A Triad of Typology and How People Get Conned:

A Triad of Typology and How People Get Conned:

 

It’s believed that in the Olden Days, especially within the Great Civilizations, there was not yet a line drawn betwixt the Good, the Beautiful, and the True. Similarly, I might suppose that to be Good, to be Intelligent, and to be Right were one and the same; one could not be one without presupposing the other two.

Such is not the case in the Present Day. By and large, questions of Intelligence, Morality, and Righthood are consigned to the Psychoanalytic Arts. The question of how an individual will behave is determined by temperamental predispositions, just as is the case with introversion, sexual preference and drive, etc. Individuals possessing more “intelligence” will tend to value intelligence, no more egocentrically than those who possess more “conscientiousness” value morality and forthrightness. Those who are the most diligent may or may not prefer morality to intelligence, depending upon the nature of their diligence, often regulated by “disgust”; one may be diligent in the pursuit of a “reprehensible” enterprise which is disgusting and therefore immoral, or one may be diligent in the pursuit of a more “noble” cause if one is more easily “disgusted” by “evil”. At any rate, those who are neither conscientious nor intelligent to the same extent as they are “diligent” and “persistent” will value being “right” above being “good” or “smart”. Righthood is thus distinguished both from “meaning well” and from “being wise” or “being practical”. These people “work harder, not smarter”, and their “work ethic” is an ethic of principled efficiency.

Theoretically, the various types, in effect all fragments of one fully integrated human being, (fractions of an Ancient Greek, if you will) could coexist in harmony, just as these “drives” would coexist in the fully actualized person. Yet in the absence of a binding social order, certain obstacles preclude the harmonious union of conflicting types, and foremost among these obstacles is the “con artist”.

Con artists come in many different shapes and sizes. Some are extremely high-brow and academic. The professor of postmodern philosophy has found the ideal target audience in a legion of grad students who are open to the ideas of Heidegger, Nietzsche, and Foucault; it’s easier to lie to people who pride themselves in their own uncertainty about the Nature of Truth. Yet more often than not con artists employ an evil so banal it is disappointing. In the absence of a binding social order, human beings tend to retain in common only the basest of instincts, and as we fall deeper and deeper into the egalitarian paradigm we tend to be reduced to these embarrassing functions. The most damning insult that I have ever received was in the reminder that my body’s most repulsive functions were nothing to be ashamed of, since I shared them in common with all of humanity; all of a sudden, I could only imagine solidarity with my fellow human beings, quite literally, by avenue of a line to use the toilet.

Con artists occupy this domain predominantly. Sex, survival, and power are those drives which, like any student of Freud, manipulators primarily appeal to, and more often than not they regard the remainder of the individuated personality as no more than a mask for these urges.

Yet some people are much too proud to be won over with a cheap thrill, and if they are to satisfy these urges they will only do so by avenue of a specific set of principles. Those who value honesty will only allow themselves the pleasures of sexuality within the context of an established relationship; those who value sincerity will regard sexual consent as legitimate only if both parties care about each other without pretense, but nonetheless to such an extent that meets an established social standard entirely independent of individual desire and preference. Some come to power by their own will; others assume it as a social responsibility. Some people would sooner die as innocent victims than to live as oppressors; others rationalize their survivor’s guilt by priding themselves in their strength. Pride is most often shame in disguise.

The advanced manipulator thus must go beyond the banal drives and to appeal to ego. By identifying what an individual values, based upon that individual’s temperament, the manipulator is able to avail his or herself of an arsenal of subtle tricks in order to appear as an ally to the prospective victim. “Leveling” is easiest in an “egalitarian” society of “liberal individualists”. If I claim to value independence, this value reflects upon me personally. It would appear gauche indeed were I to criticize the sexual libertine or the drug pusher (often one and the same) for giving consenting adults “what they want”, though it would NOT be out of character for an upright police officer. By professing a value, I say, “this is my role; this is me. I shall always come onstage in this guise, and none other.” Thus the individualist must REMAIN individualistic so as not to appear inconsistent, and should he or she take sides with a Collectivistic Social Order, this is damning to both parties; ergo, never the twain shall meet. Coexistence between Individualists and Loyalists becomes not only problematic and fruitless but downright dangerous.

A con artist can easily drive a wedge between individuals of comparable but distinct character, simply by appearing to each as an ally against the rest. Who would one be to resist one’s own reflection? It makes far more sense to antagonize one’s “natural opponents”.

With regards to the trichotomy of Intelligence, Good Will, and Righthood, (the latter an addendum to Aldous Huxley’s veneration of the former two as indispensable corollaries) driving a wedge between “excellent” people is a walk in the park.

Consider the father of Chuck and Jimmy McGill from Better Call Saul. There is no evidence that this man is “unintelligent”, yet he is constantly being abused by grifters with a sob story. Once confronted by a young Jimmy who recognizes a cheap conman for what he is, the father’s retort is one of my favourite clichés of modern television, for it summarizes both philosophy and heroism: “What if you’re wrong?” This same line is employed by Jack Shepard and John Locke from the earlier series Lost, with regards to the torture of a prisoner; unfortunately, since Jack fears one fate and John fears another, even so universal a question fails to solve their particular problem. Liberal individualism wins yet again over Justice. Much like the late McGill patriarch, both Jack and John are men of extremely above-average intelligence, expressed in different ways. They also have this much in common: both have been conned, over and over again.

