Wednesday, 8 January 2020

Sadism - The scourge of the modern age -

Sadism n. verb.

A form of clinical shock.

The survival-based sublimation come subordination, with prejudice, of the growth of the emotional body [and the comparably symbiotic intellect], its contagious spread through group-based systems attended by an increasing perforation of any useful discrimination between its biological and social imperatives; that is, whether one or esp. many are suffering from such a disease or, conversely, benefiting from a kind of imperative if decidedly sadistic social and biological development will become increasingly equivocal, the decided sadistic advantage rather serving more to quell dissent, with prejudice, than to accommodate it on any but a provisional, misleading, maternalistic or paternalistic basis.

Given its prolific spread as both disease and as though biological AND social imperatives, it could be argued and needs to be that sadism is the basis of modern cybernetics, the entrainment of the aesthetic, cognitive, sensory and moral apparatus of the human being to a decidedly morbid societal or civilized industrial-scale human logistics afforded more freedom [defining yours] than the living child and the critical symbiotic organs of orders of the physical, emotional and mental body, the mother, the father and the family construct, along with the attendant stories and customs that grow among the articulation of human needs along the lines of the extraordinary scales of acute survival challenges as well as the many orders of undefined or yet to be defined meaning formed or yet to be formed with the vast natural earth and all of its living intelligence. 

ie. I cannot tell the world how to live with the voice of some moral and aesthetic superintendent bearing the names of innumerable aliases [actors], but a sadistic or cybernetic world insists on doing so and so any number of its adopted children must for their own survival. Therefore, the natural unmolested growth of the emotional body of a child as something you are born with and can naturally expect to grow is more likely to be attributed with or tacitly, titanically, diachronically and even Biblically accused of all of the menace, danger, threat of the sadistic civilized subordination of the emotional body and its considerable if wild intellect. 

Love and Hate become developmentally equivalent.

Sadism constitutes a total change of the set points and metrics of human existence, with the priority favouring the wage[death and torture]-earning prospects of the living child.

We can predict from this that people of all faiths, when confronted by the problem of sadism, will protect, with violence, the means of their own torture and that of their young, all for their survival. 

They would be highly suggestible to propaganda the more ubiquitous it becomes and the greater its saturation of all mediums or methods of biological, emotional, intellectual, moral and aesthetic communication. 

Sexual changes...

Monday, 6 January 2020

The Way of the Wild

From the beginning the boat of the sun floats atop the boat of the moon, heaven and earth need each other, and a new day is born.

The being is surrounded by water, and the water becomes flesh.

The fire engendered by the water is unquenchable as the hungry growing nature and knowledge of the heavens and the earth.

All things live from the beginning; the stars, the mountains, the rabbits, the wolves, their sounds and these bearing forth the fruit of new songs from old and old from new; wherever there is life and breath and meaning set or even yet to be, there is from the beginning and from this beginning no end like no flesh that should not bear forth new fruit, new life, new stories and old, pressures even great utterly overwrought with the insouciant waters of the deep; heaven and earth need each other. 

Such is the way of the wild, the way mother and father and child share the same birth, and not only once but echoing through the aethers of eternity the words like limbs of what they are, of what they were and of all that which they will be that people can know to say even in the most troubled waters, waters where the boat of the sun should not fear to tread, see at first the boat of the moon like the mind that tilts this way and that, keeping track of its embarkation and losing the shore and feeling the wind and sending forth even dry withered branches into the coldest wastes of earth and air and flesh, a mind unto itself, a fire that burns in the darkness, a shock in the night and unending quiet threads of voice and flesh who see and feel and hear the awesome and even frightening depths of their hunger to be, that it should pain them most when hope is fled and things within the breast of thee would contend with all the world from the beginning, making all things new from one path to the next.

And rest, activity, anguish, pleasure, pain, love that should reach to that sun should find in that aspect - which may comprehend so much that is, at once, so perilous or so great - that even where it dies a mighty flesh is restored to parts unknown; even the greatest tales lose their form so that new stories, new songs may be born, their first essence, their first love strains with filling all the flutes of gold and green and grey, of waving leaves and limpid seas of clouds of youth and age; their mothers and their fathers try their hands at conceiving the child of the mother and the man, their faces set in our minds so close and so far away where peace may dwell from the beginning and happiness that grows their too.

Chapter II

Where does any being live where They that animal, that plant, that child, mother and man does not share in the greatest existence of all beings?

Long are the days of the earth and of the stars. Deeply rooted are the trees. Cold and warm do they mete out their quiet, simple, yet prolific and prosaic measures. They found summoned from within their shared existence something like the thoughts and feelings which alternately swelled and swooned, which roiled and bloomed within the human heart, drawing forth their sap from the land, so that blood which fruited with the leaves of the earth so the dreams of all mankind come labours measured out such far reaching powers of meaning whose richest tapestries drew down the waters of sun and star and moon and bent the body to its appointed tasks, tasks gathered up the many hours of the world into even the most fleeting feelings and thoughts the slightest stirrings of wind or ice, heat or cold the barest leaf or blade or stone the sound that groaned with every pleasure and every agony atoned by all that was ever or would ever be known, grown and felt from the beginning that every leaf and every name should surely know the first roots, the first stars, the first purest strongest hunger of all its kind and all its kind to come and so that flesh whose greatest labours and rests then yet to be.

Heaven cannot be seen by those whose minds do not dwell in the earth nor bear to lift their hearts upward to something more than cold and dark and distant helms of ships upon which our love had never sailed, from whose mighty decks had not been left drowning in deep and dark and ice through whose evil seas of troubles only meanest hungers could pierce. 

There are those who, calling themselves true and good and honest people of sound powers of discrimination, will do naught but ill to all those who fall within the precinct or range of their alias-laden theater of the damned - and it will be those who have fallen prey who will be said to have fallen out of the sanctuary of our first love. Still others will not fathom this, and still others who will not fathom this but to execute its unfathomable orders and unto lapses of ethical reasoning which their powers of good and evil - powers the same when it serves them and as different as can be when it serves such a serpent tongue as to fashion almost every cavity of heaven and earth and of every perverse vulnerability man was ever innocently possessed of for its own sadistic plots, plots versed by almost every measure of the theater of heaven and earth, of God or Shakina - in nothing else but that of the monopoly interests in an alien human cosmology - ethical reasoning, childlike reasoning and that of a native limbilical emotional body which shall never be permitted - like all the purest strength of human kind that ever nursed from the breast of hers - to grow like a wild thing which threatens to foil their every plot. Their hungers we do not know, but we feel them well enough, and that of many horrible orders of the kind, orders which thrive in sex and sensibility from every kind of ambiguity - a kind of industrial schizophrenia - the voices of whose prey - and that of their own child this day - they will not hear or see and hate unto death and all the wages thereof, silent death which had long before ne'er come to man nor beast. 

The wilds are with us who wish utmost that our enemies will never be forced to confront the enormity of their own madness and death, a madness and death which, like the venom of a snake, they will like to foist upon their victims, to view their victims as something like the rightful beneficiaries of their hate, impressions of that hunger within the range of all of the recipients of all that voices, plots and plays upon aught that first loves the earth that loves from within this emotional being whose voice and spirit must roll like thunder at times to catch the wonder of those who, once upon a time, were not so mad nor crafty nor unworthy as that.

That violence that is so Biblical that the only way to make it better is to stay the trembling heart from making it even worse by trying to say anything about a torture takes what it wants from what it loves the most.

Chapter III

Even as I imagined such things I knew something like the evil that should not be named, and  I knew a courage which faith gave me when I was first given breath, a courage which was and was to bear the torture of the heart of a child by the mother, the torture of the heart of the father by the mother and the tortures of a mother tortured into it by things which must serve to heal that heart and that mother and that father of their woes if also as though of their own survival advantage, else I would not last having to manufacture the right feelings and responses suitable to the widely careening hatred and happiness of one such as she who in every way seemed as little interested in my happiness beyond the age of two [according to her own words, though she know it not] as a patron of a steakhouse cares about a crude but dear meat that is in short supply, and a meat, a flesh of me, that was not even worth getting to know all that well, especially given how well she knew me by the time I was two.

I started out writing this book with something of a love in my heart that was truly very dear to me, all the more so after the months of abuse I had received from a woman. Upon informing my mother, with whom I am living at the time, of this brief respite, she waved a hand in the air with barely feigned disinterest. Of the over forty books I have written, not a one has offended her delicate lips whilst any amount of filth about me as a man has never seemed to escape her deliberate and prodigious hatred of me or of men in general. My mother is a sadistic schizophrenic.

