Showing posts with label lying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lying. Show all posts

Friday, August 17, 2012

SURREALISM IN AMERICA 2012

      photo by diane arbus

This particular election year has really been boring, and it's getting worse as it goes along. Romney is even more boring than the guy Obama beat so soundly in 08. Romney's running mate is even a male version of Sarah Palin--big mouth, not much brains. I suppose he's got some kind of smarts, Obama called him the philosopher of the Repubs, the title I thought Limbaugh owned. This guy must be about the equal of Limbaugh. Like I would say Limbaugh doesn't have much brains, except he's generated his stupid mouth into a $4million commodity pumping up white men to hate everything not white male. I hear on NPR now quite a lot of attention given to republicans. It's because the repubs have been breathing down NPR's neck since Reagan, taking money away from them, reducing them to syndicating BBC. Each repub administration threatens NPR a little bit more. And when we have a democrat administration they do nothing to help NPR. The most recent threat is include more news about republicans or lose more money. So they put on news stories about Romney and it's funny how much like dead air time it is when Romney is the subject. When he talks, he takes insincerity to new heights, or lows, whichever.


It seems like Obama is sitting back letting Romney & Co talk and get as much attention as they can, because they're so boring they make Obama look interesting. It's like they're playing Whiteman's Last Stand again. That's all the repubs are doing these days is playing Whiteman's Last Stand. All for the white man, nothing for anybody else. Freedom for the white man, bondage for everybody else. That's been the way of the USA from the start, so who's to say it's going to change now? It won't be long before white man in America is just another minority, albeit the most arrogant minority, the one the others allow the delusion of power because it's so important to white man to be number one. Every time I see Romney it's the same pose, same face, same expression, like the image of George Washington on the dollar bill, always the same any way you look at it. Or like a face on a postage stamp. It's a face. It's always the same. A bland American whiteman face gazing into the distance like in Soviet and Maoist "realism." Like the new Martin Luther King statue in Washington DC designed by a Chinese sculptor who evidently had his foundation in Maoist realism where peasants and soldiers gape at the rising red star.


It's hard to even believe this is an election year. A little bit of bland talk about Romney, then a little bit of an example of his bland talking that goes round and round like a roulette wheel without a marble. He's totally upper middle-class suburban country club, only the best, Mr Niceguy with a benign smile for all. He has the authenticity of Al Gore, the reason nobody much cared that the Bush-Cheney-Rummy-Rice Junta used the Supreme Court to take the election away from Al Gore, the winner despite Ralph Nader making it difficult for him. I have a feeling that people generally get as enthusiastic about Romney as they did about Al Gore. Gore was a bland suburban Ken doll to the soulless max, as is Romney. In the Sixties they'd have been called Plastic People and Nowhere Men. They both were created by the political image machine from the time they were little. They play the role required of anyone in politics in America, a mask with a smile, nothing else. Whoever might be behind the mask has no relevance. Image is everything. Appearance is all. As seen on tv. And I'm told by people who want me to think they know what they're talking about that television is not having any kind of effect on people who watch it. I wonder if we'd have had these random sprays of rapid-fire bullets into anonymous crowds of people before television. No I don't wonder. It did not happen before tv.


Except: Paris in the time of Surrealism (1920s and 1930s); one of the Surrealists, possibly Andre Breton, envisioned the idea that the ultimate Surrealist act would be to walk into a crowd of people and fire a revolver randomly. It was held up as a kind of idea of the ideal, until one day somebody did it and it wasn't funny. I hear on the news about a whiteman taking an AK47 or something into a kindergarten classroom of Vietnamese immigrant children and blowing away the kids, the teacher and himself. How Surrealist is that? Kids shooting up a school. Surrealism. Suddenly, unexpectedly, out of nowhere, not even out of conception, a couple of guys start shooting in the cafeteria, in the library. Son of Korean dry-cleaners walks into a university classroom with an automatic pistol, shoots professor, several kids and self. The ultimate American statement. Maybe this is to say we are in a Surrealist time. When 98% of the population goes around during the day with last night's commercials, sit-coms and sports on television in their heads, there aint much going on but keepin on keepin on. Pantene for chlorine damaged hair. It's a riot how television leads us by imitating us; following the lead of a parrot, another word for the say-what-you're-told politician and reporter.


If you want to see mastery in lying with a straight face, check out Lyndon Johnson on YouTube telling the television audience about the patrol boats shooting at American ships in Tonkin Gulf, knowing it had not happened, that it was a fabrication to fool the American people into believing it was a justified war action taking place to start killing farm families in Vietnam. Before the March on DC in 1968 Johnson called a press conference and told the press what to report, a made up press release that was nothing like the event itself. They all had front row to the event and reported as told. Free press? Free to report as told. Only the Village Voice told about the press conference and told about the event as it happened. Later, Rupert Murdock bought Village Voice to shut it up. Too liberal. Politicians have to be good at lying the way a rock star needs to be good at screaming. I look at Obama when he is talking in so convincing a manner, the come-along-with-me appeal, and I think, What a good liar. He came out of his couple weeks briefing after the election with the FBI and CIA and the other top secret places of dark ops with deer-in-the-headlights in his eyes, up to and including the inauguration, where he so famously made a blooper. From then on, he's been a really good liar. The only reason Bush was busted for lying so much was he was not a good liar. He was just a dumb guy that lied all the time. Obama would be good on Broadway playing America's First Black President. The black man that lies as good as a white man. Electable.


