A Real Entry
The kid sat at his computer, in the dead of the night. His whole house was dark, all the lights off so he could hear the music coming from the speakers and so he could see the light burning off the screen. Soft, glowing light, gentle when he wanted it stark and painful. A friend when he was looking for viciousness.
He wants to write something trippy, but he’s never taken a trip. Not a real one. Never a trip with any drugs that come from outside his own flesh-and-blood body. He’s not a poet, he’s not a musician, he’s not what could really be called a writer. He’s not Jim Morrison, though he thinks he might want to have a piece of that action. If he could keep it from poisoning him. Shirtless, a little tanned under the cheap suit jacket he wears. He loves how cheap it was and how the sound of the words ‘suit jacket’ make him think of eccentricity, and jazz, and booze. Of mysticism and enigma. He wants to hit that pipeline, that conduit that on-the-edge artists hit. What makes someone write
the killer awoke before dawn
he put his boots on
he took a face from the ancient gallery and he
walked on down the hall
or what makes someone make Apocalypse Now. It’s a cliché, and he knows it all to well, but he wants to lose a part of himself and trade it for a bit of something else. Something that will make him an off-kilter poet. One that sways the average, everyday people to his fold and one that makes the really intelligent, creative ones scared and awed. He wants to be less in control, or really to have his writing (what little and small-scoped writing he does) less in control.
He wants to be less of a writer, if that’s even possible, and more of a sightseer. He wants to take himself for a ride, and to understand what he means only a little bit better than other people.
The kid knows just what it’ll be like when he gets it, if he does. It’ll be like grabbing a live wire, with none of that nancy rubber protecting a stupid world from a barely-harnessed force. It’ll burn him, and he won’t be able to let go because of the current he’s tapped into. His flesh, his skin, will slough off, charred and stinking. Anyone who sees it, and gets too close. . . the current will jump the gap between the kid and the bystander. Then the bystander won’t be able to move, to stop watching. The current will stop and the kid will let go and the watcher will stop watching when they’re dead. When they’re burned to husks from too much creativity.
The problem is definitely control, I’m sure of that now. When I went to the kitchen to get some more vanilla Pepsi, I understood. First, I noticed the white, creamy light from the monitor on the refrigerator, and on the cabinets and the chopping block, and the counters. I thought it was beautiful, so I turned around and looked back at the computer through my glasses. I wasn’t afraid. That’s a problem. That’s the problem. The core of it. The computer screen, with little black characters on it, was nestled in the black of the night around it and it looked like a fucking window man, a damn window into a hell of too much. . . too much something.
But it’s not. Or it wasn’t. It could be. If I wrote something scary, or something profound, which is the same thing but with fewer comfortable solutions hard-wired by instinct, then it would be too much something. You can run from what you’re scared of, but you can’t hide from a truth. A real profound work scares you, but you know it’s true. If it’s really profound, you only know it’s true. Not how, or why, or because of who, or since when. Therefore it’s obvious that a person in control can’t write anything really profound, because how can someone watching what they say or write and being careful with what they say and write ever produce a truth that no one, least of all the author, understands at all beyond its elemental verisimilitude? And isn’t that what it means to be in control? To be watching what you say and write and do and think?
I thought I might have been getting close for a minute. But I don’t think so now. I do know that I’ll understand all this when I read it later, if I do. Does that prove it is profound, or that it isn’t? Maybe that up there is just the truth about profound truths.
That’s not profound. It’s not the walls or ceiling. It’s the foundation. It’s the operating procedure, the algorithm, the formula, the enzyme, not the catalyst or the precipitate or the quotient or the song. It might not be anything but pilpul. I don’t know if I like pilpul or not, but in the end it doesn’t matter right now because pilpul is a game and I DON”T WANT TO PLAY ANYMORE. I want OUT. Right-fucking-now. I don’t want to sit in the same sandbox anymore. I don’t want to rule cows and men and physics. I want to be the king of nowhere! I want to be the master of the yard around and outside your sandbox. The empty yard, where the real big kids left their toys. Where they left their books. I’ll sit out there and draw you pictures of what I see and hold them up for you, you who are building sandcastles, to look at and you won’t understand them any more than I do, but you’ll like them. Some of you will like them at least. The romantics. They’ll be art. That’s what art is; art is pictures of what other people can’t see.