Undiagnosed of course. I told her that I had written forty or more books and had completed that in seven years and then began to walk these lands with a deliberate interest in learning and healing and growth, only to find out more about the cruel touch of human beings who can be relied upon to ignore, with little to no help from my mother, any man, walking by himself from day to day, who does not have a means to tell the world about how rich he is, how much he knows about anything or how great a person he must be to nobody in particular and precisely because of what he was or was not wearing on his head, or upon his feet, or because he did or did not appear to be be using his time wisely on earth, notwithstanding the fact that, from the age of a child, he had his own dearest thoughts about his own worth and so everything he needed, in turn, with which to learn about the virtue or evil of those around him.

There is something - not in the worst of organized nepotistic tyranny of the mind - something about our fellow man which we dare not say, for if we do it arouses fears of the devil, and that is the black oblivion inside people where a human spirit of kindness and good judgement should be.

A woman I once knew, a psychopath named Felicity Kelly, ceased to be interested in what her cult of love unending could do for me and had nothing else to talk to me about, as my friend of course, but how she could help me with what see saw as my problems in life, notwithstanding the fact that on numerous occasions by this point she had readily volunteered the fact, when it did her service to do so, that she had absolutely no qualifications to offer any kind of psychological support, much less solicitation, to anyone, at all. As it happens, and after complaining to her of numerous cases of sexual assault from her and other students in her spiritual school [one of her elder male students told me he had raped two separate younger girls, and Felicity knew this and said nothing to her students, Felicity herself told me of other male instructors sexually assaulting their students and being told not by the Master, who told nobody else of course and kept the teacher on staff as his disciple, Felicity herself was almost killed by the first disciple of the Master, a Chinese doctor in Austin, TX, who told her that she had attracted that behaviour but that he was all-seeing and was protecting her like his very own daughter; all-seeing but did not know his disciple was a psychopath], the last thing she ever said to me was that a man she knew [who had assaulted me in front of her out of clear hatred no less inspired by her continuing righteous indignation that I would not accept the continued moral ambivalence of a woman who once told me that the only reason I felt uncomfortable about a strange woman coming to live with me was because was was scared of women, not that I should have had any reason to be afraid of a woman, herself, who had enticed me into bed and then accused me of having sex with teenagers the very next day, and they shock and indignation that I did not wish to sleep with her again, much less be her boyfriend], the last thing she ever said to me was that this particular man could help me with what she saw as my problems; she did not wish to know anything else about my living days.

I am so afraid to be here and to say this, but I honestly think my mother does not entirely have a mind of her own but operates according to other promptings known to me only by the violent effects they have upon my emotional, physical, sexual being. I have faced hospitalization a dozen times since whenever I have lived with her as an adult male. I have asked to stop yelling at me in our home, to stop spreading awful stories about me, and to stop making me sick. 

She works with an older man in need. She has never been so happy that I know since he came home from the hospital, since he totally needs her help; he is virtually unconscious most of the time. One day, I began watching a video featuring a man of similar age who was simply discussing the preparation of his meals. My mother could only hear his clear male voice. She immediately quipped, with violence, that he did not sound like a professional chef at all. I informed her what this gentleman was doing. He was a genuine older man talking about preparing meals on a budget. She caught a glimpse of him, noted that he was very good looking, then dismissed him and me. Her career for years has been the care of older infirm people. Her colleagues - women - are strange.

Writing these things about my mother - arguably the last family or friend I have in this world - and thinking about my mother this way, much less being treated violently by her, is the hardest thing in life for me. 

To use a craft I have taught myself - writing - to treat with such personal matters in such starkly demonic and forensic detail is as horrible to me as it may likely be for the reader. It has been horrible for me for years.

How I should ever make a living, as people say, I do not know.

What I do know is that at least for some or most of the time my mother has simply learned to manufacture whatever she thinks a caring person or mother would say or do - and often not even that. She is sociopathic.

On this last Christmas day, my mother told me that the evening before and the best night she had had in a while she confided in our neighbour, a woman she knows I loathe and dread to even be in the same building with, that her son, me, was utterly dependent upon my mother and that they had discussed, together, how my mother might sue my father, a man she has not spoken to in years, for money to help take care of me. This neighbour will undoubtedly circulate this information throughout the building where we live. Upon hearing this revelation, told me with utter matter of factness, I simply asked my mother if she would like to provide me with a set of numbers about the costs I have burdened her with as a sick dependent male, as she seems to want or need to think of me. Only a week prior, I had spoken to her kindly and asked, in the context of another conversation we were having about my continued health concerns [none of whose true and explicitly true nature my mother will ever confide to anybody - xianity is all about hatred and sadism and lying in order to feed off of vulnerable people and each other], if she could ask various family members to tell me or to write exactly what they think of me, as I suspected that this was a hindrance to ending our long lasting estrangement, mostly due to their dislocating my should over thirteen times in as many years while I was an adult. No numbers appeared yet.

A week later I get this, capping weeks of humiliating domestic abuse and sudden fits of rage, often telling me to shut up when in rare happy moods - the dreaded axe of her spreading the worst possible narrative about our shared living arrangement as a matter of fact related to my health and her sincere effort to take care of me. That day, Christmas only a week or two ago, my shoulder dislocated again. I had even had surgery on it years earlier. Even the attending doctors were perplexed how it could have dislocated. My mother continued the verbal abuse from Christmas Eve, both to and from the hospital, where she spent only a few short minutes to drop me off, anxious to return home. And yet she had delayed our speedy departure by upwards of ten minutes in order to fetch her sleeping older dog, whom she knew would have been fine for an hour.

My mother can be relied upon to scoff, even though she has no knowledge in the matter, when I inform her that in Canada there are no shelters for the domestically abused men. Sadists dismiss things easily.

Now she has no idea my mental prowess. Her efforts are organized and precise when they need to be and often blur into daily kindness and as though she has no sincere qualms about any adverse effects to me, to her, or to our home. She does not believe she makes me sick, even though I have shown this to her explicitly in ways I will not go into here. Suffice to say I had good help from Mother Nature, who told me that my mother will not be stopped unless I do something. By simply telling my mother to stop making me sick, my contractions, which usually last for twelve hours or more, ceased immediately in her presence. She asked me if I felt better saying those things and then went to sleep while I told her how I felt about being made sick, at one point, for four months on end, day by day reeling in agony in my stomach with no known cause, deathly ill, with not a kind word from any family, even when they were right in front of my pale form, and certainly never after, people my mother tells me care about me. And while I was going through the most agonizing health crisis of my life my mother, I later learned, was telling anyone who would listen among our mutual acquaintance to her own female elder clients [other sadistic women] that I had raped a woman who was actually, unknown to my mother, the first woman I had ever had sex with [she broke into my home and raped me. My mother knows this.]

These women later sexually assaulted me for months on end whilst I was offering volunteer palliative care to one of them for months on end; this hatred came out eventually whilst I was living with a female landlord as a roommate, a woman who sexually assaulted me twice, once with her sister, and later with two of her friends.

My mother likes to declare that I am the perpetrator and these women are the victims; she says this when drinking a lot and it serves her to see me as the source of all of her pain because I honestly believe that her alter ego is based in the double murder of herself and her father, brought on by Christianity and its effects upon my mother, her mother, her father and my entire family.

While meditating in nature the other day, I cast a spell that this evil would pass from me and my mother in short order and never need of returning. You cannot confront psychopaths like my mother about such things as their own behaviour. They choose their victims well as receptacles for their delusional hatred of women or, in this case, men. The wind was with me, the sky, the birds, clouds, the streams, the grass. I feel as though nature is with me on this.

It is well known to me that she does not share positive information about me to others; this is clinically narcissistic. If she truly believed I was mentally retarded in some way and was willing to talk to anyone we knew about this, you would think she would delight in telling people I had written a single book, let alone over forty of them. 

