


Jan. 13th., 2018

Personal Circumstances, Part #1

Personal Circumstances, Part #1


Externally, alone, living in a one-bedroom suite . . .

I never wanted to be here. I mean, my suite’s nice enough, all the comforts of home except space and human beings, I even have some nice things, some really great chairs, computer, TV, music system, a car outside the door. I’ve got a pension. Until the CEOs of the world steal that money, I’ll be OK. I never wanted to be here, though, in this life, on this earth.

Being dissatisfied, being unimpressed seems to be my calling. Life seems to me to be a problem that needs a solution. I didn’t want to go to school, I didn’t want to go to work, and I didn’t want to get married and have kids. Those things didn’t appear to be solutions to anything, again, that’s all life – the problem, not the answer, in my mind. I should have found a way and gone to school, that’s what is indicated by this character flaw, but I didn’t. God, I was dumb. I’m thinking about school now, in retirement, but that’s not the same as setting your life up that way the first time around. Honestly, I expect to hate it. I expect that alternative life story I’ve been telling myself about school is going to have been a lie and of course I’m not going to enjoy that either.

I managed to acquire an alternative high school diploma, I worked, I got married, I had kids. That’s the story of my life, from 1979 through 2015, me being dragged along by I don’t know what, through a life I never wanted . . . I tried to do it my way, I tried to make a version of this suburban life I could live with, always bargaining with conventionality, “OK, I’ll work, but I’m gonna be high. OK, I’ll raise kids, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it like Mom and Dad did it . . .” I wanted to feel I was writing this play, not simply playing my role.

My ex-wife and two daughters, I think, are in what was our house, telling a story about how I suddenly got high, went crazy and started verbally abusing them, about how I chose marijuana and madness over them and abandoned them. I did indeed take up the pothead life again, and I did go a little crazy – despite the calming effect of a lot of Indica vapour, not because of it. The verbal abuses? We will almost certainly disagree on this point forever, but I know that the experience of abuse is subjective; if you feel abused, you have been abused. I still can’t understand it. I still can’t match my daughters’ experience of abuse to any attempt on my part to create it, and so we’re stuck, and probably forever.

I feel I was only defensive, that my parenting/husbanding strategy had always been sacrifice, and that when empty nest scenarios and mid-life crises loomed, that I had lost enough battles, sacrificed enough of my personal power and desires to let everyone grow up in peace, and that it was time for my needs and desires to take their full one-fourth share in the family. I suppose if I hadn’t lost my mind, I may have had a chance to make the case, but as it was, I was in no shape for that sort of lawyering, and anyway the girls weren’t negotiating. I feel I had indeed ceded my personal power to them, and taking personal power back from someone, that feels like abuse to them, I guess. This is starting to sound like the Hunger Games, but really, a real example of the last few battles we had was simply a fight over what to watch on TV, I complained loudly and with frustration about a choice and we couldn’t live together anymore. I’m “mean” now.

I was going to work until at least sixty years of age, let my girls go to university, live at home, and if possible not work, but concentrate on school. We were enjoying two union jobs, living the dream, paying down the house, looking forward to a very comfortable retirement, although, less comfortable than it might have been without such a commitment to the kids’ school. Four adults, two union gigs . . . we weren’t saving cash, but the house was accumulating equity and our pensions were growing. Now they’ve got the house and the equity, but I am living on my union pension and the three of them are living on my ex-wife’s salary. I think the school dream is over for my daughters, especially because my ex-wife never gave a damn about it.

I imagine they think I chose madness and addiction and left them, but they kicked me out. They stopped trying to talk to me, immediately, I tell you now, there is no lonelier feeling than being told by your children, to your face that you’re not there, that they can’t talk to you. I was supposed to leave, stay somewhere for free, with friends or something, until I “got better” and I could come home, but people need money, life ain’t free, so it was divorce. I can’t shake the feeling that my girls are huddled together telling themselves some story about how I just one day decided to take the money and run, and no-one’s expressed that to me, but I know they’re deathly allergic to my story about my life of self-denial and my late attempts to change it, so they’re telling themselves some story or other.

