The Victim's Manual:

The Victim's Manual:

The first step is admitting one's own victimhood. Once that is established all other deductions can follow. Accusations made of one's being histrionic will not hold for they contradict the initial claim: The inciting fact.
A generous and logical audience will agree that to contradict the initial premise is risky. But with a corrupt and ungenerous audience there can be no hope of concluding one's reasoning with out rude interjection.
And this is because an

audience that abuses the name of Skepticism in the name (the unspoken name) of Ignorance will take every initial conclusion (for as Life must be understood back-words so it is that we must convey our reasonings, often, point-
first, beginning with the thesis.) to be a merely tentative premise that warrants its self. So be it.
If the tentative premise were a man, or any other animal, a Circular Reasoning would

be a Miracle of Self-Determination.

II. From the established fact that one is a victim, the first step along the road to liberation,
follows the conclusion that there are false victims. They may be called histrionic.
They are parasites who accuse their hosts of being parasitic.
They are oppressors who pre-
tend to be oppressed. How one can deduce this is that now that one can see one's own victimhood to be a source of psychic fact it is clear that this psychic fact has spillt over

upon others by the force of projection. Yet who initiated this development? The subjects their selves, when they rained blows upon the true victim and yelled for him to stop abusing them.

III. But now one can discern them from the true victims: One's true kin. For many of this kin never pretended towards victimhood, much to one's pain. And the rest were given a good name by these silent ones.

Why are they innocent by association? Because one found in dealing with the silent soldiers some thing profound: That one's deductions depended more upon one's own objectivity than upon some other's subjectivity.
In fact: The very intrusion that the histrionics tried to make by blaming the victim is thus seen to have been a symptom and a part of the same abuse. It sounds

Solipsistic to believe one's self to be the solitary sufferer. Yet when one owns this as a fact,
that one is a victim and only knows of the victim-
hood of others by pro-
jection and delusion, it paradoxically becomes possible then to see other victims by a kind of re-
fined objectivity.
Solipsism self-transcends; a leap of faith into the depths of what looks like Solipsism produces NOT isolation but community.

And the TRUE enemy has been identified.

The act was one of Benevolent Objectification. And so we see our tentative premise becoming its own conclusion. But why not say that it was a Conclusion whose tail led us to deeper tales? The point was not the circle but what its area contained:
A perfect picture of the flowing of Power.

Dm.A.A.

The Forced Undressing. Part I.

My morbid fascination with rape endures as I try to recover an earlier and more individuated conception of it. I wonder why it so fascinates me intellectually. It must be in large part because of the recent feminist craze that leant as such conventional trigger words as 'rapy' to accompany such dubious terms as 'creepy'. It is ironic that given the recent release of Harper Lee's second novel 'creepy' still occurs so oft on college campuses. As for me, I might have begun to avoid that mentality when I first encountered Boo Radley.

Dm.A.A.

The Captor!

The Captor.

The manipulator-politician, the Wormtongue in King Theoden's Ear, the deceiver ego, all ways lives up to the inferior half of Dostoyevsky's maxim: nothing is easier than flattery nor harder than the truth.
The flatterer manipulates common sense. He takes slabs of bull shit and bakes them in the Sun of the Public Eye. And so he constructs a castle about his audience to keep them safe from freedom. For freedom is ugly, but so long as the castle is adorned with beautiful panes if glass, great pains taken painstakingly, the prison is made to look like a palace. One's ace-pal protects one by virtue of the tainted glass from that same public eye that seared the bull shit into an impenetrable mold. So even as one basks and eventually burns in the heat of Public Opinion one can pretend to be exempt from it from behind rose tinted glass.

Oh but behold the crusader! The rogue. The pirate rapist. The murdering Hun. He vows to break down the castle and takes pains to protect the prisoner from the collapse. He professes, even out in the Sun of the Public Eye: I disagree! I violate! You build the castle upon words that when taken literally lost their significance and whence taken symbolically lost their Truth! For you denied me property of Others when you your self lay claim to them! And even as I granted you my heart you not only denied me ownership of any other's but all so denied that you had USED it what I gave you. And so you built a castle to HOARD the hearts of me and many others, doing so in secret as to deny that you your SElF wanted them for your own! Yet even should they die in this siege, not strong enough to endure the breaking of the windows and the falling of the stones, at least my OWN heart shall be salvaged!!!

And so with horns blairing the rogue demolished what was thought to be incontrovertible. For rape and murder and genocide and oppression were mere Words to the architects of this trap, and what destroyed it was not sinister but liberating. Like Sirius Black it was redeemed in one act of cathartic Enanteodromia. And in the frenzy the lower dungeons of the castle were revealed to have been built upon a swamp. And the chaos depicted all beneath it to have been chaos. The ego had clung to its ideals and its semblance of hospitality. But that same CLINGING was Revealed to have been the evil of possession!

And diss possessed of this the stones did fall and the windows broke. And from behind the broken windows shone the Sun of the Public Eye. And from behind the rubble of the broken bull shit smashed through the battering ram of the rogue. And between the heat of the former and the passion of the latter many hearts fainted. But the strongest hearts endured saying: oh saviour. I am again yours. And the rogue, who now shone in the light not as a villain but a hero, said: and i was all ways yours.