I say these things after suffering the force of all of the accusation and impropriety of them for my entire adult life, an accusation I both cannot answer for but must by offering myself and the freedom to say what I am and be treated with courtesy as a living sacrifice, much as with the victims of the Xian inhuman ideas of genesis, stories that no sexually healthy human race would ever think of inventing. If I say anything, the system springs back on me. The predator grooms their prey by monopolizing the narrative. Certainly my mother can always seem to find other degenerate people to involve as albeit sadistic dupes in her various charades. She had me believing for most of my life that my father was the only violent sadist in my home as a child. I used to think that my mother was the heart of my home and my life. Now I think she has been drinking the blood of the heart of all decency from a wine glass. She used to be drinking when I came home for lunch from school. She was a bright spot in my day. She never asked me how I was. I was like a quiet self-caring animal, and yet today she will scoff that call humans animals, albeit their own fair kind. The great marvel, among many, is that my mother does not anticipate any contradictions in her thought and action.

She says she cares like a mother. I have not been able to see my father in over a decade. Whenever she talks about him doing things that make him happy she speaks with hatred. They have been divorced for over a quarter century. Her advice to me about continued abuse? Get over it.

Chapter IV

There is a difference between what people accept about living in society and what they would prefer to have or not to have in their way of living, a preference everywhere exerted by our magical feeling being throughout every pang of its lovelessness and regret - and we shall there learn it.

Heaven were a lofty realm, a word, like the earth, which describes a vast terrain for body and mind, for the one is of that heaven and the one is of that earth are, in body and mind, a mind for the body and a body for the mind. And so the mind that has a body will always have a body with a mind from time to time and from body to body, day to day, night to night. That heaven which describes so much - itself so often described so poorly - gained with the power of its contemplation the way the roots gained their prospectively fruiting limbs the limbs and letters of night and day, heaven and earth, heaven comprehended the earth much as every passing hour and bower of earth comprehended its heaven; so with we.

The saddest stories are sacred to me. The sadness of my stories, of my walk on earth, tell others about the punishing concussion of hatred which I have so often and so certainly felt to the utmost of my health and well being and among the greatest challenges to them both. What do you call this hatred? For I say that the voice of my sad story, of mine very intelligent emotional body and being could never speak either too truly or to much to anyone who is worthy of such a sacred story as mine every sadness felt and heard; and in our sadness great knowledge we shall not live as long without the knowing and the atoning of it upon our earthly walk, and some of the greatest riches and mercies of this good walk upon this good green earth, riches which would never be and have never been denied us. Every wind, every substance and meter of how we truly fee has a spirit that ministers to ourselves and to all the tiny, mysterious all-knowing, all-growing heavens which scamper, flock and sing through all the dreamlines in our blood as surely as within the spirits of the sun and moon and stars.Had they not spoken to us as a child? What do our voices sound like? Among what might company or congress do we speak? From whence this peace? The wisest people are sad, and their heart hurts early in their walk; they are often thought sad by others - and strangely sad at that, preoccupied with some far off battle for the living spirit of our total emotional being, and what we can say, and what we do not say, and what we may need only of finer songs for finer ears than this which twist through these sacred knots and seams and words and leaves and frightful partings from happier and heartier times than these; so can often feel, and so often lonely seas we measure them out by every mouth we can to feel the air and space around us for the nectar of the hummingbird or of the songs of the whale or the helm of our own mighty canoe across the heavens. We wave back at you, for our every enemy has their own saddest story, their own canoe to paddle through red and blue nerves and words and winds and swells of some vast inspiration and exhale of all that would ever grace the lustful face of helms and barks set sail, the lovely busts of our mothers and fathers wrapped with that mighty lonely sea and ours, that sacred song of thee.

There are some who would take something from us that is not theirs to take; so much so they will accuse us of being unloving, disrespectful, immodest, proud, or sick, dumb even for not giving this to them as perhaps once they contended with the richness of the generosity of the spirit of a child, of us, of me, of I who have much practice of being alone, even among my own brothers and sisters. [What do you call them? What do you call that? How did it or how did they learn our name? Did they learn Our Name? Did they learn it on their lips by sun and blue and cloud the way we, as a child, first learned the names of all those whom we trusted and loved as well as any spirit of this earth could ever love or trust another spirit, so much so that we shall not live long without the everlasting sunlight of these very words.] I have been very happy this way at times. I feel things people have in their minds very deeply. Few people manage to evade my good judgement, although I always wish they might be able to surpass my saddest expectations of them. Walking around I get the feeling that many people have little practice with their sad stories and suffer a kind of false pride about how they manage to deny such a suspicion by sufficiently flinging it around; the key word is distribution. Granted, there is a lot to distribute, and so much pain and all the wages of that deadly consummation - or marriage - so devoutly to be wished, or so we are told whenever we open a story book or survey a working farm field and inhale more fertile and more gnarled ribbons of living scripture - words than these, something more like every air I breathed a child in love with mother and father and with my home and all that boded for all need only be as good and true as knew this child be.

What do people whom people think Wise and Spiritual and Psychic know so well that they never tell us their saddest personal stories as though knowing those stories well was the only way to know anything all that well, so well that it could make you well by drawing from a well of that meaning and that beauty swells from within the knowledge that our saddest stories tell? Less of they and more of what our only voices say. 

There lay riches yet in the way of the wild. Our way through any wickedness into the heavenly reaches of our earthly heaven and of our heavenly earth, so do the horns of ancients learn the stories of the deeps and of the keeps of medicines which belong to these People of earth and stone and star and tides not lonesome yet thou walks and dreams and wales this way and that, that all that truly heard thy voice or felt thy feeling being was thee and all the heavens and all the thoughts and impressions which slipped to mingle like evening summer dew upon the vines where all thy blood is meant to go, the heart would find its mark and howled from the beginning out from this thy very mouth, and this thy flesh, thy brain, and words that feign a labour not their own, not quite, that good is not so good or great til good hath see this child hate, and hate like this that took our minds or made some evil twist these vines that kept and keep so long that lives so blue and deep. Spells of strength from hells of mere deceit and stories keep what ears were not to hear nor voices speak. So, yes, the child of this spelling wilds mere defeat.

Chapter V

How the emotional body feels and speaks is how heaven reaches out and around all the nerves of pure energy incessantly taking on new flesh across every nascent threshold of heaven and earth. Man and Mother and Child were conceived and lived and breathed tethered to sun and moon and star with limbs of eternal stories of simultaneous thunder and genesis utterly symbiotic with everything that has ever taken or will take form here and hereafter. Stars sparkle within our eyes because we and the stars in every way we feel them or sun, moon or wind or time are biologically related. Neither would exist without the other in a complete statement of the nature of both energy [or electricity] and everlasting life.

If I could sail out among the stars
And let the snow and wind and rain atone for me....

Most people whom I have had either the privilege or the great misfortune or both of knowing were as little able to respect or even to want to demonstrably get to know me as I was to expect them to be able to make any very useful distinctions between right and wrong on a good day.

From behind a fog of war and tears I must allow my good mother all the love she has for her good little boy, else that madness shall be allowed - by me - to vanquish that love. For all the reasons that I must close my heart to my father, I must open my heart to my father, else I should help this world to kill him and me. It is a dark religion people work for, is it not?

I write things with a manner of speaking that I would be most loathe to use with my family or with my fellow man, even if to use it would be to ease his heart, his family heart and hearth of that great creative imperative medicine of our silence which can be so horribly poisonous.

I am good. I am true. My voice, my mind, my body are inimitably good for my entire environment, great - these are simple things which I shall never take for granted - I have never had the luxury of doing so and nor have ever been afforded that compensation that labour or that torturous dimension wages an unremitting utterly moribund war of debt by celestial ledger which should see me wish to countenance such disrespect for my mother and father - rather all of the doom and none of the bloom thereof. 

My life is more than I can understand with words. A kind of illimitable wordlessness and voicelessness seems need attend something like the death and torture of our Mothers, who become utilitarian, sadistic, industrial, civilized drones as a result. When the men cannot protect their mothers or their women, they are more likely to sacrifice themselves to the resulting Shakina [Shekhinah] male-sacrificing, to a father-sacrificing compulsion - or social and even natural or biological moral imperative. 

Young boys try to save their mothers by allowing themselves to be, seeking to be absorbed by them. Men become absorbed in the pleasing or the appeasing of women. They may become violent with women. The women are trained to be or must become violent with men and boys. None of this is conscious but an animal reflex, like coughing or gagging. 

Hatred follows; it is planted in the purest fields of our infancy, the hatred even of the mother of their children, of their father, of their own mothers, and our fathers of they, of us. This is the reverse sepia-toned end of the Biblical and Christian kingdom, that of the so-called Abrahamic faiths. 