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Sunday, July 1, 2012

LEARNING TO LIE

baja rock

 
Did I ever stir up a hornet's nest today. I let my mother see what I'd written about my spiritual path, something I thought she'd be interested to know about. Hell no. That I'm not a respecter of the devil was a major grievance. She sent a long paragraph parroting a Baptist tract, scripture and references to scriptures. The worst part for me was it dredged up all that old belief system I threw off first thing when I got out from under belief system by duress. The day I moved out of their house, I threw that belief system in the trash and left it behind. I spent the next 15 years squeezing the last remaining dregs of it out of my system. It was used to rule me before; after, I'm out of control. I'd very seldom seen expression of love in the house. All I recall was griping and threatening. By the time everybody was in the car to go to church, daddy was in a storming rage because mommy takes so long getting her makeup and everything together. We drove to church in silence, because daddy was mad, arriving at the last minute. Daddy was always mad. He didn't think he needed a psychiatrist, but he did.


After church, daddy and the kids sat in the car while he fumed, smoking Lucky Strikes, because mommy was always, every time, the last one out the door before it was closed. She had to talk to all the women, one at a time. I knew it was a game she was playing. It was every time. I think she was tired of his pouty self-centered ways and decided to give him something to fume about. I don't know if she knew what the kids went through in the car with him while lava was spewing out the top of his head. It wouldn't matter. Better the kids than her. All the years I lived in their house, no choice about church five times a week, I don't recall love in or near the house or the church. The "love" was supposed to be understood; that's why it didn't show. There was no question love was there, because it was supposed to be. But supposed to never manifested in action or expression or speech. Evidently not in thought or feeling either.


The issue from here on is she will never let up on the nagging. Finally, maybe ten years ago, I got her to stop the nagging. I finally had to spell out what I'm not going to do, fill in the blank, ever, so please drop the subject. This one will only end when the first one of us dies. As evidence of what I said that you can't trust your salvation in the baptist religion, she was telling me how to get saved, like I didn't get it; she already enforced that one years ago. She enforced baptizing too. Now, it must not have taken. She told me Adam created sin by not obeying God. I don't recall the origin of sin a matter I'd addressed. I was looking at a definition of sin, what it means. Not the Bible book of records for who sinned first. Then a paragraph of Jesus died for our sins, like I'd missed that one through an entire childhood of preaching, brow-beating, control by guilt, and missed all of it. If I don't believe in the devil, I'd "better think about it." That mind is so far in my past I forgot. I had forgotten her adamantine mind. I'm of the mind that a blockheaded woman has a blockheaded man behind her. In her case, it's the blockheaded preacher man. She holds preachers as high up as I hold them low down.


I found it uncanny when I read her objections to who I am. Of course, she was replying point-for-point, but it struck me odd that she gave evidence for every one of my reasons for getting away from her and the religion. Immediately, I began to regard myself an agnostic, convinced the God business was about money and control, which it is, though not really certain about whether or not God, indeed, is. It took several years to come to a place I could honestly call atheist. This was in reaction, as the God put before me only convinced me this is not the case where God is concerned. Where is the love? Where is the love? The question I ask over and over where they are concerned. By the time I left the religion, I didn't know the first thing about love except that what I'd seen called love was not love. (I only hit you because I love you. LOL) In the time I thought I really was an atheist, the spirit of God came to me and showed me I was not. That was a surprise. Then showed me it's about love, not tightropes.


Whether or not I fall for the virgin birth has nothing to do with living a life of love with God and the people around me. Calvinist doctrine is nothing at all in relation to love. Doctrine is about control. In my theology, God is love. That's the beginning and the end, the long and the short of it. The gospel in a fortune cookie: Love God and treat other people right. I don't give a shit about virgin birth, supposed-to, better, damnation, free-will or predestination, church, rules or regulations. God is love. Love is not driving back and forth, to and from church in a fury, keeping everybody in the car beat down with brooding silence, silence broken by threats. We looked good all dressed up going to church, doing what we're supposed to do, God's will, smiling, good little sheep, never questioning the grocery store manager in the pulpit, because he didn't have any answers. God doesn't want us to know about things like that, was his answer to my questions.


I'm feeling feisty. I've realized that I brought it to her attention, subconsciously, to square up with mother on my spiritual life in my last days on earth. I've allowed her to believe I think and believe like she does, because she won't have it any other way. It's the easy way. The way of water flow. She really isn't interested. She's right---no two ways about it. She's only interested in whether or not I'm going to hell when I die. The mistake on my part was not foreseeing that she will picture me unrepentant in hell for eternity if she doesn't come to the rescue and browbeat me with her equivalent of the Chinese water torture, never letting up, never letting up, never letting up. She'll be calling the whole church to pray for me, now that I'm going to hell. And I can't help her see it otherwise. For once in my life I have allowed myself to open up with my own personal truth with my mother. When I was little, she told me if I told her the truth she wouldn't punish me. She'd only punish when I lied. That didn't work out even the first time.


First time I told her the truth of whatever the matter was, I got punished. I lied, I didn't get punished. She taught me well. Being punished every time I told the truth, she taught me to stop telling her the truth about anything. So I stopped. She didn't want to hear it. This was the first time I've let her in on one of my own truths. She couldn't handle it even worse than I'd imagined in worst-case scenario projection. She'll just have to see me burning in hell fire for eternity, unrepentant, unsaved although saved, for refusing to ally myself with nonsense. It doesn't make a bit of difference to me how she projects me. I was just thinking maybe, once, before I depart the body, I could let my mother in on my own vision of my spiritual path and she'd be interested. Shoulda lied.


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