The ex had a story all ready, of course.

She was supposed to be the martyr in the family, it was supposed to be her sacrifice – to my male assholiness – that held the family together. She never expected such a nice fellow in her life and she never figured out how to deal with it, she never could see a role for herself that wasn’t as foil to some evil, angry man, so I had to be that man, somehow. It sounds like psychology, and I’m suspicious, but it seemed like the day her mean old dad died that suddenly I was the villain.

Long and short, I rejected that role, and I walked. I’ll be gone, alone forever, the man who abandoned his family, rather than be that man. She never saw me, never could. Thirty years of utter non-violence and self-denial and she could find no other role for me – not only that, she raised my daughters to be the same way, probably bad-mouthing me and men generally to them all their lives, whenever she had them to herself. Men deserve that shit, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t. I saw the problem fifty years ago and acted accordingly, fuck you all, the whole world, for not noticing, same as she didn’t. I’m not happy about it, but feminism is doomed, because when a convert is made, no-one notices or cares.

I don’t know where the older daughter is at, in terms of happiness or mental health, she ‘s got a story about why I wasn’t listening to her when she was little, so she’s never gonna try again; she’s uncommunicative. She didn’t look sad or broken, the last I saw her, just . . . pissed. I hope she’s OK. The younger one, she’s where all the trouble is.

She’s the talker, the fighter, the one who punted me and the one who will bear the guilt if I were to fall on my sword here, basically the one that’s keeping me here, where I never wanted to be in the first place and now ten times less so. I can’t talk to them, I can’t figure out how.

I mean, they’re the ones shutting down the talk, they don’t want to talk, but even if that wall came down, I don’t think I could try again. They’ve shut me up and shut me down when I so needed to talk, I had to find a way not to need it anymore. I don’t know how I could talk about anything with this basic hurt in the way, I don’t know what conversation would be possible that doesn’t start with me simply expressing my hurt and outrage, simply telling them “you’ve hurt me too bad, I can’t forgive,” and where’s the productivity in that? What’s the upside in telling your kid that they’ve added the last straw, broken your back? I am seriously left with and seriously considering leaving them alone forever, the world will help them support their story of addiction and mean men, they’ll be able to live a life in that paradigm, maybe.

One, it’s not real enough for me, but that seems to be my flaw, my mutation, it seems to get other folks through the day, so more power to them.

Two, I’m not mean, not violent, but I am somehow toxic now. Everything I think matters seems to be antimatter, and I may be in real danger of going mute to everyone, not just my kids, because of it. I live existentially, philosophically, and I am very much feeling the pinch between these two things, truth at all costs and the Hippocratic oath, which, philosophically is for all of us, not just physicians. I feel the truth, my truth, while perhaps best overall, cannot but cause harm in in the short term in a world that runs on something else.



Jan. 10th., 2018

“I am” Al Franken

When I went crazy and my wife and daughters were speaking about me as though I were dead about how I’d changed and they couldn’t talk to me anymore while I was right there in the room begging to be heard, they informed me somehow across the great divide, that I must go away, get better, and then come home.

I wondered, and asked, how would they know? What would be their criteria that I was better, would I have a goal, could I know when I would be better enough?

You’ve changed; we can’t talk to you anymore.


I am a feminist man, at least I have tried to be; I always thought I was. I’m still learning, because aren’t we all, men, and women alike. When I was maybe twenty-five, I mock-choked my girlfriend in mock anger, Homer Simpson style, and she felt it, it was an issue, and now I will never be president. That was the roughest I’ve ever been with a girl, never any rough contact in real anger and absolutely never any rough or power-imbalanced sexual contact of any sort . . . well, at least I thought so. Here’s a part of the problem, is this privilege? I trust myself that way, so I think I can joke about it. Knowing my own near-perfect score on violence, I know, when I make a “joke,” that the listeners, the “fake Bart Simpson” is safe. Of course, I’m an asshole in utter denial, who in this world feels safe? – but it’s at least one step more complex than that.