The hardest thing for me to learn as a middle-aged man is that my mother and father hated me, and would gladly hate me to death. My mother has almost killed me many times merely withe venom in her voice; it is a not so well known fact that women can kill with their voices; many men knows this but say nothing. My mother killed her father with stomach cancer. My father had part of his lower intestine removed within years of his marriage to my mother; during my middle aged years living with my mother, I have been sent to hospital with undiagnosed severe abdominal cramping and flu over a dozen times. Last Christmas eve, I relaxed for the first time in months of her hatred, and she chose that moment to curse me so badly that my shoulder dislocated the next day during routine stretching exercises; I explained gently to her about how she was sending her anger into my body and hurting me; she does not stop; my words meaning less than nothing to her; she cannot and will not hear them; she is a psychopath and cannot help herself. Men beware.

Notice homes where men contract severe and mysterious seemingly chronic illness or injury every year. When in junior high school, I used to miss the first week of every new section of science classes, which changed rooms and subject every three months the first year of high school. I had the same teacher throughout. One day he wondered out loud to me that I always seemed to get sick the first week of a new section; it just so happened that every new section we had to pick new people to sit with, and I could not accept this challenge as acceptable to me; it drove me wild with fear. If I had not been a good student, I am sure I would have faced some form of disciplinary action or added shame; as it was, I faced only the humiliation of being discovered by a white adult, none of whom ever wondered as to why I might feel the way I do because the system does not allow it. How many of your teachers could allow one of the thousands of children they hold captive for many years to wander around and find something else to do as a human animal? 

School dances are another staple of the high school social training system for the sacrifice of men; I would never go to them. What was curious to me was that whatever people did at these school dances, they always seemed to learn  how to shame men who did not wish to spend even more of their time in an institution than we already did for absolutely no pay except the opportunity to work harder for less. The absolute apotheosis of the school dance is the graduation dance; I did not go to that either; I was like the student who never learned to read; the thought of choosing to be around my fellow inmates voluntarily while loud music played and we swayed our young untested and already largely mutilated mental and physical bodies together to the beat of State canned rock or pop music, music with a subtle flair for the aesthetics of the cannibal and the necrophiliac, all after the mental and sexual bodies have been forced to improvise some kind of natural developmental epic, having long been relieved of anything like a reasonable domestic emotional continuum with a free mother and father made me rather bear the shame of loneliness.

This is not growing up. This is not natural. This is human sacrifice.

And it all stems from the hatred of our Mothers and so of the hatred by the resulting Shakina complex of fathers, boys and men. Try to find an honest woman [the word woman means the interring of men, the death of men, the murder and sacrifice of the male flesh], try to find a woman who can stand to listen to a man. Yet this global catastrophe speaks volumes.

When men cannot protect their mothers, their women, they will turn on themselves, they will sacrifice themselves, and the hatred of their mothers will gladly accept their sacrificial flesh year by year of the Roman calendar, which is little more than a calendar to mark out the sacrifice and patricide of the Father of the Man to the hearth fire. 

The voice of a woman burns; it often burns her own breast milk. I have seen it often how the child does not got to the mother breast easily, to the point that most mothers do not even feed their infants anymore. They sacrifice them because their bodies seem to tell them to; their own breast cares little for the flesh of their womb. Silent disease of the white mother.

My own white mother lies prodigiously about many things, including the fact that she had no interest in breast feeding her children. It is so prolific a problem - the psychopathic white mother - that she is afforded a titanic cultural reservoir of ways to care about her child; she can gorge herself on love for her children and then she can gorge herself on their flesh while she deprives them of hers. You think my words can lie. You hope.

The child or the man tries to protect the mother from everything, including himself, and so readily offers himself up to her, to them, to his only love; and so their food will never run out, many of them often becoming little more than roving predator prostitutes, sly fork tongued Lilliths, actresses, psychopaths, sadists, you name it, roaming around for the next sacrificial male, to say his name with such love and relish that he interprets her hunger for him as genuine, as he most certainly will once he has satisfied himself that he is a true and strong man whom she must truly love and admire, which she does as sacrificial meat in keeping with the mores and slogans of the scriptural digestive enzymes of society and entertainment of every kind of Biblical sophistication and horror. 

Man destroys forests. Forests grow. The Shakina destroys manhood, and manhood grows. It is all natural. The mind has many levels. The abstract functions of children are so effectively and sexually destroyed by their favourite school teachers and mentors of magic and fame, riches and nobility, sacrifice and dedication that there remains in their higher brain function but the ability to think that they are thinking things all by themselves when they are, in fact, merely feeling the satisfaction - though a man who built his own home who only learned to act as though he did from a Television - of being told what to think with a complex array of concepts about time, space and of course labour, work, and the living wage, which is perhaps the greatest contradiction in terms on this earth. 

If you poll your local intelligesia at the local bar, you will find that words mean everything to men until you start looking at the meaning of words - he life means everything until it is examined because any scrutiny worthy of a church mouse will reveal that it is all about the sacrifice of the father and the many alter egos that are born from it, a complex average or common schizophrenia that is actually absolutely fundamental to the school and work life, such as it is, allowing the child to remain highly suggestible and pliable while leaving them none so fractured or so little that their resulting qualms about the prospect of years of languishing in self-delusion and family estrangement with but the power to rearrange the words in their minds to better emulate how happy they are supposed to be to console them and to pass on to their sacrificial children - boys.

Not that girls who learn to kill boys are any better off. They are not.

I have never kissed a girl, never had a girlfriend, never had voluntary non-violent sex with a girl [women rape men, as far as I can see], never had a job of any length, never spent any time at an unemployment center, never owned a car, I do not have a driving license, I do not travel, I have never owned a home - and I refuse to accept that shaming should be a part of the life of any boy or man. I attract little else from the world.

The Shakina takes many forms, but it may be said with no little confidence that the Shakina is responsible for all narcissism and sadism in women and men all over the world. Men are mostly Shakina. Some call these white knights. That is too good a name. They are members of the brigades of active upwardly mobile forward moving hard working honest Abe psychopaths that now, male or female, comprise over ninety percent of the general population, along with their royal paracletes or fellow actors and aliases, aliens, if you will, of a bloody sacrificial mother ship whose mighty helm goes year by  year undefended by our men but to allow themselves to be eaten alive and their corpses strung up, their bones layered on to see this great project through to its human destiny.

Groups of white people are dangerous, so I do not join groups of white people ever, so I have my man group of me. That said, it took me many years and well into my middle age to accurately and honestly reflect upon how all my greatest most manly traits were so often and even inevitably sacrificed and shamed by all the women around me; they know little else about how to love men other than how to absorb them into their Shakina complex, a complex which affords them every protection, every claim against male kind, their voices increasingly deluded into finding the most rapturous fulfillment in the multiplicative power gained so easily by joining them with that of the increasingly more openly man-hating world.

And, No, I am not anti-feminism. Feminism is anti-feminism better than I ever could. I am anti-women of all kinds. Women are the greatest evil on earth today. Men need to save them from themselves. Men need to save themselves and their children. Men need to protect their minds though the hulls of a child who deserved to be treated without any coercion or shame and with the sanctity, rather, with which any religion or creed seems to need to demand to be treated, notwithstanding the fact that the hull of our mind needs to take us to and keep us in heaven and earth, our safe passage assured by those who have come before us, true men. 

The prototypical and the average psychopath or narcissist, the Shakina, who is the average narcissistic psychopath and sadist because that is the average person on earth today, the Shakina-narcissist wants to add the male part or the male flesh to her flesh. The earth adds new flesh all the time without needing to sacrifice man or boy, mother or man. But the Shakina system is not so. The distribution of labour is amazing. A man can grow so much bread that he has, easily, enough to give away or trade if he likes. But the Shakina needs more than that and taxes the bread maker so that the bread maker has to become a cannibal in order to survive a nature, song and knowledge everlasting and abundant. 

This way, people who may not seem like people will have to suffer to have their lives and labours dictated to them. To labour is to breathe, to breathe life into our flesh and into our own mind with our own inner feeling, thinking and speaking with respect to our own congress with our total surroundings in heaven and earth. A wage is a death. Nature may have death of a kind, but there is no death like the wages of organized labour in the Shakina system. Lying and sickness result. War is the rule.