Certain rudimentary forms of con artistry work on stupid, unconscientious and inattentive people: zombies lacking in intelligence, morality, and diligence. Yet if this appears too severe a description, rest assured that it refers to a minority of people that is hardly “oppressed”. Most people excel in at least one of these three qualities, and it is precisely their excellence which is used against them. If one wishes to anger a person, one appeals to his or her weaknesses; loyalty is won by appeal to strength. When Jimmy’s Dad gives grifters money and “a gallon of milk”, that milk is the milk of human kindness, and though the unassuming shopkeep can’t afford it forever, it is nonetheless a testament to his strengths of character that he surrenders so much for free to the “wolves” of the “world”; one must suppose that, every once in a blue moon, the “grifter” is a sheep in wolf’s clothing, as tends to be the bulk of the innocent victims in the Better Call Saul universe, often victims whom Jimmy abuses, though his cynicism somehow endures in the face of innocence.

Consider this scenario: a conscientious young woman is about to surrender a hundred dollars to pay for a con artist’s “cancer treatment”. Nearby, an intelligent young man watches the scene unfold, with amusement. The intelligent young man knows, for a fact, that this hustler is a grifter; he was tipped off just last week by the bartender, who is a very diligent fellow who did his research but didn’t have the heart to stop the grifter from spending other people’s money on the tavern’s tap. (This particular grifter, unlike Joe Pesci’s characters in Martin Scorsese films, pays his bar tab.)

After the transaction has been made, the grifter leaves, as does the young Good Samaritan. The bartender, having witnessed the outcome, asks the intelligentsia: “Why didn’t you stop her giving him that money?” To this, the clever young man asks, “Why didn’t you stop him asking for it?”

In truth: one question does not answer the other, but simply “levels the playing field”. Yet allow me to be the first impartial witness to answer both questions:

Leveling, though inconclusive, nonetheless begins to answer the question, since both men are cut from the same cloth in this instance, just bleached differently. For egocentric purposes, the intelligent man needs people to get ripped off, so as to feel smarter than the victims. By the same token, the diligent man needs people who are wishy-washy and easily swayed to be disadvantaged, so as to legitimize his diligence. Neither man regards the con man as a threat to that man’s own person and ego. The intelligent man sees through the con, or so he hopes to; the diligent man maintains a respectable business, and it’s not his problem if the business benefits from this inferior enterprise, any more than the benefits it gleans from dishwashing and other “lowly” occupations which are paid less because they are “inferior”. Ironically, the very egalitarianism of individualist society transforms people into the most depraved elitists; were we to live under the rule of a more binding moral law, answering to established moral authority, it would fall to the bartender in this scenario to stop the grifter, but liberal individualism allows him to say, “that’s his business, not mine. I’m just collecting his money by my own, honest means.” Under such a paradigm, suppressing secrets is not tantamount to lying, since no one is entitled to the Truth. In both instances, both conspirators have rationalized their conspiracy with the con man, hoping, (perhaps naïvely) that they are not getting conned just by so doing. By a similar device, the victim hopes that she is not simply losing money that could be spent on a Higher and More Pressing Cause. Yet were she to act on this hope in an aggressive way, she would act out of character, for “good people” are not supposed to demand refunds for charitable acts. Even the naturally selfless person is transformed into an egoist under the paradigm of individualism, her egolessness used against her nonetheless.

Not only has such a con succeeded in parting a woman with her money; it has also driven a wedge between three people who would otherwise have made a fine team if compelled to work towards a Common Good. By being so basic, so stupid, so immoral and so easygoing, the grifter manages to turn all of his or her vices into strengths. The virtues of the intelligent, the noble, and the thorough turn to weaknesses, and any peaceful coexistence between them is torn asunder, so that even were one of them to realize this, the rest would resist.

So: this is my question…

Ought we to con them?

To some considerable extent, the prevalence of trickery in modern life is the fault of the victims. The pride and vainglory of each stock character are comedic because they are so myopic and ironic. Of course the wise guy lets the good girl get conned; morality is not his strong suit, so he’ll think less of her for falling for a trick that only good people fall for!! Of course she falls for it. It does not matter if she’s smarter than the others put together; her bleeding heart is all too predictable!! Of course the bartender does nothing; why risk a source of income? He works hard enough as it is!! The least that he can do is benefit from a stupidity tax, and who is better to attest to her stupidity than the wise guy? Grifters will be grifters; at least by collecting a cut of the profits the bartender ensures that it returns to the Beneficent Establishment to which he has pledged his life.

How could the con man resist? OUGHT he to??

 

Some people are subtler. Some will excel in at least two of the three virtues. Their act becomes a juggling act. In one hand, the Stoic holds her moral convictions; in the other: her practical intelligence. When it behooves her to be practical, she throws morality up into the air. When she can afford to be kind, she captures kindness and tosses up discretion. In this manner, she never owes anyone anything, for no one owes her anything. When she needs something, she acquires it by being practical; when she wants to feel good about herself, she acts good, and this behooves her reputation amidst good people. Should she offend another good person by disappointing his expectations, what could she possibly owe to him, and how would she repay him? If he sought his own interests by avenue of goodness, then he was not truly good, for the ethic of Stoicism renounces all rewards outside of pure virtue; if he sought his own interests by avenue of intelligence, then his failure is a testament to his folly, and if he sought his own interests by avenue of diligence, he clearly lacked diligence, as evidenced by his presumptuous oversight. Thus the Stoic wears her virtues like a revolving door of party masks, and dignity lies in knowing which mask to employ at which opportune moment and momentous opportunity.

In confronting such a prospect, the con man’s best bet would be to turn the conflicting personalities against one another, either by involving her in an enterprise that eventually will require her to use both techniques at once, to extremes that their inherent opposition can’t withstand, or by getting her invested in an enterprise that, up until a certain point, requires excellence in one suit, only to shift gears very suddenly midway.

 

Yet OUGHT he to do this? Does she “deserve” it, if she ostensibly “deserves” nothing?