Not profound; just a mission statement.
Before you slip into unconsciousness
I’d like to have another kiss
another flashing chance at bliss. . .
the days are bright, and filled with pain. . .
Listen to that music! Music is raw feeling. If you don’t feel much, or exist much, you won’t produce full music. You might like full music, but you can’t produce it. Those chords right there, the ones I just heard are the right example. They’re feeling. Not a feeling, but just feeling. They’re love and desperation and fear and acceptance of something you don’t want to happen but is going to anyway. The notes lilt by, and they’re not a word or a color but a situation. You love him and he’s going away, going away to fight a war he doesn’t understand or believe in. He was going to go to college, he was smart, he was the golden boy of the whole damn town and he loved you back and he was going to ask you to marry him and you were going to say yes and you would have borne his children after love-charged sex that grabbed you both like a tidal wave mixed with a high-balling freight train and your kids would have grown up and you would have loved him all the more when he became the perfect father you knew he would be and then you would have ridden happily through life and everything would have passed in a golden light and then you would have died and waited for him in whatever afterlife you believed in.
But he was drafted and you know he’ll die. You know. So what do you do with the rest of your life?
That’s what those chords say, twelve seconds of music says that but with the feelings like it’s really happening and not just the sketch I whipped up for you to prove a point.
Ahhh, this gets me hot. Pulling my suit jacket tighter around me, buttoning it so I can warm up more and sweat and be sticky in the morning heat despite the fan like Faulkner, bard of the South and its heat must have been. I don’t know if it’s sex-hot or just creative-hot. God knows I’m not that creative. . . or sexy. Ha! I kill myself. It must be a sin to crack yourself up this much. Are you left-handed? I didn’t know that, but I think we’ve had this conversation before. My memory’s so bad but that’s not why I tell the same stories again and again and again, I tell them because I love talking about myself and what I’ve done and seen and heard and so I’m an egomaniac, but at least I’m a hell of a typist and Wes was right. And so were the rest of you who called this game in your head but not out loud. Nice to meet you, I like Stephen King and suit jackets and music a lot. I read a lot into things other people take as parts of everyday pop culture. Sometimes I read into them four times and glean life-lessons where they’re not supposed to be found.
Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming. . .
. . .WAIT!. . . there’s been a slaughter here!
And he whines so much and I love it.
Am I off-track or on-course? QUI SAIT?! WHO KNOWS!? Watch it Terrance. Things are getting crazy and I’m not the boy you knew but that doesn’t mean I’ve fucked a whore or smoked so much as a cabbage leaf but I DID refinish a table and start half a dozen new books.
But enough about me.
I wanted to write a story about a kid taking his dog for a walk. The kid took his crowbar because it was late and dark and even though his neighborhood is quite safe he was scared of rapists and muggers and third-party candidates. So he went for a walk and whom does he meet? A rapist who wants his wallet and to eat his dog and who’s running for president with Ralph Nader and Ross Perot and Theodore Roosevelt, that’s who. Or maybe just a rapist, as it is, ideally, a serious story. So the kid summons up the cold and violent self-preservation that he always wondered if he had and kills the rapist brutally with his blue wrecking pry bar. So he leaves the body, since he’s a nice law-abiding boy who likes to read but not to believe Hunter S. Thompson and goes to the nearest house. He knocks on the door and the portly, middle-aged housewife who answers sees a boy of average height and build who’s not very creative or sexy with a blue wrecking pry bar and a little white-and-brown dog on a long leash made of two shorter ones and all three of them are covered in blood from head to toe to tail to snout to curved end to straight end.