Like the Shakina narcissistic whose average police officer is the logical conclusion of, the average woman wants as much as she can get of the male part but can never get enough and soon becomes obsessed and insatiable, all to her benefit if she can better emulate the widespread logistic and linguistics of the tyrannical female or mother surrogate, masked as a man [an hermaphrodite or a woman with a male part, an Adam or an Atom for a Nuclear family and cosmos] who runs the world. Because the narcissist can never get what they want from a man or body precisely because what they determine they can get [and what you are according to them] has little to nothing to do with what you have to give. The approach of a woman to a man is much like the approach of a thirsty woman to a pure well who first must piss in the well, or who sees the well as but the blood she can get out of it by killing the man - or simply by stealing his labour, as does the mother the labour of her child, a labour which is almost always described as the labour of the mother alone. 

The Shakina mother thing always talks about her labour. Her labour was so difficult. All the times I have asked my mother to describe the day of my birth, she never gives any physiological evidence that her many discomforts ever comprehended my own. She does not realize that as often as she complains about her labour pains, she has never once thought to embellish these sociopathic and theatrical attempts at motherhood with any notes of joy at my birth. It is all about her. 

It is not surprising to me how promiscuous and sexually aggressive women have become over the last several hundred years, to the point that an abortion is seen as a routine treatment for the terrible inconvenience of having something like an obstructed bowel. A fetus for feeding us really cramps your style if you are trying to get that flesh to add to the flesh of the great Shakina. What is a child other than food for her cosmetics? What is the flesh of her body if she cannot add more of the male part? So she learns to accuse the man of being patriarchal. But to be patriarchal means sacrificing the father, a sacrifice that attends or subtends the development of girls, of the alter ego, of the power of accusation when wielded by the empowered woman in order to murder the man, the father, the son, and to model this to her little girls.

Chapter VI

The places we travel through we may like to travel through again. 

We had come this way many times.

What is any way that we may come this way again?

A clump or hill of wet grass in a rain filled pond suggests many stories from the letters, limbs and sounds whence first became the flesh our own ventricles of heaven and earth, of a deep innocent natural importance. 

The birds fly about and perch and alight as though their flight shall never be permanently suspended. People should live so. We would. We had. 

The war of the words [the first instruments and longest lasting effects of war] is such that a billion people may be dispatched at an instant; if only their worst enemies or their closest friends should fail to learn what was most worth learning about their value, inwardly and outwardly, to their entire surroundings, soundings of all form and essence, of wind and wild.

Everything that is young is old. And everything that is old is young. 

Why is that?

Perhaps because what is young and what is old are both closest to what is essential, what is celestial, what is eminently good about being a so incredibly vulnerable body perched between one world and the next so eminently resounding measures young and old everlasting to everlasting.

Everything that is born is born from a feminine being.

There is something truly feminine around all birth.

Where love or mirth would come to birth and a woman scorns or violates with harsh words, there is something unfeminine about that very woman. Her femininity, her celestial being has lost its face; it has been sacrificed. 

Where the sun or the sol [no unsung hero] does not shine with the brilliance in your own mind, that sol of thine did shine in the darkness and the darkness that comprehended it not also comprehended it so well that it set its watch by it, its most infertile defenses, scars and indwelling hatred accepting its very seeds across unseen epics of all future growth. 

So hath thy mind countenanced more than thou knows of all those whom scowl or condemn or damn with faint praise, or might if they set their own minds aside, the better to stretch that law, though born from a woman, which, when stretched, increased the law and the law giver by adding more flesh to its body, the addition to which body rendered the most sophisticated minds into the industrial equivalent of a leaden doorknob.

If I could sail out among the stars
And let the snow and wind and rain atone for me

The Bear, the Eagle, Wolf and Whale swam
Out of the faint remains of something wonderful

What could ever defeat the motion of the clouds across the sky?

Every labour answered the entire question of our survival and of how best to pay out our time, and so every labour contains so pure, so first a labour as to live, like the sun itself, across all and every level of time on earth as in the quintessential nature of our own mind, a mind whose very electrical discharges of a power not unlike the flesh attained by the sounds of our own mouths, a mind that moved diachronically or epiphanically through currents and over wastes of quiet as raucous epics of utmost self-acceptance unto the mythology of kings of kings untold.

A child can be defined as they who dwell in the realms of æther. 

Contrary to popular science or religion, næther child nor heaven nor earth come from as close to nothing as possible but from as close to æther [or everything] as possible. What comes from nothing comes to nothing. What comes from æther youth from age and age from youth were born and born again, and not from nothing forced to strain to be as volatile a something as possibly conforms to not nearly so exhaustive measures of wage and debt, of torture and profit and death which holds place for the most aethereal depths and reaches of aught the flesh and sex of celestial biology which communicated through every nerve every successive contraction of heaven and earth from the beginning, every new stem and resolution that ever proved and disproved all the doubt that first sounded forth the genesis of heaven and earth purest æthers.

We are lied to all of our lives.

The wonderful Earth unto the faintest remains of that something wonderful from everlasting to everlasting is rich this is unto the measures of illimitable blue and unto the unchecked wanderings of the clouds across that and this supernal vault. There is so much water that we should never thirst; there is so much food and purest meats ripening upon the choicest labours of bird and beast and luscious reaches of forest, meadow, mountain, river and stream. Why this world so cruel?

Even with my own deep depression as it has lingered from my earliest days I feel the insults to my aethereal body, and that of what appear to be the sweetest fruits of the labours of the slave, the sadist, the tortured and often torturous human spirit. With all their claims of victory and wealth and goodness and greatest I yet easily dissemble a vague but piercing hatred, a free floating hatred which has long consumed beyond their self awareness much of their neuroskeletal bearing upon me and others, a kind of pathogenic and I suspect family schizophrenia, the schizophrenia and the sadism of the slave to some world or other which has wield the specter of mighty claims upon their most precious and infant mind, their time. Our time or aether were the richest substance yet.

Who, pray tell, consults the child about the forthcoming demands upon their time, their mind, such that any such claims make it their business - for all that they make teaching, preaching or taking their most loving and considerate family business or religion or both - to demonstrate to our satisfaction an as considerable appreciation for the richness of our time? For any cult or pyramid scheme can make such bold claims on the one hand and yet yield such a poverty of accountability lost with all of the bluster of its claim upon the stories of our origins, our purpose, upon the labour of our flesh and blood such that even our mommies and daddies should take up the work of grooming us for future mommies and daddies called employers, priests, teachers and doctors so numerous for yet spreading death and depression so sad and disheartening to the earth. 

For with any common cult or religion, the awe-striking claims give all the appearance of proportional and rational accountability while it is the successive generations of the most vulnerable and richest resources of the cult who must truly bear all the accountability with what amounts to an as dizzying array of stress-based sadism and hysteria meted out, in the worst cases, by millions of hours not ours of morbidly regimented and mechanistic time and labour. Our daily habits constitute the better part of the working force of our purest and most native labour - to breathe the most expansive surroundings of that life whose breath has become our very flesh and blood and whose most celestial labours were our own.

The worker is out of touch with himself, with her surroundings, and is eager to supply or to recoup the loss to their aethereal stores. Under these conditions, the labour becomes comparable to a narcotic addiction, a socially acceptable narcotic addiction to which one must add more and more of his or her time and energy. The worker may become innovative, but such innovations will be attended and are by even more innovative psychic ploys and forms of manipulation in order to steal more aether from others; the average police person is born from the corpse of the former self, prosecuting anyone they see fit with vague accusations that you can feel getting under your skin, speaking in split tongues out of two or more sides of the mouth; keeping something so near to death alive keeps death alive, and this death as such asserts itself through a comparable restriction plus monopoly interest in all forms of interpersonal communication, establishing new base lines, set points as to what your speech, dignity or needs are worth. The results are predictably morbid:

Parents go to war with their children without even knowing it. Children are forced to go to war with the parents. Nobody knows why but the lines are drawn - do this or that or else. The sacrifices of the parents are wielded over the child, who is forced like a slave or worse trade on their time and sense of self and freedom in exchange for fulfilling the sacrifices come expectations of the first desire of their heart - to please the earth by being and being free to make their own meaning like they made their own flesh and blood out of the first stirrings of the heavens and the earth and to distribute their first labour like that through the limbs and senses of truly living communication - genesis from the beginning.

The mother and the father are born when we are.

Such kind affections in her eyes
The waters that shall never cease
And from such waters born the times
That grow upon the heart like leaves

If only the sadist could tell us what they want so much that it is worth hurting us. But of course if they could breathe as such they would not need to hurt us in the first place. Their mind would be true and coherent.

And when your mother and father are schizophrenic sadists?

What torture life will be.