 

Ultimately, those who pride themselves in their immunity to con artistry would benefit morally from being taken down a peg, even (and perhaps especially) if they pride themselves in being “moral” people? In employing our strengths, we all too often vainly ignore our weaknesses, to the detriment not only of ourselves but of our fellows. By practicing “counterconning”, a Deprogrammer may manage to finally bypass the psychic defences of his or her fellows. All of them have conspired in the victim’s victimhood, and even if the victim was himself misled by egoism, their collective evil is great enough to warrant its exposure, and this can only be done by forcing them to get over themselves.

 

[({Dm.R.G.)}]

Reaffirmations for Summer 2020: Idealism and Distress.

You know: when you talk about Idealism, you’re talking about just how great and awesome Life would be if only everyone did just a little more. A little here, a little there. To be a little bit more open, or a little bit more kind. To work a little harder, so that those who have to pick up lots of slack enjoy a life that’s easier by far than what they would have had to do instead. Usually, the Idealists are the sorts of people who WOULD do all these things, and they often have to push themselves so much each day to make things work for those around them. Since the Idealists often excel in these qualities, it is predictable that those who fall behind might grow envious of them, and if those shortcomings might be rationalized and recast as virtues, the Idealist might even be portrayed as intrusive. Yet one conceit which is entirely beyond justification is the accusation of self-interest. It may be true that such a change as the Idealist envisions would be of inestimable relief to one’s Self, which stands to benefit by a far greater margin than those who disadvantage themselves ever so slightly. Yet the simple fact that their disadvantage is so minor and the Idealist’s advantage is so great is precisely what renders the transformation Just, for such a set of affairs may only come to pass when, up until this time, the Idealist has had to shoulder an unreasonable burden on behalf of the average person.

[({Dm.A.A.)}]

The Damsel in Distress is one of the oldest archetypes for a reason, since she represents the birth of the boy’s moral development. She presents him with a challenge: given power over a helpless embodiment of femininity, one doubling as sex object and mother figure, he has the choice whether to inflict harm or healing. While boys who grow up on hero myths might easily inherit a feeling of entitlement to those whom they rescue, the deal works, since the rescue is executed and the greater evil assuaged by the Hero, however self-interested the intent.

The simple act of choosing heroism over exploitation is an exercise in self-restraint, courage, and conviction, all invariably heroic qualities, not because they cannot be corrupted towards ill ends, but rather because higher goals cannot be attained without them, and these higher goals are not mere pretensions but rather expressions of the longings of the most piteous and helpless victims.

The Damsel in Distress is not disgraced by her powerlessness, since most often it is the fate of those possessing a more mysterious power: that of vulnerability and innocence. The Damsel in Distress redeems the Hero’s cumbersome and heavy-handed masculinity, but only by being totally vulnerable to him, grotesque though this predicament might appear, and rightfully so, for it was produced by the exploitative means of her villainous captor. The very distinction between the role of captor and liberator, by one’s own choice, establishes the boy as a man, superior in dignity.

At that point, though, the challenge falls to the maiden, for she undergoes the same sort of transformation. If she feels no debt of gratitude towards him, or, feeling it, she acts against it, she has remained a girl, a child of the Universe, entitled to her own innocence but not much else. Her rescuer is like a Father Figure to her, whose love must be unconditional by default, so that she owes him nothing in return, and if he should argue otherwise, he becomes a tyrannical abuser, no better than her ogrish captors.

In this context, it is no surprise if she should seek the company of her fellow girls, who coddle her and assure her that, since she was innocent to begin with, she owes her savior nothing, for he was simply preserving the Natural Order of Things, and, if his intent were self-interested, then she ought to be commended for deceiving him towards beneficent means, and the test of his character will ultimately lie in his absence of personal passion, regardless of whether such a feeling of entitlement would precede or follow the Heroic Act. 

Yet clearly such a matriarchal conceit does not live up to the ideals of any Goddess of Justice, for it forces all men to renounce their own bodies completely in service to weak women, feeble and restrained not only of body but of Heart and Mind, the latter by their own Nature and Volition, disincentivizing many men and producing not only more villains but, among women, a greater tolerance for villainous, barbaric “men” without “creepy” ulterior agendas.

It should be obvious, however, that such agendas represent not so much a hidden evil but a biological longing for moral order, one which redeems the human body as a Source of Moral Authority. The woman who rewards her Saviour with Love becomes akin to a Goddess in her own right, whereas the other remains a temptress and a child. Just as the boy who takes advantage of the Damsel fails a test of Manhood, the girl who does not honour his sacrifice fails to mature into a Woman. Their reciprocity is dependent upon the trust the boy places in the girl by setting her free, as well as the respect she shows for his hopes for the two of them.

In Actual Life, these sorts of relationships govern all good business, for while we all must fend for ourselves we are tasked with doing so by noble means, noble means which, since they are essential, cannot be separated from practical life by being sublimated as ascetic martyrdom. In business, we all want something, but we must be willing to risk loss in order to empower our associates, that they might reciprocate. 

This risk is no more an invitation to say “No” than the bondage of the Damsel in Distress is a form of consent. Disappointments in business are not the results of lofty expectations but of treacheries; the lofty expectation is, in fact, the End in and of Itself, the Goal without the pursuit of which nothing good gets done. 

When I throw the ball to you, you do not call me arrogant for expecting you to catch it, and though I part with it willingly, it is not with the expectation that you might do with it whatever you will, but rather that you will serve the team as I intended for you to. So it is in Love, and this is but one function of the Hero’s encounter with the Damsel in Distress. These stories are not merely the sublimation of perverse heterosexual fantasies; they are tests in refinement for deep-seated and inextricable biological impulses. Maturity for the Man lies in the boy’s ability to set the girl free; maturity for the Woman lies in her ability to reward him. All else is simply conjecture; the moment that we begin to deconstruct the intent of the Hero,

“… the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.”