That’s as much as I’ve gotten so far. I’ll beef it up with imagery and metaphors and similes and characterization of all possible flavors and persuasions and all that good shit. The main character is pleased to meet you and he hopes you guess his name. What? Just a little classical reference. He’s me, of course, silly. Didn’t the little white-and-brown dog and the paranoid neurosis give it away, douche bag? I thought so, G-string.
I don’t want to stop! I started writing all this. . . over an hour ago, I think! Can that be right? Maybe more like forty-five minutes. It’s like if I stop I’ll have to go to bed and be half-way logical again. I prefer to be eclectic, like I am now. It’s a close as a self-absorbed sandbox-dweller like me can ever get to drawing pictures of the orphaned big kid toys. I also like labels, though a wise girl told me that they’re terrible and I can’t say for sure she’s wrong. Since we’re already talking about my favorite thing, namely me, let’s list my labels! I know you’re excited. I’ll talk about something else next, I promise. If any of you have gotten this far.
Communist
Vegetarian
Calvinist
Francophile
Music Elitist
Computer Gamer
Smart Kid ™
Wearer of Suit Jackets
Titles, labels, that may explain me perfectly or be convenient lies or be something atwixt those two extremes.
What does gubernatorial mean?
Capitalism is destructive and wrong because, among other things, it creates the idea that money is the only moral perquisite for ownership. If you can legally buy it in the country you live in, or the country you’re buying it in, or the country you’re from, or the country the former owner is in, or from, or going to, or any other country at all or if the legality of buying it seems obvious to you no matter how lumoxxed up the rest of the world might be on this issue, you have the right to buy it, own it, and use it as you see fit.
For example, consider these movies to better understand what I have so eclectically (very good, very good) claimed:
“House of Sand and Fog”
“Indecent Proposal”
In both of these movies, a house and some land are legally bought, on a legal technicality but still within the law, much to the chagrin and emotional distress of the former owners. In “House of Sand and Fog”, the state of California makes a mistake (gasp) and taxes a woman (Jennifer Connelly, oh gods, getting hot again. . . ) for a business she doesn’t have. It’s only fifty dollars or so, but she goes to court and gets the tax audit removed, no problem. Until it comes out later that somehow that court session got lost and she failed to receive notifications of the outstanding tax. Her house, the house she grew up in and her father fucking built and which is absolutely beautiful and on beautiful land, is repossessed by the state of Californ-i-a. It is then bought by someone else. Who will not sell it back for a price that the state is willing to pay because he loves it.
I ask you, if you love something, does that make it okay to steal it? Certainly not. But did he steal it? Certainly not, under US law. But does he have the moral high ground? Fucking hell no his ass does NOT. She loved that house, it was beautiful, family-built, and a symbol of her childhood. It was crammed to the fucking gunwales with sentimental value and a mis-audited tax and a failure to communicate put it up for sale. And it was bought by someone who would accept no less that twice the price he paid for it to sell it back.
In “Indecent Proposal”, it’s even worse. A man pays some other man’s wife to have sex with him. Pays the couple a million dollars which they accept because they are about to lose their dream house, still under construction in a beautiful New England location because the economy is in the toilet and they can’t get jobs for shit. They even strike out at Vegas.
So they take this billionaire’s, who likes to buy things everyone says can’t be bough (like real, emotional love), offer and she sexes him good. He then goes on a campaign to drive them apart with stress and make her love him by being charming, good-looking, compassionate (when he isn’t using his money to drive her away from her husband of seven years), and fucking rich to hell. His first step is to buy their half-finished dream-house and refuse to sell it back for less than two million dollars. If was up for sale because they where two or three days late on payments, which they could have made easily with the million and had not received notification because they were in Vegas trying desperately to win the money they couldn’t possibly earn in time to PAY FOR THE HOUSE. The billionaire uses his vast resources to find and buy the house in that microscopic window of time.