My own long felt depression feels the sting of many unprovoked and cannibalistic snaps at my ethereal body, so much so that I do not think that Man shall ever live in peace, even in his own home, until we cease from such labours which cannot bear fruit but make a food of our flesh.

For it is patently evident that if the lowest members in the power pyramids of the world should bear all of the abdicated accountability of the upper claimants against its children, students, patients, clients, parishioners and human resources, then they, too, should be forced to delegate that forsaken accountability onto whomever they can - those who are more vulnerable than they, growing a world of torment for profit. 

This is how you get a world of average schizophrenic psychopaths.

Chapter VII

People need time in the wild, time of the wild, time to themselves.

Man, Mother and Child need time to define their own relationships.

Once at the helm of our own mental and emotional ships, we could sail wherever we wished and the perfection whence aethereal waters we first slipped should slip like sun and star of mast and wands of wild wood and cloud our sounding breath emerged and never loose its grip upon infinity.

Words so flesh keep not the flesh of summers past nor renew so old acquaintance marked as dear a fleeting shimmer in the glasses our own hearts held up for ultimate importance shielded from as crude a sacrifice as makes many a true heart a foreigner in its own kingdom, shielded and slowly revealed what fires first illuminated the mind of a child had held in yet darkest places warmth to seeds of times unknown from times untold, labours knew we not which ceased from the occupations and exertions of yet utmost want the unbidden rhapsodies had found the lips of spring after spring the tremolo of bliss from the beginning realms of mind and thought which swam at home in aught the limpid heavens of the world.

The labours of our days, the labours of our breath from the first become flesh after and again and yet that kingdom come the conception of the flesh and blood of these hands and fingers, of these thoughts and straining hungers, epics of feeling, senses, impressions speaking salves bloom to wither upon these murmuring sounds even as they found their greater company among all that breathed the richest life from life to be.

Native as the trees, much as the world sits with people in many varied ways, so do people sit with people in many inscrutably varied ways.

As much we love as much we deserve and love to be loved. 

Last had spoke the spirits of my children before they were conceived, spoke my children in the quiet of a forest ringing still with the thunder of my staff upon some beauteous stone as though hewn for that purpose. 

For to be deprived of the good and great relations of all my family spirit were all my damnation in evening the heavens of the earth, mending me as I go what words of wilds flesh celestial flesh of purest blood and bone.

We live when we die. No words should ever be more important, more needful of the living and the dead, that death need neither hath ever parted nor connected those whose minds had slipped been born like leaves of safest warmest sun from deepest purest night swaying each their way the greatest fellowship the heavens and the earth the waters of the womb whom boundless blue the cloud no hell should bar the way. 

Nobody breathes who does not labour to do so.

And all who labour for money labour to advance, notwithstanding all their other more laudable aims of industry, facility and felicity, the socialized and family wide attack of the most vulnerable in man, mother and beast.

If you cannot spend more time than you give to organized labour in order to mitigate for the socialized and family wide attack of the most vulnerable members of any family or society of families, then you will invariably labour in order to attack the most vulnerable members of that family and of that society, maddeningly unfair as it is. Maddeningly unfair as this is, you will do either or both, more or less, in order to survive, and so will everyone on earth, fomenting intense contradictory urges which will work against each other, and all labour profit is contingent upon this albeit utterly miserable and never so utterly catastrophic state of affairs. 

As a result, most common folk - folk who labour against themselves in order to move forward [to fulfill the ward of four letter words or curses upon them] - keep themselves busy in order to avoid the elephant in the world and of that vulnerability so great that is challenged so terrifyingly much more than could have any natural requirement that even such a words as we might have, alone, to assuage ourselves, were capable of plumbing though words of purest magic the native capacity to deal, heal.

The exposure mine erstwhile plant intelligence to the many by no means unconscionably meaningful letters and limbs of these ways of these wilds for whom I mayst seem to cast a not entirely unfamiliar profile, a manner of attention and elocution, sense, perception and need cobbled together with a practiced exactitude which belies mine otherwise utter contempt for what most people would call gainful employment. Shocking, really, what a man like myself can get up to with some little time upon the earth.

Everything that comes to being on this earth finds the time to do so from wells or from realms to whose depths of intelligence or merely accidental prescience we need reciprocate some little whimsy or imagination best traced back to the motion of clouds across the sky, to waters that whet the veins of mighty peaks of mountains with raining down their own ineffable generosity - something from something - which finds our thirst no so unquenchable as to deny us the great honour of forming such sounds around it as to taste we know not what upon our lips until they taste what only most distant worlds or words may taste, to visit upon the eyes visions yet which touched the celestial waters - speaking naturally - waters of the mind whose meaning-making powers the sun itself would nourish along with that of all that greened to feed all such people whom we like to be thanking for truly fleshing out by conspiracies of one or two  the heavenly kingdom come from once upon a time, from the beginning. 

To some this may sound like another day in the woods, or by the sea, or under the stars, or at the work which first attended the breath of such a flesh that formed or would around this my very mouth. I say that I make these sounds more than I can make money which I cannot honestly make unless I do not retain myself the way an actor must suffer a something about themselves to be turned to nothing preface something or someone else taking over their flesh and blood and even with a purpose given to those orphans whose unwedded parents are fabled to have died during the commission of, though an offense, the sacred office of conception.

I say that I walk around these wilds doing nothing and being nothing for herein I find something that the felicity and facility of grand orders of industrial divisions of labour will like to convert into nothing in order for something more to be made of it, not unlike the something that became the nothing from whence everything, everyone and every order of space and time were Said to have originated with growing scientific precision.

What if you or your mind and heart had a say in the kind of hay and in what great quantities it would grow and for its betrothal to a wide and teeming golden host of needs and fancies, vulnerable from old to most every primitive evil, epic wiles greening everywhere a focus of ephemeral and terrestrial delight and sustenance as surely as we live and breathe. 

The winds of this earth are kind to the mind of a child who still finds such an easy delight in their mother and father as in the winds of the earth, even as they blow  wild upon a sash, a door, a window, the clamour of whose rudest capitulation subsides with quiet sounds of elevated peace. 

You had all at once never known such a close acquaintance with the very spirit of knowledge, of peace, it would be no less dear for how easy a return after so long difficult a parting though pleasant days for ill come labours which must absorb though a womb its child the labour from the beginning, labour such as the labour of the heavens the earth and of the voice of thee choicest fruits of those heavens upon thy lips - to breathe, perchance to taste the purest aethers whence that happiness were king.

A lovable face such as she possessed so rare a thing to come to a most precious place in mine heart as had never been touched that way before.

I valued a look, a glance, but thought none to eagerly of much more than that - that were enough love to confound my heart with too much sun and thus augured the inclement state of no certain end, to every pure loving greatness should come some according evil, or what else was love? Something you could trust? Something to be feared? The very thought of some woman accepting me for who I am and still finding enough of me to admire did tax even my imagination to the very apotheosis, here late in age, of my self-imposed if inexorable solitary confinement, a confinement which she could not possibly know nor understand that this is not to be dismissed, not as easily as it is to be dismissed and me to nothing much.

And what do I truly need to be? What that the wild wood cannot allay the hopes and dreams of all whom first heard me speak; that the first murmurs of our infancy were among the most sacred, words had called our flesh and blood spirit to the earth and a mother and a father conceived across the helms of our ships of stories that carried all the medicine which had found its way from rivers that had spanned ages and chapters and epics of even our lives and all that life to come, to love, to make new flesh of new heavens from the beginning; of the clouds from the beginning and of the cawing of the crow or the tuneful songs of the people of the eagle from the beginning and meaning that had grown like the grass from the yellow and the green of the sun and of stories stones all over this earth which marked the passing of our spirit like rain and wind and labours of sun and star and moon drenched with the raiment of words so soothing and so sweet from the beginning, here and beyond:

Long be the Days of our Mothers and Fathers everlasting to everlasting. 

Chapter VIII

There are many faces looking through the clouds of skies so blue and boughs whose bark by turns light and dark impart a strangely facial countenance upon the mind which, caught askance of its usual interests, takes many mild and not unfamiliar drinks of things numinous, unknown and deeply restful, things startlingly magical as places we once swam and would, even as we trample upon the earth, the farthest waters of the mind the ways of wild inheritance of but murmurs whose fruit were long days and pleasant nights that people know by vast numbers if by few.