The Good Life always comes at a price.

[({Dm.A.A.)}]

LAW:

It is no mystery when an act of police brutality is documented that the People experience a collective sense of righteous indignation. Objectively, three Ideals are subverted in such an instance: Life, Peace, and Order. While the valuation of each of these Ideals is restricted to the domain of philosophers, there can be no doubt that when a man dies at the hands of Law Enforcement, without Due Process, by inherently violent means, his Life has been cut short, and the violent miscarriage of justice upsets both Peace and Order. The question of his RIGHT to Life, Peace, and Order remains nebulous, in the sense that philosophers often joke about the meme of Inherent Rights, but this theoretical problem does not present a SOCIAL problem, since human beings are known for fabricating that which Nature does not provide; in the absence of any Natural Law that protects Individuals, human beings invent Laws of their own. These Laws remain, in our contemporary Day and Age, the only convention which is at once ubiquitous and readily understood.

While, clinically, most people tend to score low in terms of Moral Reasoning, most people, if asked to define the Law, would probably express considerable faith in the Institution, at least in terms of Spirit. What is or is not “legal”, while it is not always synonymous with what is or is not Right, remains a matter of common principle and understanding, often regarded as the best FORMAL approximation we have for such abstract concepts such as Justice and Freedom. It is because legislators, litigators, enforcers, and civilians agree to the social contract that at least the PURSUIT of an objective, transcendent Morality is possible. In the absence of any unifying Church, Political Party, or Syndicate that holds itself accountable to the Public in the manner that Law does, striving for the absence of bias, secular, contemporary Society relies upon Law for all questions of Authority which would otherwise be impossible to answer without appearing pretentious and partisan.

Presupposing that the simplest explanation is the most credible, so long as it is confined to the objective, we may dismiss the ominous factor of “race” from the equation. If one asks why more “white Americans” are not interviewed regarding their experiences with “racism”, it is not uncommon to suggest that they do not “go through it”, implying a subjective phenomenon without scientific basis, devoid of value. Having established this as a projection, it becomes imperative to regard acts of violence reported by the Mass Media as isolated incidents. One reason for this lies in the fact that Law not only empowers individuals by preserving their Rights, (which might not exist outside of Law, except as fantasies,) but that it holds individuals accountable for their own actions. As such, we do not require conjecture about the MOTIVATIONS driving any act of police brutality, which can be classified as street violence far more credibly than it may be classified as “Law Enforcement”. People die from violence every day; what sets police brutality apart lies in that we hold agents of enforcement to a Higher Standard. This remains, of course, an INDIVIDUAL Standard. To suggest that any one act of brutality is NOT the product of a [wo]man’s moral shortcomings but rather of some sort of conspiracy is not only absurd but demoralizing, since such a conspiracy would thereby become indistinguishable from Law Itself.

Since folkways, mores, and social conventions are often inane and ridiculous, peer pressure is a force reserved for perpetual adolescents. Civilians are just as likely to judge moral behaviour by hairstyle as by ideological conviction. Only the Legal System enables members of opposing groups to mediate conflicts. Hence any isolated incident of police brutality can never be symptomatic of an illicit conspiracy, since that conspiracy would have, by its very nature, to be the only truly objective standard by which we judge things to be either illicit or legitimate. “That’s messed up” doesn’t cut it, for it is nothing more than the expression of emotion. It is also absurd, since we know that Law is so ubiquitous that its agencies of enforcement are divided into autonomous precincts that only partially answer to any Federal Authority.

It is therefore important not ONLY to see the irony in acts of protest which in themselves become Violent, Disorderly, and Deadly, subverting the same Ideals which the initial tragedy threatened. It is just as important to regard these acts, too, as isolated incidents, for we must have Hope in that the average person, outside of the heat of the moment, would admit that such acts of protest are ALSO, equally and unequivocally, failures of enforcement and Miscarriages of Justice.

[({R.G.)}]

CR!S!S:

CR!S!S:

What the Future Fascists of America seem to have forgotten is their actual role in the Human Network. They do not work solely in the agricultural industry; they work in the agricultural SECTOR of the SURVIVAL Industry. All human life and a great deal of domesticated animal life depends directly upon the production of food by agricultural means, so it follows logically that the farmers of the United States are responsible directly for the security and welfare of all such life WITHIN the United States, as well as a great deal of it without, (depending upon what science and politics can fathom) and any LOSS of life by avenues of malnutrition, food poisoning, and competition over resources would reflect poorly upon the Survival Industry, which of course includes not only the agricultural sector but all so military, police, and scientific research, all three of which ought to be the Tool of the People in reinforcing the Ideal of Survival. In short: when someone dies, someone ought to get fired.

At some critical juncture in my maturation I came to the realization that the point of life was to Create. All human beings are by trade creators. Farming is an art, and no one has contested in our recent time that warfare is as well. Our president at present would contest that salesmanship is artistry, and even someone in the unskilled labor field (no pun intended) might proclaim that sexuality is art.

Martin Heidegger said that human beings were those beings who build. He was answering an age-old question: what ARE human beings? Are we those beings who think? Are we those beings who write? His answer was a decent and fairly inclusive one for someone who had Nazi inclinations: we are those beings that build. Want to get more inclusive than just that? After all: by his generous definition, we are kin to birds, and birds are human beings. Okay: we are those beings who CREATE. And the artist is the pinnacle of that. All of our lives, in every time and place, in every culture, under every superstition and in spite of each oppression, have been aimed at leaving behind one great legacy: the work of Art, the opus, our stairway to the Gods, something familiar yet totally unique and novel. All of any young man’s life should have this as its solitary focus: to ensure that as much of his inner vision is made flesh, in preferably harmless form, as is possible. Even sexuality is only the beginning of creation. Hence we call it “procreation”. Even entertainment is only a way to make one’s own return from work to play; hence it is “RE-creation”. Our minds are WIRED to be artists; the most staunch realists expose the most absurd of fantasies because their own creative minds, pushed into the Unconscious Sector, cannot help but to revolt in the most riotous of ways.