I mean, I know men are assholes, and when I, as a smallish man, am manhandled “in jest” by larger men, I freak out, I don’t feel safe. I’m not defending that choke, it was thirty years ago and I’ve done nothing so aggressive since, my personal choice, not asking for a gold star. If that young woman had been abused by men before me, I don’t think I knew it or understood it, but I’m much older now, and it’s safe to assume they all have been, so, no more of that shit. So, with the next wife – LOL – I never did any of that shit, nor with my daughters, two of them. In fact, I made us a “no punishment” family, not so much as a timeout or a toy held away. More confessions.

Once, sleep deprived and asleep, I returned a headbutt from my younger, infant daughter. I was conscious enough to do it softly, without serious violence – so I know I was conscious, I’m responsible, of course. She wasn’t brain damaged . . . allegedly. Doctors say . . . more tests required. That’s Jim Jeffries, sorry. There was a time or three, when I thought the girls were old enough to begin if not cleaning up, then at least learning to use the garbage cans when, like a man, I tried shouting to make the point, and now I will never be president. Headbutting an infant! How’s that for a headline? Choked his girlfriend? Verbal abuse? I am so done. I’d better not try, I’d just be wasting a lot of good folks’ time. Anyhow.

These were my misogynist crimes up to the year my younger turned sixteen.

That’s when I started to wonder maybe, what about me? That’s when I started to complain. Rewind.

I am a feminist man, as much of one as I have ever encountered in my rather pedestrian life. I have wanted to be, tried to be, and I have basically shunned my misogynist brothers and lived without their support and mostly in fear of them all my life. The confessions above are the worst of it, and they are in no way representative of my life, quite the opposite. I put my record up against anyone’s for non-violence and feminism.

I hope the same is true for Al Franken, and God forbid this goes pear-shaped, but it appears that way. An ex-comic doing hundreds of photo ops over decades and two complaints, if that’s really the end of the story, then he’s probably a man like me – just about as good as it fucking gets. Wait.

I started to complain. I’m still at it, I haven’t quite reached peak complain on this one yet. I never wanted a gold star, but you know what I didn’t want? Black stars just for showing up. In the first twenty years of that marriage I raised my voice three times or so, and in the year after my younger turned sixteen, I did also, and it was over. That amounts to a two-thousand percent increase in yelling, I suppose, a major escalation from my girls’ point of view, I get that, I do . . . but, what about me?

I watch my Twitter feed and it’s all harassment and rape and male privilege and it’s clear that many men, maybe most men, maybe nearly all men are violent swine, that all women deal with this every day in every aspect of their lives, I see the president got elected for misogyny, I see Mel Gibson has a wife – and I see a bunch of talk like the world sees Moore and Franken as some sort of equivalent, and I see that despite being the least of the criminals and the best of the men, that I must be alone for the male crimes that must surely be in my heart.

I don’t want a gold star, but if you are going to give me the impression that you see me and Ike Turner the same way, or Franken and Trump in remotely the same way, if you think there are a bunch of men out there better than me on these issues, like anything even near a majority, then you are not seeing me at all and I am hurt, offended and hopeless. I’ll ask you what I asked my wife and kids – what’s the criteria, how will I know when I’m better enough? Of course, I was being passive aggressively “kind” with that, the question is for you, ladies.

Will you be able to tell the difference?

I have hope for Franken, there’s a lot of smart folks in that conversation.

For me, though, they couldn’t. I’m alone, paying for the sins of the all the fathers and sons, the girls I shielded for twenty years, probably out there trying to find some young man better than me for these issues. I’ll wish them good luck with it, which sounds like a curse and I hope it’s not.