Did he have the money and the right, under US law, to buy that house, half-finished or otherwise? Yes. Did he, I say, suh, did he have the moral high ground?
HELL FUCKING NO.
Two houses bought on technicalities by people who had a lot of money from people who had huge emotional investments and a lot less liquid cash.
The conclusion anyone who has managed to, over the protests of the fat cats that run the world with their money, pull their head out of the ass comes to is this: capitalism teaches us that the only thing that you need to become morally and legally eligible to buy something is the money to buy it from whomever happens to own it at any given moment. No matter who that person is, how they got it, how long ago they got it or for how long they have it, or what they got it for.
The requirement for moral justification is raw money.
I don’t know about you atheists or Moslems or whatever, but as for you Christians, money is the root of all evil and therefore makes a shitty basis for moral justification. And I’m happy to say I know plenty of atheists who think money isn’t that great either.
The death penalty’s supporters often argue that it is cheaper than jailing convicts for life-sentences. It is. Evidently, killing is okay, if it saves our asses money.
The nobility and aristocracy of France started the Great Revolution because they wouldn’t pay higher taxes. (And that is a fact my friends, try me if you don’t believe me) They loved their money too much. It blinded them just as it blinds the aristocracy and nobility of the money-worshipping world we live in now. Money’s not good, it’s not neutral, it’s fucking EVIL. Maybe it’s not in concept, because in concept it’s just a symbol for goods and services that you can carry in your pocket. But as the fully independent resource it has become, it’s the best tool and weapon of whatever devils you believe in.
Money is the root cause of a dozen wars and atrocities. It’s an old rap but it’s as true a theory as gravity and no one ever says “Oh, not that gravity bullshit again.”, so here it is, again. Slavery was about money. They justified it and dressed it up with religion that they twisted to fit their money-loving sin but it was about money. The Old World obliterated the New for money and the love of it.
Let’s talk for a second about that obliteration, shall we? I think that it’s an easy thing to say but a little harder to really understand. It’s like how people can imagine and effectively conceptualize a hundred, or a thousand, or maybe even understand how much ten thousand is, a little, but how no one can really imagine a billion. We get the concept, but it’s just way too much to hold in the shit-ass mind that’s so easily bought by the rich. A billion is like that obliteration. The Spanish and the Portuguese razed entire empires to the ground. The Incan nation went from about twenty million people to TWO million in something like ten years. ONE POINT EIGHT MILLION MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN DIED A YEAR FOR TEN YEARS FOR THE LOVE OF MONEY. I know that there are some atheist capitalists out there who’d like to blame Christianity, or some capitalist Christians (heh) who’d like to blame the Papists, but I got news for you lot: the crowned heads of Europe didn’t launch the largest cultural invasion in history in the name of God. They tacked that on for icing, but they did it cause there was money over here. A lot of it. Priests and clergy did some bad, baaad shit in the name of the Savior Christ, but the entire effort was launched by the love of money.
There’s a modern day Israel, and the Lord knows his chosen people have been persecuted like almost no other group in history. There’s a modern Iraq and Turkey, and those empires rose and died a thousand years ago. The empires of Europe lost their power and went democratic, but they’re still there. China, ancient China, raped by fake communists and by Huns and by every empire worth its salt before Mao got his turn is still there, and not to be sneezed at now by any means. Hawaii, ancient tribal Hawaii is a state, but it exists. Same for Alaska. Japan, the only country every to be attack with the raw, unbridled ferocity of nuclear fire and shattered in every way possible is still kicking.
There’s no Incan Empire, or Republic, or state.
There’s no Aztec or Mayan Empire, or Republic, or province, or county. They’re gone. Their seed wiped from the earth, their cities smashed and burned and raped and eroded to dust three hundred years ago. Because they unhappily straddled gold and silver deposits galore.
That’s what the love of money brings.