Fascism has all ways oppressed and tried to put restrictions upon Artistry. But all of the greatest dictators our history has seen were artists or at least great connoisseurs. Hitler was a painter. Stalin was a writer, a romantic poet. Kim Jung Il boasted the widest choice of films the World has ever known. In some ways, he surpassed the U.S. Government.

And Fascism can fool people into believing that they HATE something. Hence North Koreans protest Modern Art, as though by their own will. Like most protestors in America today, their revolution is surely a scripted one.

AT some critical juncture in my maturation I realized all or most of this. But then I looked about me. Just outside my window, there was talent going down the drain like water in a reckless drought. The finest artists I knew in my graduating class had turned to drugs or, worse yet, jobs to cope with living. Artistry was not revered but shamelessly condemned, and even those who practiced it religiously did so within the confines of a clergy who defined their every brushstroke from a tender age. People began to work for MONEY rather than for the CREATIVE ACT ITSELF. And though I hated them, as much as I was capable of hatred then, for doing so, I could not help but pity them and search for someone to protest to. Where was the Complaint Department?

As it turns out, the Survival Industry had failed. The People were about to elect proto-Fascist Donald Trump, a salesman who, to my mind, only made one work, a show called the Apprentice. It was a most moving drama about corporate capitalism, fully adorned with heroes and recognizable villains. Omarosa, whose name Microsoft Word inexplicably forgets and underlines in red, was likened to a Disney villain, though I still recall an episode in which her discerning Bohemian eye helped usher her team towards victory. She prided herself in her knowledge of the Fine Arts.

People make Art to make a living, but people don’t realize that people make a living just to live for making Art. In ancient civilization, the Ruling Class ensured that the Survival Industry accounted for the welfare of the State, for only by so doing could the Creative Industry fulfill the Kingdom’s TRUE Purpose: to become Human. Art was not for the entertainment of the working class, even less so for subjective and equivocal derision, rendered inferior by its subjectivity. The value of a work of Art was not disputed but ordained, whether by the monarch or by the Gods who had helped shape it. Art served the entirety of Human Progress, and the entirety of Human Progress served Art in turn.

This is all so why the staunchest totalitarians are so artistic. When the monarchical ego overtakes the personality, when it is married to the machine of State in the first coronation, what is repressed is the tender and human drive to create. This is perhaps why even genocide can be said to have been elevated to a High Art in the Twentieth Century.

You can’t stop this train.

Why then, I wondered, did my colleagues have to sell their Souls to make a living? Where would Art be without Soul? How DARE they to USE Art for their own purposes? Had our wisest teachers not taught them to NEVER do ANY thing as a means towards an end?! And who would be so CRUEL as to ROB them of their freedom to LIVE, REGARDLESS of the consequences which they were forbidden by nature to seek, FORCED to STOOP to the level of USING their own God-given blessings to COMPENSATE for the shortcomings of the System?

Of course, it was the Future Fascists of America.

People who had worked in the Survival Industry began to think, somehow, that what they had created would BELONG to them and not to those who needed it. They turned on their true purpose and abused their privilege, insisting that all Artists become servants to the FARMERS, and not that the both of them should serve the Common Good.

It was for this reason that I had the quite mortifying luxury of speaking with a farmer and a member of the military who had spoken of ART as a luxury afforded by survival. Yet when I spoke of survival with him, asking what was to be done about the people dying even in the midst of great, egregious wealth, he only had to say he knew plenty “good” people who would never work for free.

There are no good people who never work for free. This is because without things being given freely, there can be no freedom. And without freedom, as it was pointed out, especially in works like A Clockwork Orange, it’s very difficult to Be Good.

My freedom was stolen by these deviant ingrates and Fascists.

It’s time that we start using our creativity to take this power back.

After all: one way or another, God’s chosen people have now been reduced to their own Survival.

Dm.A.A.

APATHETIC LOVE:

Of COURSE I do not care what THEY feel. I LOVE them. Why would you EXPECT me to care what they feel about ME? Oh, right. You want to believe that that’s some sort of contradiction. Now I’m not playing by the “rules”, as though you ever said that there were rules in love. But if you’d think about it for a moment, if you’re capable, you have to admit this: if I love them and they hate me back, why should I acknowledge their hatred? I wouldn’t even NOTICE it. That’s what it means to love someone UNCONDITIONALLY. There IS no barrier between your feelings and her own. Hatred perceives that barrier; hatred thrives off of it. But love does not. So hatred cannot comprehend it, and Love can’t comprehend hatred. Hatred makes Love into another distant Other, whereas Love knows no Others. Love simply sees hatred in passing and looks right past it. It does not even perceive the SOURCE of hatred. It knows no Others.

But you see: that’s inconvenient to you. You WANT to believe that everyone who loves you has to feel all of the really base and negative things that YOU feel. You WANT to believe that you’re ENTITLED to that. And why? Because you don’t love people back. Because you don’t HAVE Unconditional Love. You all ways wanted something in exchange for everything. You never cared to have good intent, so good intent is without value to your mind. You never had to ignore abuse, so you could not tolerate abuse, even if to your mind “abuse” is simply the ignorance of negativity. *I* know how to ignore abuse. I know how to ignore negativity. But you absorb it and it BECOMES you because you FEAR people. Anything to get an outcome that will benefit you. If it doesn’t, then you shed all ties and act like you did something “tactful” and attractive. You didn’t. You just proved what we all knew deep down: that for all your preaching about the Feelings of Others, you gave up caring about all those feelings when you could afford to stop pretending. And then you were left only with your own emotions, just like all of us are, except that yours were based and uninformed by Love, Goodness, and Beauty.