Nov. 27th., 2017

The Man in the Moon

Abuse with an Excuse

. . . so, I don’t know why, I thought I’d give a mental health professional a try. Thank Christ the lunatic was as heavy-handed and blatant as he was, and I remain free and with a chance of being happy and healthy again. It wasn’t close, like by inches, but when you and a predator see one another and you live to tell the tale, that is as close as you ever want. Funny story, though.

His manipulation was immediate.

He showed me into his office and I paused, admiring his Scandinavian teak furniture and his chair, just looking around, right, checking out my surroundings, and before fifteen seconds had passed, this asshole had ordered me to sit on the couch twice, I guess he thought I wanted his chair or something.

It never changed, his attitude only got more imperious after everything I said. He didn’t let me…

View original post 1,025 more words

F$%^&n’ Asocial

Fuck you, I’m a positive person.

If anyone would simply make the attempt to understand me, they’d see it, but no. The “positive” people of the world see the enemy in me, the thing that deserves their unacknowledged anger – mine, my anger. Of course, I and the rest of my world disagree as to whose anger is unacknowledged, so let me add a little data to the argument: my conscious anger.

I’m hurting, real bad. I’m feeling betrayed, alone, unheard. I’m either a kind of crazy that just doesn’t feel like crazy, or the rest of my world is, but I’m hurting, and nothing in my world seems able to help . . . and I’m pissed off about that, I know I am, I am pissed off about it all day long, about my condition, sure, but it’s not just me, is it? I’m pissed about the human condition, for all of us. This must be where it goes wrong for me. I’m mad about the things I see “us” – people, the world, society – doing to each one of us, and yes, to me and sure, I even think especially me because I think I’m in the minority in that I see it and don’t find it to be necessary or “positive” in some way, but it’s not personal.

So, from the popular science stuff I’ve been reading (not the worst of it, Pinker), I think I’m doing this sort of uniquely human thing, having an emotional reaction to a global thing, an emotional reaction to something possibly only happening between my ears, to the problems in my life and in the world as I see them. Anger though, in biological reality is a bad smell, and everyone takes it personally. So, is this the biological basis of religion?

Find a way not to be angry with the world, or the world will be angry with you?

Find a way to be happy with the world, or the world will be unhappy with you?

Hmmm . . . that’s a sort of a new thought, at least for me. This will no doubt be an exploration that goes nowhere, but I wonder what that means in terms of evolutionary psychology, of evolution. Of course, EP and AST agree and are clear on the ‘angry’ part: angry as a response to angry is clearly as basic as it gets, fighting feelings, possibly adaptive primarily for predators and enemies, not family. Not sure about EP, but AST suggests that angry as a response to unhappy may be the adaptation for the family group, the antiseptic for apathy and passivity.

So, I’m antisocial, as in anti-society, anti-establishment – but I’m not in person, at least not intentionally. I may look (and smell) angry, but I’m not angry at you personally. It’s political; I’m not angry at you all for personal reasons, just political ones, just because of your beliefs or apparent beliefs. Is that our biological limit right there, naked and simple as can be? If I disagree with some policy or something and feel anger, people smell the anger, take it personally and fight, personally? Wait a minute . . . it’s so easy to give biology too much, isn’t it? At some point, somewhere along the line, there is something that even today must be considered invisible magic going on, because they can smell my anger pheromones online too. (Not just me either, there seems to be no lack of emotion in the online world. Understatement of the year.)

Psychology has its answer, perhaps: we don’t only respond to one another’s pheromones, but we respond to some perceived thing physically and then we respond to our own secretions. Maybe there isn’t any “anger” involved in a simple flight or fight response, in a straight up fight for your life, maybe anger is a more complex idea, requires time and organization – and then possibly operates as a complex interaction involving our own pheromones. We are political. We have political emotions and they entail at least some of what all emotions entail, probably.