And that, my beloved cock-sucking world, is a profound truth.
Glooooooria!
Glooooooria!
Glooooooria!
Glooooooria!
He wants to write something trippy, but he’s never taken a trip. Not a real one. Never a trip with any drugs that come from outside his own flesh-and-blood body. He’s not a poet, he’s not a musician, he’s not what could really be called a writer. He’s not Jim Morrison, though he thinks he might want to have a piece of that action. If he could keep it from poisoning him. Shirtless, a little tanned under the cheap suit jacket he wears. He loves how cheap it was and how the sound of the words ‘suit jacket’ make him think of eccentricity, and jazz, and booze. Of mysticism and enigma. He wants to hit that pipeline, that conduit that on-the-edge artists hit. What makes someone write
the killer awoke before dawn
he put his boots on
he took a face from the ancient gallery and he
walked on down the hall
or what makes someone make Apocalypse Now. It’s a cliché, and he knows it all to well, but he wants to lose a part of himself and trade it for a bit of something else. Something that will make him an off-kilter poet. One that sways the average, everyday people to his fold and one that makes the really intelligent, creative ones scared and awed. He wants to be less in control, or really to have his writing (what little and small-scoped writing he does) less in control.
He wants to be less of a writer, if that’s even possible, and more of a sightseer. He wants to take himself for a ride, and to understand what he means only a little bit better than other people.
The kid knows just what it’ll be like when he gets it, if he does. It’ll be like grabbing a live wire, with none of that nancy rubber protecting a stupid world from a barely-harnessed force. It’ll burn him, and he won’t be able to let go because of the current he’s tapped into. His flesh, his skin, will slough off, charred and stinking. Anyone who sees it, and gets too close. . . the current will jump the gap between the kid and the bystander. Then the bystander won’t be able to move, to stop watching. The current will stop and the kid will let go and the watcher will stop watching when they’re dead. When they’re burned to husks from too much creativity.
The problem is definitely control, I’m sure of that now. When I went to the kitchen to get some more vanilla Pepsi, I understood. First, I noticed the white, creamy light from the monitor on the refrigerator, and on the cabinets and the chopping block, and the counters. I thought it was beautiful, so I turned around and looked back at the computer through my glasses. I wasn’t afraid. That’s a problem. That’s the problem. The core of it. The computer screen, with little black characters on it, was nestled in the black of the night around it and it looked like a fucking window man, a damn window into a hell of too much. . . too much something.
But it’s not. Or it wasn’t. It could be. If I wrote something scary, or something profound, which is the same thing but with fewer comfortable solutions hard-wired by instinct, then it would be too much something. You can run from what you’re scared of, but you can’t hide from a truth. A real profound work scares you, but you know it’s true. If it’s really profound, you only know it’s true. Not how, or why, or because of who, or since when. Therefore it’s obvious that a person in control can’t write anything really profound, because how can someone watching what they say or write and being careful with what they say and write ever produce a truth that no one, least of all the author, understands at all beyond its elemental verisimilitude? And isn’t that what it means to be in control? To be watching what you say and write and do and think?
I thought I might have been getting close for a minute. But I don’t think so now. I do know that I’ll understand all this when I read it later, if I do. Does that prove it is profound, or that it isn’t? Maybe that up there is just the truth about profound truths.
That’s not profound. It’s not the walls or ceiling. It’s the foundation. It’s the operating procedure, the algorithm, the formula, the enzyme, not the catalyst or the precipitate or the quotient or the song. It might not be anything but pilpul. I don’t know if I like pilpul or not, but in the end it doesn’t matter right now because pilpul is a game and I DON”T WANT TO PLAY ANYMORE. I want OUT. Right-fucking-now. I don’t want to sit in the same sandbox anymore. I don’t want to rule cows and men and physics. I want to be the king of nowhere! I want to be the master of the yard around and outside your sandbox. The empty yard, where the real big kids left their toys. Where they left their books. I’ll sit out there and draw you pictures of what I see and hold them up for you, you who are building sandcastles, to look at and you won’t understand them any more than I do, but you’ll like them. Some of you will like them at least. The romantics. They’ll be art. That’s what art is; art is pictures of what other people can’t see.