Emotions are fairly useless. They do not form ethics. You cannot predict them. You cannot control them. You can only ride them. Like a wave. But they are not imperatives. They’re not as strong as Love. They can only be as strong AS Love is, though they will never be as strong as Love Itself is. You can’t measure a finite feeling against an infinite Source. So how is it that you can expect me to care that my ex hated me? That’s on her for being a hypocrite. I had that love that she only pretended to. More power to me. That’s why I’m still here. Because I stayed true to my word, and my word was a Loving word. I wouldn’t want people to feel all that I feel; that’s not my goal. And I don’t care whether they love me back or not, except for just a few, and only because they’ve accepted that as their responsibility.

I welcome any feelings from a loving partner. Those I can allow; those I can manage. I offered her love and she returned her hatred. How can you accuse me of having been insensitive to her? It was she that ignored an opportunity for greater sensitivity. It was she that gave up. And if you still maintain that to love is to empathize, then know this: she never really cared for my feelings, either. They were clearly much too deep for her to understand. So be it. What she feels about me will haunt her. What I feel about her will only empower me now.

[({Dm.A.A.)}]

HERMES: (2323 words.)

Lightning strikes twice where owls are concerned. I had set out to meet with Michael Hermes, (His Real Name) since I had told him about the New Game Store. I was running forty minutes late. There were two girls from Mount Carmel High School on the bus. One was still in school, apparently. She was the vapid, popular type, as much as it pains me to admit to this at the expense of what I could have learned about her had she not been so defensive. Her fellow had been out of high school for two years. She worked at a luxury soap shop at the Escondido mall off of Del Lago. She had gone so far as to do what Joe had never managed: she changed schools just because of interpersonal drama. Lo and behold! I have recently found myself leaving a lucrative but demeaning position in Oceanside for the same reasons.

Upon the bus I saw Josh. He was very happy to see me. Although I’m a bit too much for him at times, and it’s no mystery to him that his autism sets him a challenge in this regard, I remain one of his few (and thereby closest) friends. It’s quite unfortunate that closeness has a limit that I don’t encounter in most friends. But then again: I only have a few true friends myself.

Michael did not mind that I was late. Neither did Celia, his nurse. (Hermes has both Asperger’s Syndrome and Type II? Diabetes. Both he and Josh were in my Game Design class. That’s how I met Celia, as well.) Celia had enjoyed having found someone to talk to about her Latin Catholic heritage: the kindly owner of the Game Shop. I waited for Mike to finish his game and then played against him twice. The deck that I was waiting on for months failed twice, though the first time it seemed like it was working in my overwhelming failure. I suppose I ought not to construct decks based on spite. And it just goes to show how much my inspiration for the deck, the socially intolerable Marxist Aquarian writer with the suit jacket (that eerily reminded me of my own), was superficial and inflated. Still: it was a good start down a unique path.

I had to time my exit very carefully. I knew Something Would Happen Tonight, though I knew not what. Michael was overzealous in sharing his cards with me at the expense of secrecy. I made a point to take my leave of him so he retired to the Back Room to compete in the Friday Night Magic tournament. Celia was discontent, as I could tell, and I was relieved to know she was not discontent with me but rather anxious to know just how late she’d have to stay as Michael played. I did my best to assure her, in turn reassured that she did not question my intentions for being there. Earlier, I’d seen someone I recognized. At first, having seen her beside a tall, dark-haired man, I thought: “oh, great. There is that married couple again.” Thankfully, I soon realized that this woman, one of the few to grace the Game Shop, was considerably thinner and more pointed of face. Still: she loomed familiar. It dawned upon me when I saw the Scorpion tattooed upon her left arm. At about the same moment that I recognized her as a Scorpio I remembered first seeing her at Starbucks, shortly after having been hired in Oceanside, if not shortly before, and memories came back to me of my awkward attempts to introduce myself.

I overwrote those awkward memories quite well. The opportunity presented itself for me to saw “hi”, especially since the Shopkeeper, having introduced them to Warhammer, (that game that so many programmers played in my first C class) spoke to me with familiarity, most probably about the upcoming tournament. It became easy to remind her then of my identity, which she might have dimly recognized but exposed no knowledge of. She remembered me visibly after some formal reintroduction, and she was not at all unhappy to see me. I said that I should have pegged her for a gamer, really by way of relief that she was not just another girl at Starbucks. We reminisced upon our first meeting, within the confines provided by the situation, her tall attendant still standing at her side, attentively. I said that I’d mistaken the Scorpion for a Scarab Beetle, since I’d had a fleeting obsession with entomology. Then she showed me the Scarab tattooed upon her other arm, corroborating my memory of the first encounter by refining the finer details that my doubts had clouded. She all so reminded me of the Face Eater that lay on her forearm above the Scarab Beetle. I was amazed to learn that she not only was a Scorpio and had the tattoo but that she actually owned a Pet Scorpion.

I spent the remainder of that day on edge, but with excitement. Several questionable characters showed up at the Shop. One of them was a salesperson. Another was so rude and obnoxious that he could only have gotten away with it by being a regular. A third unnerved me from the moment that I heard his voice, since he was machismo incarnate, correcting his twenty-six-year-old sister on her texting and driving habits when he was himself only twenty-seven, superficially unembarrassed (but surely deeply insecure) to convey this story to the Shopkeeper.

