Scientactically-Told Truths

Raining capital in nineteen words:
They used to dub the leaders Great. Not because they were good guys & gals, but because they achieved the extreme. On horses. Call that ancient history along with the mid-twentieth century, but it’s not just recently that words like “marvelous” have been taken for “wonderful” and almost never WTF?! Such simple choices, little turns of phrase, sound uttered self-consciously if you listen really closely, as if there’s an ambiguity-minimum dishonesty requirement set forth in The Really Real Book of the Law somewhere. At any rate, quality propaganda requires retail twisting of truth as well as wholesale dissemination of dubious modern mythology. It’s when words matter most.

Like lukewarm lies as licensing fees claimed to protect all of our rights, the fights aren’t for your freedom to move, but their freedom to buy and to move you out. Or someone else. If you benefit or’re even only just spared, there’s a secure chance you don’t mind any more than they do.

They do not care for the health of the sick and the working poor, but for the right of their clients to profit from each and every illness in the manner they alone deem passable.

There is no concern for the oppressed under socialist regimes, but concern for those concerns’ well-being who will pay to get them toppled.

They’re not speaking on behalf of she-born hes to shoulder arms sanctioned by their nation as much as they are framing that sanction as self-evidently just and egalitarian so they can keep packing the force with bodies.

They couldn’t care less about the subversion of democracy or they wouldn’t go on undermining it in every other convenient case you’re not likely to read about (unless you are genuinely interested, which they know you likely are not). At present they must only tactically balance their for-ness & against-ness regarding the current ostensible world leader’s sanction and/or regime change plans, such as they are, which I’m sure makes the art in the artifice a challenge, except that people aren’t really watching them. Or so it would seem.

(A rhetorical quiz for later: Which paragraph(s) in this entry allude(s) to a combined vote & recent passage in the houses that tallies 516-6 and how does this reality square and not square with the stated policies of the president (not stated as much by the president himself as his self-stated opposition about him)?)

And they certainly don’t give a shit about the “territorial integrity” of the Ukraine or Crimea beyond ultimately facilitating fracked gas-hawking on behalf of their preferred partners in crime at home. And if they are devastated about the Paris Accords like they say they are, where were they when their party was watering the deal down? Ditto immigration.

In yet another regard in which they adopt their scene partner’s specious rhetoric, increasingly when they fret about racist and sexist attitudes, they decry as racist accusations of American meddling in foreign affairs, as it’s apparent to them, so they’ll say, that it’s racist to suggest the oppressed abroad hadn’t had the agency to carry out their own awesome revolutions otherwise unremarkable. Unless of course they wanna make that claim themselves. Their next candidate for office will be a woman and/or person of color, which amounts to a dare for you to challenge them on such points, like their immediate re-rehabilitation of Goldman Sachs, who, as far as I can tell, are selectively bad right now. The trumpcard tags of these not-so distant future supporters could be something latently (& (un)ironically) racist with “#bros” in it, and #complex and #notIraq03 for the implied 2smart 4U science-y nature of war as wielded by the party of Bubya Jefferson. The cheekiest ‘d go with #notBenghazi after some snotty version of “leave it to the adults in the room”. Or the most stupidly vain who’re not with the other guy.

Two and three years from now, one more hashtag might be #NowIsNotTheTime. How about now now? If you were, say, a regular party voter, now could be the time to make clear they got nothing without you. Theoretically. Or, you could wait until #NowIsNotTheTime arrives. The ugly truth, however, is that now is never the time when bobble headed functionaries have no intention span: no intention of listening to anything but the sound of their interests beyond your distance.

Long live the sciendustry that’s made it possible for them to engage more intimately with the public in democratic dialog. Hardly less marvelous has been the capacity of sciendustry to ease the outsourcing of that dialog to their free-labor force of raving mad Twitter followers tweeting their religious lesser virulence, enabling lawmakers to put the masses on mute while the ten thousands strong bully brigade blame everyone else preemptively for their own abysmal failures.

They are not the weak-willed wimps who fail to stick up for their constituents at every turn who they play on TV, and just when you think their theater is all milquetoast & jelly, they’re reliable in leading the way when it comes to everything from beating down resistance within the party that belongs to them to authorizing death — giving them hell, as it were — something against which their loyals will not object; many will cheer them on. For these long for the days when the ministry of duplicitous bellicosity was helmed by someone they’d been trained to respect. Someone… presidential.

They’re no opposition. Theirs isn’t resistance. One might make the case that they play it well. Consider, however, that their mise en scène is underwritten by the fiercest force finance has known with all of the tricks of that trade, all of the media monopolies and all of their intelligence infiltrations with all of their manipulations and influence on entertainment as industry, and billionaire-backed philanthropy-branded NGOs to boot. All of us awash in what hijinks remain to make them adorable… for they are no opposition. And when there is no opposition, the result should be obviously painful. Acknowledge it, ignore it, or play right along, but be careful. Banzai.