For a very long time society has worked at getting people to work based on the idea that people who will not work out of sheer opportunity and native grit will do so out of the fear of being poor or of being seen to be lazy, weak or otherwise enfeebled. Based on this idea, welfare is doled out so sparingly as to theoretically motivate people who are under employed to want to be better or more suitably gainfully employed where all other inducements have failed. This is based on the idea that inducements are necessary, people do not always want to work and that people [essentially, everyone] who can be so coerced into working - or need to be - can be made to want to work more than being unemployed.

Yet some people cannot be made to work out of fear or shame. But instead of being seen as having borne out some natural anticipation of a wider catchment for what every human child should be seen to offer to nature entirely - their work - such people are seen to suffer from a lack of labour instead of from a refinement in the specialization of labour demanded of all people in order to survive a breathtakingly wide range of survival imperatives in an increasingly complex world. To the point, none breathe who do not labour to do so. And this labour is inviolate, sacred.

We could say that society seems to think or, worse, assume that because a human being is more complex in thought and feeling than a rat then it necessarily follows that human beings should work more and suffer more than a rat or more than any other animal. Why is that so?

Children possess, by conception, an as yet undetermined amount of two things: time and trust. Let them dole out that time and trust without the looming threat of having to Make Money [a federal crime in all countries] and so, to mitigate this illegality, the threat of having to adopt and pay for becoming what amounts to a state actor or schizophrenic, and people would not get sick so much. Any other animal on earth only suffers, however acutely, a small percent of life after life. By comparison, human beings suffer needlessly for up to half or more of life after life. Why? Because even if you do manage to wrest your time and trust back from schizophrenic industrial working families and their sadistic religions of debt and children who are born as burdens to society who have to pay their debt to that society, the fact remains that the better part of your time and trust is taken away by or is hiding from the child-to-labour system. 

As a consequence and as an example of this, a parent or a parental superego can and must, needs - even if they do not want - to exercise a psychological and physical advantage over their own child which they themselves would never abide from anyone else, except perhaps when they were a child - a condition [being a child] considered equivalent to a sickness, like pregnancy or unemployment, by attendant professions of child development.  When parents yell at or suffer from the apparent delinquency of their child, they are showing that they do not know how their child labours to breathe and to do many other things in their own mind. A parent is understandably distressed or can be when they do not know what is going on with their child; that is a valid concern. And yet we have become too cavalier about the growth and what we think we know about the growth of a child. Knowing too little about the private and innocent labours of the mind and blood chemistry of a child is not necessarily an illness if you are willing, as with anyone, to get to know them. Conversely, assuming that you know enough about the mind and blood chemistry of an any aged child that you also assume or even feel unaccountably rightfully compelled, especially when a child is upset, to arbitrate for how they should labour and by whose schedule or timing, unaccountably and rightfully compelled by society, however difficult this may make it for the child to remain well in themselves, to arbitrate to whom they give their time and trust to is always going to make them sick.

Every human being is born capable of bringing total peace to their world precisely because they are all conceived capable and desirous of total unqualified self-determination and meaning-making fed as much by the sun that rising sets as by birth to birth of all beings in heaven and earth.

Now we will see why and how so many people with so much on their mind and so much to truly achieve in life and time can and often must find a way to avoid all such notions of either native and natal glory or inhuman or even super-human [another name for inhuman created by a trauma-based mass psychopathy and schizophrenia] epics of trauma, a stretching if not an utter benighting of critical epics from and of native human growth, peace and love - a stretch that requires a comparable medicinal stretch or atonement in order to come fully round to the best conclusion if it wishes, as it must, to have come from the beginning of the best possible way of being, the way of the wild. This requires a steady awareness but also brings with it an ocean of ethereal compassion the likes of which may surprise but does attend as it must all of the most critical changes in our lives, changes for good or ill, for richer or poorer.

People who sustain or confront massive trauma [or uncomfortable or inappropriate stretching of the mind] confront as much as they sustain massive mind-altering and time-altering trauma, breeches in the trust and time we as native celestial terrestrial children are born having to share, like nature, with a though limitless supply or riches at the fountainhead and maidenhood of all the riches of this world in labour and love or both. 

Most people in any cult or culture want to help the world and serve some local variant of the greatest most celestial or timeless love. But the startling fact is that love is not timeless - we are when we are confronted with and sustain massive trauma, not the least being our childhood and later adulthood confrontation with people who have yet to confront, for some good reason of inordinate demands on their infant minds [rich and pure as they and we are] the trauma which they have in truth sustained and been forced to confront. Now is the tricky part: most people, even as infants, have proven unable to do this - understandably - without forming their lives and their minds [and their lies or stories of a kind] upon an alter ego unself and so the capacity to answer the increasingly trying but at least prospectively assuaging and rewarding [note this warding] demands and strong psychic suggestions of many and varied other state actors. People herein become super-people and less than a person all at once [to qualify a word like person is to not be a person, a person is not a size or quantity of person but the total person whereas a super-person can be anyone for all occasions, a person with or without certain desires, compunction, scruples etc.], and all because they are as an infant and even as a prenatal spirit child confronted with and with direct genius-level impressions of not only one but many generations of trauma and, what is more, with the usually service- and love-oriented ways of disposing of or atoning for this trauma with diverse alter ego complexes, and all in a massive system of religious as industrial divisions of labour and communication which require, as we have shown, an altered self. 

Therefore, there are many people and many if not most average honest hard-working psychopaths who live to serve others but who have not confronted, as themselves, the trauma which they both confronted and sustained throughout age and youth, leading to a higher capacity to be trained by massive suggestion to treat their own most precious clients, students, children or patients with contempt for who they are as people, all out of a high and well articulated sense of service to the most high.

They often claim to know the pain of others and how to deal with that pain but, maddeningly contradictory to this professed interest and professed competence [a competence usually inherited or grafted from some higher industrial or celestial order of love or organized genius and power that knows you better than you do for your own sake, if you are a good and faithful little girl and boy], they also present with an unusually high avoidance of what you may have to say about the pain you have sustained and confronted, any complaints about which often seem anticipated by an insistence that they know better and you should trust them. But how can you trust someone who talks like that? Who does not demonstrate the least interest in or capacity to hear about your pain and your story? To come around, you would have to suspend disbelief.

People who know the medicinal balm, however disquieting, of their own stories never presume to force those stories upon others; they do not yell or police but tell and teach. Our stories are how we and nature grow.

When people are forced at early and late ages [come stages] of living on this earth to confront trauma or stimuli which they cannot confront and to sustain trauma or stimuli which they cannot sustain then they will tend to become soldiers of fortune who are prone to take on high value high cost targets of rapturous industrial service to love, country, health, education or you name it. The induction thus into the working world [as though they were not born working perfectly from the beginning] were commensurate with the adoption of an altered ego complex or false self, the application of which and to which industrial or financial effect will generally be seen to sustain a strongly narcotic and even narco-hypnotic effect whose recapitulation will generally tend to take precedent to and subordinate any but the most misleading interest in genuine human well being; this is why and how people can be by different turns so hard working, so deeply sincere, so deeply effected and so persistently and unthinkingly sadistic and hateful as a matter of survival, of God-like need if not want, a need figuratively and biologically commensurate with breathing itself. 

While some may think that treating mass psychosis is far less practical than changing the budget, lowering the deficit or saving the environment, it may also be the easiest way to relieve suffering from the beginning that people are inducted into their so called productive and independent lives by turning the something of themselves into the nothing of themselves in order to make something of themselves in a world that advances by no more scientific and precise a numerical and alphabetic value than how increasingly well it can approximate from how close to nothing everything comes from, including the money [a negative financial instrument] they get for making, like the tyrants to whose nature every lower nature must tend, something out of the nothing they were most lovingly assumed to be before they were born, from the beginning or Big Bang, presumably. 

Hatred of a kind is in itself bound to result from the many survival-based alterations to the various prospective, wild or natural epics of our mental, emotional and physical growth. This knowing hatred can be inutterable. 

Chapter IX

There is something of a suitable focus for the mind upon the sun when and when not the clouds move like the tension between good and evil from before the heavens and the earth were kingdom come, as it were. 

Something about fields of grass, dirt or manure, of wilds of tree and stalk, of shadows of mountain round the rising falling helms of many a bark of riches first bequeath the birth of thee from concentric years and spheres of time from time anon the newness of things from trials of senses wild. 

Love of spirits burning out of the waters of ethereal power, love around whom aught our labours old and new found their marshal and their king. 

Love that found the balmy currents of the epiphanic sun from even times to come these labours run these our hands of young and old twas so.