As I walked up the street I saw Matt Rivers just outside of Pounders. I greeted him by taking off my glasses and waving them. He might have never seen me with them; I suppose that’s why I did that. We embraced and I was stoked to find that he had lost neither his charm nor his good will towards me. He’d been living in Portland for quite some time. It was his third day back in a long time; two days ago he had come back for two weeks. He was on his way to his Mother’s home. I promised to see him again before he left.

At the Café I saw another familiar ghost: Kit. My favourite comedian had all ways been one of the very few patrons of that Café that tolerated me, and I remember now that he was the first person to walk me back to it the first time that I’d left it in a rage and fearful of the bad press that Rafael Romasanta, that narcissistic imp, surely spread about me. Kit was happy to see me. He too had not seen me in over a year; I’d not been back at the Café for that long, in the wake of Fitz the Hawk. I’d all ways been one of his biggest fans, as much so as I’d loved Matt Rivers’ work from the first time I heard it, which was surely my first visit to the Café, back in 2014, four years ago.

The crowd was smaller than I’d feared. Everyone there was someone that I got along with; any one whom I could not feel comfortable speaking to I did not care for, and they only passed in and out like ghosts of a lesser dignity than Kit. It makes sense now as only writing can illuminate, I think: they lived off of the crowd. They were not Individuals in any sense. So they could handle a dead night as well as they could handle me.

Kit could handle me, and I more than handled his comedy routine. He had been living in Los Angeles for some time now; it just so happened that that night was his one night in town hosting the Open Mic. The City had not changed his style too much. He had some new observational humour about Y.G. and Coldplay. For the most part, though, the bulk of the material was too precious to provide him with recourse. He had to tell jokes about Holocaust museums and expensive suicide rates. I was in stitches in the front row, cheering wholeheartedly as I’d not done since I last saw Fair Fisher. Several people got up to leave, and he did not hesitate to take personal credit for their departure. His act was as self-deprecating, depraved, and honest as I remembered it. I was ecstatic.

Dan had gone on shortly prior to this. His new schtick for the season was a Skeleton mask that he had quickly to get rid of, shortly after having crashed into the glass behind the stage upon ascent. He had to silence me when I recited every line of the Leaf Blower Man in sync with him, for it was so timeless to me.

I did not offer Kit my contact information. I’d had my phone off since late Saturday last week. This night alone proved that I did not really need it, and when he expressed his wish that our paths would meet again, I did not have a single heartfelt doubt they would.

The guitarist who was playing Spanish guitar when I first came in finished the set by feigning trumpet as Anakin played guitar. I tried to make a makeshift gourd from a coffee holder, but it was much too soft and in the process I spilled tea upon my trousers. Kit was amused by the former but concerned about the latter. I suppose that that’s the test; they laugh with you and withhold their laughter at you. And considering that he’s an aspiring comedian who went all the way to the City of Angels in pursuit of his dream, pitching an incisive and brutal routine, his sympathy was peculiarly moving.

Celia let me use her phone to call my Father. Starbucks was open until eleven. I had four quarters left, having gathered all the change that I could find at home. Michael spotted me a dollar. The cock-eyed, worldly girl at the Starbucks spotted me fifteen cents, since the price of Blonde Roast changed. Before Father picked me up, I saw Sylvia, who works at the Sushi Restaurant next door, and I found every reason to walk in, spotting the sign that read “Dishwasher Needed”. I negotiated my terms with her in a manner I’d not seen my nervous system do before. She spoke frankly with me and on a level that enticed me. Some part of me was surely surprised that I remembered her name so easily. But then again: I’d never met a Sylvia I did not love.

As Father drove me home, I asked about his interview. I asked whether he would be teaching the introductory courses in Biology or the advanced ones. Hearing him expound upon the intricacies of education, in a commonplace tone that felt familiar to me, comforted me to see him in a new light. Only for a brief moment did I turn the radio on and begin to wander about all the things that might pop into my mind. As we pulled into Exit 23, I all most expected to see an owl again, swooping in on its Night Hunt. I told Father that I wanted to see an owl again. I all so expressed my longing for Pumpkin and my gratitude that Maria was home.

Mother was home as well, and I told her about my day. Pumpkin, of course, needed his late-night walk. The Lightning and Thunder outside was getting insane. I now remember standing at the crossroads earlier, waiting to find shelter in Starbucks, terrified for a brief moment that Lightning might strike me dead, wondering if I’d live, and picturing the game players recounting my mysterious survival, noting just how funny it was that I had been carrying so much change (owing to my bring broke) and thereby predisposing myself to electromagnetic conduction.

The neighbor whose business is walking dogs opened her ominous garage door just as Pumpkin and I stepped into the rain and he began his routine inspection of the neighbouring brush. The lurid light from that garage, reminiscent of the portly, overbearing woman within, filled me with dread that the Lightning only amplified. Still: I was not one to drag my dog through the rain in the opposite direction, and he was not one to be dragged. (Bless his Soul.) As Lightning struck decisively, within close quarters to her house, I looked up, all most looking for an excuse to evade her should she see me.

It was at that moment that I saw it. It must have flown over us moments ago, for now I saw it from behind. The wingspan was unmistakable. It was not swooping, for its motive was to maintain its steady altitude. Its wings simply wavered slightly, as though treading water. I had seen it countless time in Harry Potter movies, either captured on camera or rendered with impeccable digital accuracy. Only earlier I had been thinking about how campy those films felt by contrast to the literature, but now I feel a gratitude for them that perhaps until now only people who’d not owned the books or had the time to read them could have felt when watching them.

I was reminded to hold my course. Suki’s garage door closed, and my neighbor was nowhere to be seen. We walked up to the end of the street and I picked up Pumpkin and then brought him home. I whistled past the Nikravesh residence, selecting a tune of my own composition. I performed my usual and secret ritual in passing. I could barely wait to tell my parents the news, though I must have known, at that moment, that I had all ways had all the time in the World to do so, and there never was a reason to doubt my own Intuition, either to that end, nor as would pertain to any timeless subject.