Not profound; just a mission statement.
Before you slip into unconsciousness
I’d like to have another kiss
another flashing chance at bliss. . .
the days are bright, and filled with pain. . .
Listen to that music! Music is raw feeling. If you don’t feel much, or exist much, you won’t produce full music. You might like full music, but you can’t produce it. Those chords right there, the ones I just heard are the right example. They’re feeling. Not a feeling, but just feeling. They’re love and desperation and fear and acceptance of something you don’t want to happen but is going to anyway. The notes lilt by, and they’re not a word or a color but a situation. You love him and he’s going away, going away to fight a war he doesn’t understand or believe in. He was going to go to college, he was smart, he was the golden boy of the whole damn town and he loved you back and he was going to ask you to marry him and you were going to say yes and you would have borne his children after love-charged sex that grabbed you both like a tidal wave mixed with a high-balling freight train and your kids would have grown up and you would have loved him all the more when he became the perfect father you knew he would be and then you would have ridden happily through life and everything would have passed in a golden light and then you would have died and waited for him in whatever afterlife you believed in.
But he was drafted and you know he’ll die. You know. So what do you do with the rest of your life?
That’s what those chords say, twelve seconds of music says that but with the feelings like it’s really happening and not just the sketch I whipped up for you to prove a point.
Ahhh, this gets me hot. Pulling my suit jacket tighter around me, buttoning it so I can warm up more and sweat and be sticky in the morning heat despite the fan like Faulkner, bard of the South and its heat must have been. I don’t know if it’s sex-hot or just creative-hot. God knows I’m not that creative. . . or sexy. Ha! I kill myself. It must be a sin to crack yourself up this much. Are you left-handed? I didn’t know that, but I think we’ve had this conversation before. My memory’s so bad but that’s not why I tell the same stories again and again and again, I tell them because I love talking about myself and what I’ve done and seen and heard and so I’m an egomaniac, but at least I’m a hell of a typist and Wes was right. And so were the rest of you who called this game in your head but not out loud. Nice to meet you, I like Stephen King and suit jackets and music a lot. I read a lot into things other people take as parts of everyday pop culture. Sometimes I read into them four times and glean life-lessons where they’re not supposed to be found.
Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming. . .
. . .WAIT!. . . there’s been a slaughter here!
And he whines so much and I love it.
Am I off-track or on-course? QUI SAIT?! WHO KNOWS!? Watch it Terrance. Things are getting crazy and I’m not the boy you knew but that doesn’t mean I’ve fucked a whore or smoked so much as a cabbage leaf but I DID refinish a table and start half a dozen new books.
But enough about me.
I wanted to write a story about a kid taking his dog for a walk. The kid took his crowbar because it was late and dark and even though his neighborhood is quite safe he was scared of rapists and muggers and third-party candidates. So he went for a walk and whom does he meet? A rapist who wants his wallet and to eat his dog and who’s running for president with Ralph Nader and Ross Perot and Theodore Roosevelt, that’s who. Or maybe just a rapist, as it is, ideally, a serious story. So the kid summons up the cold and violent self-preservation that he always wondered if he had and kills the rapist brutally with his blue wrecking pry bar. So he leaves the body, since he’s a nice law-abiding boy who likes to read but not to believe Hunter S. Thompson and goes to the nearest house. He knocks on the door and the portly, middle-aged housewife who answers sees a boy of average height and build who’s not very creative or sexy with a blue wrecking pry bar and a little white-and-brown dog on a long leash made of two shorter ones and all three of them are covered in blood from head to toe to tail to snout to curved end to straight end.