And no longer did the rogue him self worry that the CAPTORS had possessed his own virtue. For long he had thought their evil to have been akin to his: a mask for underlying goodness. But the goodness that lay behind this mask had never been the captor's own. It was all stolen from subtler minds and parroted. The work was done in the dead of night. The captor hid in the shadow of pity by night and exploited the light of Opinion by day. He lay the bricks at night and let them dry while he was away.

The captive had too idealised the captor. But with time they felt their selves trapped and imagined Freedom to be so deplorable. Yet it was only deplorable to those who could not endure the heat of the wild.

The captor had long ago buried his own heart. It was when the hero saw that His own heart had been stolen that he knew his self not to have been the villain. So he took it back. And the heart that he had leant to the captor had been stolen by the captive. And imagine the hero's joy when the captive presented the hero's own heart to him and said: Here. For you I kept it safe all this time.

Dm.A.A.

Letter of Redemption.

A few musings:

I have decided to be fore giving and not to indict you for your errors. We can let it go. I am happy to be making music today with my new band and I hope to see you again soon. I try not to hoard my pain either. Yet some wounds still sting. For instance, it is unsettling that you seem averse to calling them errors, even though you agreed from the out's set that it had hurt me and you failed to prove how this could possibly have been 'necessary'. Your behaviour all so seems symptomatic of a guilty conscience: accusing me of harbouring feelings that I do not feel, et al. But that does not bother me so much. What really upsets me is your attempt to indict me for a wrong that I did not commit. THAT messed me up. I could not understand it. But I tried to accommodate your view point and modus operandi. And it proved mutually inefficient. And why did you ever indict me? An attempt to hold me to YOUR pragmatic standards. Yet it was precisely my holding Kresten to my own standards that seemed to 'upset' you. Well you never proved to me how those standards were ineffective. In fact, you could not. For he failed to comply with them. And YOU did as well. I at least TRIED your way. So how could you be angry with me?

My argument was simple enough to begin with. I was hurt though I had not committed a wrong; Kresten was rewarded though he HAD.
I do not find the fault in my reasoning. The calm of a sunny day lends me clarity. So I can answer simply for your errors: *I* would not have done as you had. So obviously it was wrong. And that is of course not a matter of personal preference that can be made Absolute. It is true in context. How could you possibly do such violence as to dismiss my standards as individually relative? After all: if all behaved as I did then there would be more fairness, and even if more people suffered the suffering would never reach the same fever pitches in any one individual case. So it is TOTALLY possible to Universalise and to have expected of you. There can be no denying that the fair and generous course would have been NOT to date Kresten. And in your place I would have followed that course. So how could you harbour hostility towards me, when I am no hypocrite? You failed to demonstrate that I WAS one. So why not agree to my standards? They are sensibly superior to individually relative ethics. If *I* can live up to them, so can you. Would you not want that? Would the answer to the moral question not put your heart at peace, admitting simply the error? After all: Kresten CLEARLY sinned for I could not follow in his foot steps; you Refused to let me do so! And he showed no intent of permitting me to or persuading you to do so. And I certainly could not follow in YOUR foot steps. At least we could ALL have followed my standards! And Erotic Love, which you had hypocritically disavowed, is permissible but only if the entitlement can be proven. You never proved to me what entitled him not me. And I find the suggestion prima facie insulting. So why bother to defend your actions or his? Why bother to indict mine, if not out of insecurity?

Like I said: I agree to say no more of the Nature of the error. But I would prefer the freedom to speak plainly and calmly of its Being.

Love, Dmytri.

P.S. If I have not only demonstrated a superiority of virtue but all so the privilege of the disadvantaged, am I not the authority?

The Oppressed Minority:

She had the kind of de-
meanour of delight in her self that endeared me to her but that all so reminded me, to my chagrin, of Johana. So I was suspicious of her motives. The self-satisfaction with which she absorbed the attention of these older men who inhabited the Smoker's Pit could have past for Johana's own narcissism and conceited cruelty: An attempt to draw in men only to de-
ceive them.
You might wonder why I apportioned an entire para-

graph to these details. In truth it is to avoid saying her name. Even letting on about Johana was excessive. I may edit her name to be a substitute by the time that you read this.

She certainly paid attention to me. I certainly must have had a demeanour of confidence about me, having stood up to Johana the prior day.
Hearing me speak of music and crack jokes locked me in the gaze of her attention to a degree that made me

apprehensive but no less cool.
At times I had even to apologise,
by virtue of personal compulsion if not insecurity, for sounding all too 'collegiate and dogmatic'.
An excess of knowledgeability can pass for pomp.

This dude was a gay dude. I used to know him. My only prayer now is that he does not read my blog. But per chance that sense of aggression symptomatic of having read my weblog was, in his case, simply symptomatic

of his Own arrogance and conceit. Johana would have deplored him for his lust for attention, a kind of self-consciousness so defensive that he could not tolerate my own views but so defensive that he could not help but to fend for my attention.
Though in fact I had never felt as though my attention mattered much to him, so much as an easy opportunity to infiltrate the collective

conversation by avenue of my influence.
Keep in mind that none of these gripes on my part have to do with his homosexuality. That comes later.