I had friends in high places.

Dm.A.A.

An Open Letter to my "Father": "This File Number[s] 1313 Words."

Okay, since you are so smart and attentive, let me fill in the details you have missed:

1.    When I purchased Hulu, it was with the intent of watching films made by David Lynch.

2.    My last two purchases on iTunes were all so films by David Lynch.

3.    David Lynch’s birthday is on January 20^th.

4.    One of my Lyft drivers on September 27^th had a birthday on January 21^st.

5.    The following driver that I had, who took me to Escondido, and no further, has a birthday on January 22^nd.

6.    I did not request these drivers. They were Chosen For Me.

7.    The latter of the two of them was not only an avid fan of the same director but all so had the same Myers-Briggs Personality Type as do I, David Lynch, J.K. Rowling, and the chief protagonist of the only other show I’ve ever watched on Hulu, which was the X-Files.

8.    People of my personality type are statistically among the least likely to enjoy their jobs. I have enjoyed my job until recently, when instead of being rewarded for the long hours I spent cleaning, at the expense of both my health and professional development, I was chastised by my boss for taking too long to do a job that was at once one of the most difficult jobs in the kitchen and one of the least prestigious and well-paid.

9.    Upon visiting the Game Store on Grand Avenue recently I spent no more than twenty-five cents and within moments of arrival met someone who offered me a job in my specific profession, commending me for my professionalism after speaking with me for what I approximate to have been at least half an hour.

10. I have intended to purchase a camera and a microphone for several months now. Each time, the expense of simply being able to return to work was such that I could not afford the investment.

11. I met two filmmakers as the result of my work injury, one of whom is the proprietor of Gianni’s Pizza, which I did not hesitate to treat you to upon receipt of my first check, and the other of whom was a customer from my first visit. This same customer, having sent me a screenplay that has been under development for seven years, read my review of only the first Act, and he promptly told me that I should be in the Industry. He has all so worked on a set with Al Pacino, who is one of my favourite actors.

12. After the proprietor of Gianni’s sent me an e-mail detailing the equipment that he uses for his own films, I calculated that the cheapest means of meeting these criteria would require a budget of 480.48. Given the neatness of this number, there can be no question that my researched was Well Informed. However, I did not rush to make the purchase, preferring to do some supplementary research firsthand about the proper use of such devices. I have all so forestalled a meeting with the proprietor of Gianni’s, chiefly because I have been careful, under your extremely excessive and hitherto uninformed supervision, to use the Lyft service except when searching for work, returning from work, or collecting a sum from work.

13. My work habits have convinced those coworkers that I’ve worked alongside most frequently that I was not doing my job for the money. I have been loyal to the company despite the fact that I suffered my first injury under the supervision of an old man who has since been fired for harassing me, and I spent the better part of three months expecting another injury. I only learned that he was fired very recently, and shortly after I was told that paying me full-time for all these closing shifts was unfeasible.

14. I have only spent my money on transportation, food, and artwork in the three fields that I am pursuing a career in, two of which I have been a straight-A student in this year, though work has set me back.

15. I have only asked money from you when I was broke and far away. AT that time I had ensured that my expenditure would be in every one’s best interests.

16. I have had Maria’s nineteenth birthday gift in storage for approximately two weeks all ready, even though most of the things I buy for the both of us she seems to ignore.

17. It was not until one of TWO of my coworkers told me that my life was worth more than my job that I began to stand up for myself. I did not believe it previously, and my decision to change jobs was corroborated by three people, despite constant encouragement and praise from most of my remaining coworkers.

18. You took money from my account only after I had made my most expensive purchase. I had precisely enough money left in my account to consummate my investment, leaving enough for food alone. I calculated an average budget for myself within hours of receiving my money.

19. The only debt that I could possibly recognize is the debt that the various artists I’ve mentioned owe to one an other and to common sources, which is the only debt that I owe to anyone. This includes the debt that the creator of the X-Files owes to David Lynch. This is the only debt I feel day in and day out. I owe nothing else.

20. You have not given me the slightest accounting for your expenses. You can neither promise me that they will make such rational sense as mine do, on multiple levels of consistency, some premeditated and others ordained as though by a Greater Intelligence, nor can you present evidence for me that your spending up until this point has met the same Universal, Rational Standard. You have only treated me with the same condescension as have the rest of my abusers, holding me accountable to logic and work ethic yet condemning me for those situations when both my logic and my work ethic have superseded yours. It was established, when I had my last nervous breakdown, the same day that my boss assured me (wrongly and wrongfully) that I was in a friendly environment, instructing me to heed the age and wisdom of the same man who would go on to harass me, that I work longer hours than you do, at a more demanding job, and with a greater caring and self-sacrifice than you do. It is all so obvious to me that I get paid considerably less for my time than you do, and any chance I have of improving this debilitating station in life is superseded by the work itself, which even then is constantly criticized with disdain. My boss loses his temper with me because I make things “too difficult” for myself, even when I do so only to avoid making it difficult for others in the manner that it has been made difficult for me. If ever there was evidence to my mind for the adage that property is theft, this is it, even though I’ve even argued with all of my friends on the Far Left, some of whom I’ve known for over a decade, that to work is a blessing. I can no longer postpone the recognition that I’ve been taken advantage of. Now perhaps you understand why I will not deny the fact that you have stolen from me.

21. My only solace is in that the number of the overdraft (8.41) retains only those digits that occurred in the price of the camera and most of the digits that occurred in what would have been my total budget for film equipment. However, even you admit that that overdraft was only a fluke on your part.

Dmytri.