That’s as much as I’ve gotten so far. I’ll beef it up with imagery and metaphors and similes and characterization of all possible flavors and persuasions and all that good shit. The main character is pleased to meet you and he hopes you guess his name. What? Just a little classical reference. He’s me, of course, silly. Didn’t the little white-and-brown dog and the paranoid neurosis give it away, douche bag? I thought so, G-string.
I don’t want to stop! I started writing all this. . . over an hour ago, I think! Can that be right? Maybe more like forty-five minutes. It’s like if I stop I’ll have to go to bed and be half-way logical again. I prefer to be eclectic, like I am now. It’s a close as a self-absorbed sandbox-dweller like me can ever get to drawing pictures of the orphaned big kid toys. I also like labels, though a wise girl told me that they’re terrible and I can’t say for sure she’s wrong. Since we’re already talking about my favorite thing, namely me, let’s list my labels! I know you’re excited. I’ll talk about something else next, I promise. If any of you have gotten this far.
Communist
Vegetarian
Calvinist
Francophile
Music Elitist
Computer Gamer
Smart Kid ™
Wearer of Suit Jackets
Titles, labels, that may explain me perfectly or be convenient lies or be something atwixt those two extremes.
What does gubernatorial mean?
Capitalism is destructive and wrong because, among other things, it creates the idea that money is the only moral perquisite for ownership. If you can legally buy it in the country you live in, or the country you’re buying it in, or the country you’re from, or the country the former owner is in, or from, or going to, or any other country at all or if the legality of buying it seems obvious to you no matter how lumoxxed up the rest of the world might be on this issue, you have the right to buy it, own it, and use it as you see fit.
For example, consider these movies to better understand what I have so eclectically (very good, very good) claimed:
“House of Sand and Fog”
“Indecent Proposal”
In both of these movies, a house and some land are legally bought, on a legal technicality but still within the law, much to the chagrin and emotional distress of the former owners. In “House of Sand and Fog”, the state of California makes a mistake (gasp) and taxes a woman (Jennifer Connelly, oh gods, getting hot again. . . ) for a business she doesn’t have. It’s only fifty dollars or so, but she goes to court and gets the tax audit removed, no problem. Until it comes out later that somehow that court session got lost and she failed to receive notifications of the outstanding tax. Her house, the house she grew up in and her father fucking built and which is absolutely beautiful and on beautiful land, is repossessed by the state of Californ-i-a. It is then bought by someone else. Who will not sell it back for a price that the state is willing to pay because he loves it.
I ask you, if you love something, does that make it okay to steal it? Certainly not. But did he steal it? Certainly not, under US law. But does he have the moral high ground? Fucking hell no his ass does NOT. She loved that house, it was beautiful, family-built, and a symbol of her childhood. It was crammed to the fucking gunwales with sentimental value and a mis-audited tax and a failure to communicate put it up for sale. And it was bought by someone who would accept no less that twice the price he paid for it to sell it back.
In “Indecent Proposal”, it’s even worse. A man pays some other man’s wife to have sex with him. Pays the couple a million dollars which they accept because they are about to lose their dream house, still under construction in a beautiful New England location because the economy is in the toilet and they can’t get jobs for shit. They even strike out at Vegas.
So they take this billionaire’s, who likes to buy things everyone says can’t be bough (like real, emotional love), offer and she sexes him good. He then goes on a campaign to drive them apart with stress and make her love him by being charming, good-looking, compassionate (when he isn’t using his money to drive her away from her husband of seven years), and fucking rich to hell. His first step is to buy their half-finished dream-house and refuse to sell it back for less than two million dollars. If was up for sale because they where two or three days late on payments, which they could have made easily with the million and had not received notification because they were in Vegas trying desperately to win the money they couldn’t possibly earn in time to PAY FOR THE HOUSE. The billionaire uses his vast resources to find and buy the house in that microscopic window of time.