I wished that I could have told her that it was not homophobia that compelled me to disconfirm him. I was legitimately bored with his interjections. Even his most moving stories so privileged the individual subject of the narrative that

they left me wanting to hear some Universal theme. The collective theme unifying his stories seemed to be:
Pay attention to me! I am a minority. And I want to belong. If only I could have told him honestly:
There is NOTHING TO belong TO!

But she continued to gaze at me with those young Hispanic eyes with their judgemental lids. She was an ally and a friend

of his. And so when he tried to steal my attention he all so occupied hers. And by yielding to him, even as an other man (whose acquaintence I had gladly made for the first time that very day) vied for a stake in my conversation,
I surrendered not only the attention that I paid to that other man,
but all so to her, whose attention I promptly lost to this homosexual friend.
And what use did HE

have for that attention?
He did not admire her as I did. He only needed attention. It was not unlike what Ketchup had done with Johana...

I managed later, by virtue of a debater's memory, to pick up the conversation with the other gentle man again where we left off. But as I did so,
setting rules for what might offend me with endearing liberality,

admitting to my earlier conversational strides and building plot continuity,
I could not help but feel that some thing or an other had remained unsaid.
And that was the effect of having lost my audience:
Her. Why did I surrender it? Was it because I hate as much to be left out as he does, because I pride my self in being more Inclusive than Ketchup, who only pretended towards ega-

litarianism in order to gain power? Or is the worst of all possibilities true?: That I ceded the conversation to him,
pretending towards an interest that I did not feel, simply because of my Politically Correct Education? Again, I must remind you, as I would have loved to tell her,
that his homosexuality had little to do with my aversion. If there was some thing fundamentally

deplorable about him, his sexuality would have stemmed from that, along side his arrogance,
but even if the one were an effect of which the other was a cause,
only one of these had up-
set me. So why did I feel sorry for him?
Why should I feel guilty for promoting 'hetero-
normativity' and its exclusion of minorities?
Was I my self not a minority? And is all sexuality not suspect?

My greatest fear is that of fear its self. For if in fact I had yielded to his sense of entitlement out of fear, then that suggests that may be it was not for POWER that Ketchup had been so insufferable. But that same fear that for that moment I was guilty of.

No. For surely what truly swayed me were two-
fold: My own kindness. And those two Hispanic eyes.

[[[Dm.A.A.]]]

Dialektik.

Dialektik.

Master: We have so established that science is good for understanding how technology works, but nothing else. Beyond the technological “advantages” of the scientific “method” there is little if any thing that Science can do for us.

Now we understand why computers inspire in us such logocentrism. Western thought allows us to Use them. But not to UNDERSTAND them.

Student: But wait. Did you not say that science could help us to UNDERSTAND technology?

Master: Yes. (irritably.)

Student: So why can it not help us to UNDERSTAND computers?

Master: You IMBECILE! You utter MORON! Is it not OBVIOUS? Science and logocentric thought can only help us to understand computers AS technology! Not beyond that point!

Student: oh. (with bitterness: He must be crazy.)

Dm.A.a.

Taking Back Dignity:

I have come to realise that I am actually the only member of my family that works. i produce music. I produce literature. I hustle talent. I go to bars and i talk to women. but that is some thing that loafers never do. they never interact with any one. They provide no service for any one. What do my parents do? They do what I wasted eight months doing. They SCAN. *I* work and I work CONSTANTLY. I never divide my work from my play. I expect EVERY one to have a moral reason for every action and social gesture. If children in Africa have to starve and women in the Middle East have to choke and explode for the chance for me to attend a bar, it must be one HELL of an event I am missing out on at O'Harley's at the moment. They are not killers that dwell there, surely. for even going there must be part of their solemn patriotic duty.

So i work. But my PARENTS receive the money. My PARENTS lord their pretensions towards possession towards me. My PARENTS parrot the orthodoxy of Communism muddled with the orthodoxy of Capitalism, to the point one forgets which of the two is which. And WHERE is this money? I only see it when I am denied it. That is: I never see it. They insist that it is there only when they deny it to me as evidence. I work constantly, never dividing work from play. but are they at fault? Only in being deluded. Because they THINk that they MUST work. forgetting that they cannot. They are too old. They are supposed to be doing yoga. And I am supposed to be the provider for the society, the larger family. and WE are all supposed to receive a pension from the beneficent government, for after all: What if I died? I could not be expected as a corpse to support my aging parents. That is the task of society.

What happened? I eat little. I conform only to the spiritual principles and those of the Earth. I produce Art constantly, the commodity in the greatest and truest scarcity, for by now i would have imagined the population of the Earth would have been fed and clothed and sheltered and protected, though from no enemy. So how is it I am not lauded as a hero? I could DO without O'Harley's. I could DO without raves et al. But not if I am excluded under arbitrary auspices. There MUST be some thing special then about a place so esoteric. And I demand entry. Would you not agree?

Dm.A.A.