Again, though, anger, in biological reality is a bad smell, and everyone takes it personally. How to say this without agreeing? If you smell angry, there’s a problem with you, and you need to be treated for it. This here, though is science, this I endorse: biology, in the persons of Sapolsky, Trivers, and others, says that the cure for stress is to unload it, to express it. That means “treating” anger like a problem is the opposite of what organisms need. I mean, I get the theory, the idea is I’m angry not reasonably or interactively but pathologically, from something unrealized, that the anger is indicative of lifelong stress that is going to kill me. Honestly, what seems to me to be causing my stress is that my anger is unheard, that no-one can acknowledge my complaints, that the righteous anger I’ve been nurturing my entire life and the train of thought that it has produced can never be validated. Is it really that society is wise and wants to help us through our emotional blocks, wants us to be happy? Or are my angry pheromones simply setting yours off so you’re trying to get rid of them? One option is social science and one is actual science, all I’m saying. That and that the nice part isn’t the actual science part.



April 5th., 2017

A Heart Broken Perfectly

I don’t see myself surviving this. I’m sorry, but I just don’t.

I don’t want to, is the problem.

No wife, no kids, no reputation, and no hope that my kids will be on any sort of mend. What am I supposed to be living for?

I already spent my life – fifty-six plus years now – trying to limit the amount of bile and negative energy I bring to the world. If I let too much out now, if I have too much for those ladies, well, I tried. They’ve decided I must have none or leave, and so I left. I told them on my way out that they were hurting me, that losing my primary support was not likely to help me, and I’ve told them since that without them I’ve nothing to live for, but they are sticking to their guns: lose the weed and then we’ll talk – as if we ever did before, as if this didn’t begin with them all refusing to talk to me in the first place.

So, I’m fighting for my life, trying to find a way forward, a reason to keep breathing, and I’m worrying about their guilt if I don’t make it. Not enough I’m at risk, I still have to try to manage their mental futures . . . it’s just occurred to me for the first time today: should I be trying to save them from their guilt? Am I, like a parent, trying to subvert the true learning experience for them? If they freeze me out and I die, don’t they deserve their bad feelings? God knows, I’ve already tried.

How to let them off the hook? How to tell them, I’m not mad, I mean adult Jeff isn’t angry with them, adult Jeff doesn’t blame them. Life is complicated, the weirdest stuff can happen, all of our efforts can backfire. But this particular accident has finished me. I ain’t mad, but I have nothing without you, nothing but pain. If one of you ever finds this, if I didn’t make it much longer, please, I’m sorry if you’re guilty, but know this: I didn’t want to be here anymore. I’m happier now. I really had no hope to be, unless the clock could be turned back for us, my days have been torture since summer, 2016. Dope kills pain but it doesn’t provide a reason to live. I don’t see anything to look forward to, can’t imagine anything.

Any attempt I make to talk to them only hurts and scares them; they can’t hear me, they can’t talk to me. I’m not going to even get a chance to say goodbye.

When I’m doing nothing else but sitting and hanging on, trying to imagine a reason to live without them, sometimes I can sense the background fantasy going on in my mind, and one I’ve had since I was a teen myself is playing still, a parenting fantasy, me with a few daughters just like it worked out in real life, except that in my lifelong fantasy about it, we talk. There are conversations, me sharing their experience of learning about the world and helping them make sense of it . . . these fantasies are still going on, in that part of myself I’m still young, a pre-parent, with hopes and dreams.

That dream happened a little, a handful of evenings, but basically, it was a dream among the culturally white and British such as ourselves. We don’t talk, we never talk. Everything I have said to them for the last few years is on their list of my crimes, and it seems talking, at least talking about anything that needs talking about, is the real crime.