Did he have the money and the right, under US law, to buy that house, half-finished or otherwise? Yes. Did he, I say, suh, did he have the moral high ground?
HELL FUCKING NO.
Two houses bought on technicalities by people who had a lot of money from people who had huge emotional investments and a lot less liquid cash.
The conclusion anyone who has managed to, over the protests of the fat cats that run the world with their money, pull their head out of the ass comes to is this: capitalism teaches us that the only thing that you need to become morally and legally eligible to buy something is the money to buy it from whomever happens to own it at any given moment. No matter who that person is, how they got it, how long ago they got it or for how long they have it, or what they got it for.
The requirement for moral justification is raw money.
I don’t know about you atheists or Moslems or whatever, but as for you Christians, money is the root of all evil and therefore makes a shitty basis for moral justification. And I’m happy to say I know plenty of atheists who think money isn’t that great either.
The death penalty’s supporters often argue that it is cheaper than jailing convicts for life-sentences. It is. Evidently, killing is okay, if it saves our asses money.
The nobility and aristocracy of France started the Great Revolution because they wouldn’t pay higher taxes. (And that is a fact my friends, try me if you don’t believe me) They loved their money too much. It blinded them just as it blinds the aristocracy and nobility of the money-worshipping world we live in now. Money’s not good, it’s not neutral, it’s fucking EVIL. Maybe it’s not in concept, because in concept it’s just a symbol for goods and services that you can carry in your pocket. But as the fully independent resource it has become, it’s the best tool and weapon of whatever devils you believe in.
Money is the root cause of a dozen wars and atrocities. It’s an old rap but it’s as true a theory as gravity and no one ever says “Oh, not that gravity bullshit again.”, so here it is, again. Slavery was about money. They justified it and dressed it up with religion that they twisted to fit their money-loving sin but it was about money. The Old World obliterated the New for money and the love of it.
Let’s talk for a second about that obliteration, shall we? I think that it’s an easy thing to say but a little harder to really understand. It’s like how people can imagine and effectively conceptualize a hundred, or a thousand, or maybe even understand how much ten thousand is, a little, but how no one can really imagine a billion. We get the concept, but it’s just way too much to hold in the shit-ass mind that’s so easily bought by the rich. A billion is like that obliteration. The Spanish and the Portuguese razed entire empires to the ground. The Incan nation went from about twenty million people to TWO million in something like ten years. ONE POINT EIGHT MILLION MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN DIED A YEAR FOR TEN YEARS FOR THE LOVE OF MONEY. I know that there are some atheist capitalists out there who’d like to blame Christianity, or some capitalist Christians (heh) who’d like to blame the Papists, but I got news for you lot: the crowned heads of Europe didn’t launch the largest cultural invasion in history in the name of God. They tacked that on for icing, but they did it cause there was money over here. A lot of it. Priests and clergy did some bad, baaad shit in the name of the Savior Christ, but the entire effort was launched by the love of money.
There’s a modern day Israel, and the Lord knows his chosen people have been persecuted like almost no other group in history. There’s a modern Iraq and Turkey, and those empires rose and died a thousand years ago. The empires of Europe lost their power and went democratic, but they’re still there. China, ancient China, raped by fake communists and by Huns and by every empire worth its salt before Mao got his turn is still there, and not to be sneezed at now by any means. Hawaii, ancient tribal Hawaii is a state, but it exists. Same for Alaska. Japan, the only country every to be attack with the raw, unbridled ferocity of nuclear fire and shattered in every way possible is still kicking.
There’s no Incan Empire, or Republic, or state.
There’s no Aztec or Mayan Empire, or Republic, or province, or county. They’re gone. Their seed wiped from the earth, their cities smashed and burned and raped and eroded to dust three hundred years ago. Because they unhappily straddled gold and silver deposits galore.
That’s what the love of money brings.
And that, my beloved cock-sucking world, is a profound truth.
Glooooooria!
Glooooooria!
Glooooooria!
Glooooooria!