Given all, we gave our all, and giving thus we got aught that we were to get we gave the labour of our breath our flesh the measures of heaven and earth to work those riches from the measures of our own and back. 

Do not our thoughts change with time? Do not many occasions rehearse the climates of many times to come and come to be? What that all that kingdom come had come before from once and once anon the darkness in our mind could not see that we kings ourselves had not been seen nor aught the labours of our breath and all our flesh that was that was to be?

A child does not understand merely words. Their limbs and their great spirits say things which had not been said and must if labours in heaven and earth should sound as such the triumphs and the throne our flesh and blood from the beginning memories of the future - visions of the past, the future and the past lived in different places in the sky, different places in the mind swimming here and there like all our mother and all our father through the aqueous fluid of the eyes of minds and nothing much whose flesh was love itself had roamed both hill and down. 

And little girls lost and little boys wroth and lost and wroth combined that knew we not what life was yet to come that every tree should have its root spread were it may in many a darkest deep the floods of kingdoms come from aught what may the judgment rich with rest and flesh with flesh supreme that even left some quiet silent Wooded wild that great spirit burned and warmed the passing courtship of itself with thee and aught thy joys to come the weary hours and the lonesome drooping of the heart that weeps with rivers well should make the earth anew and say the essence and the heavens of aught we should have need that nature north and south and east and west and all that is above and below and within and without must run to thee, to thee from time to time.

One wonders how so many people can learn to live, even if they have to, without a mother and a father, to live as though their mother and their father did not matter to them anymore, as though they were not once upon a time a child who needs mommy and daddy to love them always. 

I am one such child, and I could not do this very well. This depresses me immensely every day. Throughout my walk upon this good earth I have met with many people for whom a mommy and a daddy have long long ago become anathema or irrelevant when clearly this is not entirely so. 

This may sound strangely esoteric, but I think that people who learn to live as though they grew out of a mother and father and not in spite of having grievously lost touch with their love will tend to become students of the Occult. What is the occult but the occulting of the sun or sol of that ethereal love shared and conceived by mother, father and child? 

I learned this from people. They told me so often. Losing the mother and the father to some meaningless, unmentionable, unbidden ignominious death [things like death were all the death there were] deprived of all natural grieving were the albeit natural launching pad for becoming independent, honest, hard working people who were capable of having a family of their own, a home for big people who were qualified by such pains and such commensurate pleasures and successes as to have their own children if they wanted - which they as often did or do not. Dogs, cats, careers, sex and in my case abject personal journeys would suffice to mend the most harried destinies to their appointed hours of excelsior.

Some people have said that the course of true love never did run smooth; but the smoothness of love and the truthfulness of love are not necessarily correlated. Love were as large as the sky, and its complexity and its truthfulness must comprehend the stark complexities and the if rarely stark simplicities which attend its seeds, its growth and its fruit and finally the seeds of love that must grow as all things do from flesh to flesh as much as from time to time that words of flesh were give to flesh roots of words which greened the perennations of the heavens and the earth.

Heat and cold ran over night and day, and hearts moved in place while admitting like the waters of the clouds many and varied celestial bodies, each exerting their nervous creative influence over that throne of old. But who knew their names who darted forth and yonder with such nameless disquiet, that their wandering gaze should graze the farthest reaches of the distant hues, at worst, of better things, tree and cloud and day come day and night and never to settle finally upon that breath that breast of green gold greatness from the beginning; that settling upon the last we settled upon the first and all the words and worlds drawn forth made everlasting to everlasting green and gold and growing more meaningful.

Somehow our bodies learned the labours of the spirits of our limbs and so the spirits of kindred rivers of our flesh and blood taken up with all the gilt and gaggle of the world notwithstanding the great green goodness that ruled them all the giving of all our work and wonder and worries to one another from within the roots of innumerable breadths of earth and water, air and mist and mind time and time, flesh and flesh again the stories that lived beyond the west and from the east and out to reaches whither the wind runs and limbs who scent and sway whence every earth and heaven comes from the beginning the hues that lived the smokeless mist and wordless tomes of stone and cloud and sounds that sprang the sun that gazed upon aught the sanctuaries of those stories and those our spirits as they chide themselves their tales of mirth and woe betiding.

A cold winter evening bore something more than merely charitable doses of that magic and love where love and magic meet and not by force but by the essence of self-awareness - the will to start from the beginning. 

All good fruits were drawn from their roots; what is called subconscious were in truth sun-conscious and that sun or sol the waters that first gave flesh to every vessel that moved through these waters from day to day and from this world to the next; all of Egypt were all the neurochemistry of happiness whose every contraction bore out its singular purpose the misty hues of some distant star rising and falling about the helm of this our most everlasting ship; its purpose did not come but had always come and not only in the dusky hours of a summer day and nor at the fragrant surcease of labours of some protracted nature taking all the strength; strength defined the spirit of people who, as a child, had not always been afforded the will to learn from the beginning the intelligence that lived like a young eagle within the folds of our infancy, but whose native or wild genius was never gone that made eyes and ears and fingers and toes from waters like those the limpid stars at night the clouds some hoary breath subsided from it quests of lonely wolf and ragged tales of glancing blows of limbs yawning out of stories whose language we must  learn so to know the immortality of own first peace of mind the swaddling clothes of spheres on spheres of time so wild were not pressed for time and exchanging all with all from the first unto the last the springs of warmth and meaning green and new and weak; time running out into years and years from youth to age and many a richer and a poorer spirit to take up the mute umbilical whose fire was the sun and whose proper reach the meaning that subsided and turned to the west, looked north and heard the voices of a son or daughter speaking like the winter geese or silence struck a dry branch upon a wooded stone, O love O love be known and simple pleasures growing from aught the loam received like boundless oceans songs roots, limbs, letters and flesh a born celestial company.

Nature loves our creative imagination, especially when we are about the wilds of nature. A tree and all around a tree is the home of a tree. Our homes were rooted and ripened like the trees - a tree and a home unto itself - and the fruit burst with the celestial waters and mists of a grasp that must exceed its reach, especially when what we grasped were a meaning all our own like dark mists of cloud the mountains above the mountains deep, or white ethereal clouds above clouds where ancient crosses glint among the congress of the sun out of the waters of the sun.

People who did not love; love that did not touch or warm; places and times that did not comfort; and relief when we were relieved of too little love for maybe none or maybe some from first that was the love we need; love were not a word we needed to know when we were born; and so its meaning like our flesh should touch us like something as familiar as our own body and mind; love were a ship that, like our body, must take us wherever we needed to go; whatever and whoever had brought us here would take us there or these waters had never have become our ship; by what fire, by what sun do we draw forth this flesh and blood?

Our genesis is linked to the genesis of the heavens and the earth; we speak that native tongue though it seem foreign or even trivial to us; our living is not so complicated - we must learn the language; and if we do not seem to speak the language of others or even of our own kind or they our, then it were as likely that we did not learn the language as they did not learn the language, or both. A cursory glance at planet Earth will reveal that peoples wide and far labour under many visions of power, visions illusions to some and power to others. We go where we look and what we see. People do not move without grasping more than they can reach. Contrary to popular archaic opinion, heaven is not for the reach exceeding the grasp but for the grasp exceeding the reach. Suddenly, heaven becomes more terrestrial, more human, and mists and distant hues of utter self-definition rise up from the kingdom and the barks of a child who laboured for time, alone, much as there was of it to give and to get of it from a time where, like the green of new lands or the seeds of trees the size of mountains, all that became new and all that would live always was only being born from the beginning at the same time as sweetest fruits drew from deepest roots - peace the sweetest fruit of all.

Our labours were added unto us, we could be assured that the labours of all of our flesh and blood were added unto them and us at once - therein lay the true rest, the true peace of all mankind, no sun unsaid. 

A tree is a home, and a home is a tree. A tree speaks the medicines of all the creatures and all the teachers of all the heavens and the earth a living language whose most everlasting scriptures were as simple as a leaf, a pine cone or a blade of golden summer grass - and to receive and add to the gifts of all these animals, and all these teachers, and of all these deeps and leagues and reaches of heaven and earth we needed to speak their language by speaking  the language of our own flesh and blood without the expedient locus novus of the hocus pocus of money;

We all hunger and strive for Nature. All such labours deserve to be added unto us, that the total labour of our flesh and blood should have their peace, the living as though they were dead and so the dead as though they too were living everlasting perennations of words if labours come luscious fruits of deepest roots like trees their leaves and seeds.