May 21st., 2017

Barefoot Running

been walking a lot, barefoot running down the hills, trying to rebuild my feet, save my falling arches. There is so much to like about barefoot running – as long as you’re not in good enough condition to go far enough to hurt yourself: start slow, and move up very slow. I’ve pushed it a tad lately and the shinsplint sort of pain from building your calves this way is, deep, stomach churning . . . and sort of weirdly delicious. When I feel my calves from a long walk in shoes, even my low-heel Keens, it’s a few big spots. When I feel it from my barefoot shoes, it’s a thousand little points, seems like a thousand little places having to get stronger. It seems very natural and holistic. Yesterday I went up Rockheights to Cairn Park, Rockheights park – and ran my way down the rock slope, leaping from rock to rock, like I think I’m a 56 year-old goat, in my barefoot runners – and that was fun! I lost myself enough to have fun, but not enough to crash and burn like I might have done as a kid and exulted in it – but enough to capture that great feeling! Once I was back on the sidewalk and barefoot jogging down the hill, I was happy, just thinking, that was great! I had this idea, that barefoot walking and running would be a healing sort of thing, rebuild my sore feet, get in shape, and do it by hugging the Earth with my feet, with a connection there. I really felt that yesterday, I think. Next I want to find a tall tree to climb, or as many as there are around. My upper body needs some work too.



June 17th., 2017

Porn is Bad



I’m just going to say it: why do we have to act like porn is OK?

Sounds Christian, I know, I’m not – well, culturally, maybe. That’s not it.

It’s the constant misogyny, the anal fucking, always a guy jacking off in a girl’s face and the less comfortable for her the better . . . I mean, I’m alone, separated and I have the internet. I was never a marathon runner, you know what I mean, but I can’t bloody get off with most of this stuff, I get close and it’s a race I always lose, trying to get off before they offend me somehow. Of course, there’s something for everyone on there and I usually manage – but the number of moral crimes I witness to get there! It’s not worth the endorphin release, the wear and tear on one’s soul. This I say as an atheist.

I thought I’d try to find some nicer stuff, maybe where the woman appears to actually be getting off, and in the bulk of that, perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised, the ladies are alone. I guess that’s one of the messages.

Most porn appears to be misogynist AF, again maybe no surprise, but it still sucks. The sexual revolution just made the pornographers mainstream and it doesn’t appear that it was the illicit nature of it that made it sick and degrading for all involved. Not saying sex is, just saying ninety-some percent of porn is. That brings me to the next thing, and I’m just going to say it.

“Squirting” is urinating. The only time I ever got squirted on by a girl was the only time I ever woke up with that girl, despite that we had sex, many, many times. On this occasion, I ate her before anyone had a chance to pee or anything, and I was very young, I wasn’t sure at the time, but I’m sure enough now. Some of these UHD videos are super close up, and that fluid is emanating from where the urethra is and nowhere else, right? Anyway, I remember, it was confusing because it wasn’t as strong as I might have thought, but there was no other flavour in it but urine. LOL – I swallowed enough to say that. Now, that’s not my point, anyone with any experience in it must know that better than I do. My point is, coming so hard that you piss yourself, that is cool, and exciting, and when we’re in full monkey mode, more fluid is better, you’re not doing it right if you’re not making a mess maybe . . . I’m sure there’s a market, a group who maybe can’t help it and a group who gets off on it. Not judging what turns anyone on, and I think the preceding sentences ought to prove that!

What worries me, is that unlike the male money shot, this female orgasmic squirt is possible, even easy to fake, isn’t it? Don’t get me wrong – I’m not complaining that I can’t know when it’s authentic in my free porn! LOL. My point is, what may look like the sexual revolution, and beautiful, empowered young women ejaculating like men (or supermen!) may really be abused, non-orgasmic young women who have succumbed to some awful male pressure to prove they can come, to prove that they are enjoying what is likely some form of sexual slavery.

That’s what worries me.

That’s why I can surf porn for an hour and then sheath my sword un-bloodied and fall asleep watching the golf channel instead. This is the price I pay for believing all that feminism crap, I guess.

Thanks, Obama.




April 26th., 2017