And now a reprise of the above, with bonus bits about the achievement of science & industry under the will of the Army, each aspect more marvelous than the other.

 

In which they fail Eggs o’ Jesus

 

Recollection of the Image Nation by Skips Wayback

I imagine America as an unfunny but popular sitcom whose character played by Charlie Sheen is struck dead by a train and replaced with a strikingly Ashton Kutcher-like character eventually to wring four more seasons out of the franchise. I imagine the suitable TV trope to be jumping the Shark Tank.In point of fact, I have never seen this sitcom. I say this not in the way of people who smugly claim to have never watched something when you know they really have, but to clarify smugly that I know nothing of the show outside of the brief dramedy surrounding its production; if I was ever made familiar with its content, it remains a residual memory via spoken promos during NFL broadcasts, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen a football game or been in a room with one on in the background that I’m unsure whose voice would have intoned what I imagine now to have been the plot-line & title among others of the relevant evenings’ programming.

It’s possible, likely even, that the voicing of the title in question is a construction of my imagination conflated with other sitcoms from a time when I still had a television, which would make me less familiar with the show than I was fully aware. Okay, in truth, I constructed that conflation for effect, the point albeit being that I have heard, as well as seen, too much come out of the idiot box to draw consistent distinctions.

This accounts for an awful lot of fog, or static or fuzz even, so that the clearest detail of this kind I can dial into hearkens way back to the building hype surrounding the transition from Shield to Storm (of Desert distinction) in the winter of 1990-91. It is only down to repeated viewings on video cassette that this memory has not faded for good. It comes by dint of a David Brinkley voiceover during the closing credits of Twin Peaks that promised for the coming Sunday the tackling of the concern “Will there be war?” If you know his voice you can imagine the upper register squelch that punctuates the question. I don’t imagine that Angelo Badalamenti imagined that he would be scoring a teaser for war drum propaganda. Then again, all is fair & nothing is sacred in war & teevee.

Back in the 21st century and my opening analogy: There’s plenty of bicker & forth in the building of the most fitting metaphor for this or that thing worthy of amusing or thought provoking comparisons. A notable recent example was acted out by the dueling factions of lesser non-virtuousness, which can be seen in the desperately clingy rift in the Democratic Twitterverse:

My guess is that Bernie-bro-bots and Hills-hath-furies might be of one mind in associating the image of a coked-up & out-of-control whore-monger Charlie Sheen with the character of Don-John Trump, 45th usurper of a haughty concept, and 44th denizen of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave (42nd if you don’t count Ben Harrison’s one-term trashing of Grover Cleveland’s aesthetic).

Would my analogy have it that the current President is Ashton Kutcher? Not exactly. Ashton Kutcher rather represents the paradox of the stated uncertainty of the day: the occupant of the premises, not the embodiment of the occupant. The drug fueled egomania of Charlie Sheen is a tempting juxtaposition, for sure, but his is a more apt effigy to the type of celebrity apprentice who would wrap himself around the Don’s pinky finger in order to hold on to the teevee gig that services the binge.

Still, as one can deduce from his infamous Battle of the Chucks, Sheen’s desperation didn’t deign to flatter the boss. Remember that the producers had him written off his own show per offscreen tragedy with a train. No doubt the fans of the sitcom had been following the actor’s public-private trainwreck. Get it?

Am I therefore saying that the President or his presidency is the proverbial trainwreck? Not quite. I’m saying that the President epitomizes a sordid crash parodied into a storyline befitting all precedent decadence.

That same sitcom featured another junior icon of the 80’s who cared enough about his status inside Hollywood’s buddy system that he once had a publicist spin his affection for Republican politicians into the apolitical desire to hear “both sides”, which, if you haven’t yet noticed, is the nomenclature for the Overton window that — when tooled toward the easily controllable opposition of partisan politics — allows for the scripting of any public policy that isn’t good (aka “good” – that which you shouldn’t allow yourself to be the enemy of, and which, featured along with the forever fogging window is the offscreen threat that lesser-decline is no worse than lesser-improvement until such time as lesser-improvement has the votes, at which point we should not lose sight of the relative worthiness of lesser-decline, lest something worse happen along if we were to “take our eyes off the ball”).

This represents the ostensible sensible middle that the party elders loudly laud every time they lose the big chair, and often when they win it. It is staged in terms of a seasonally swinging electorate. In reality this room-to-oscillate is, over the long haul, not coincidentally shrinking in one direction: Comedy. Bad. Severely.

If you’ve found yourself in a dream not knowing when, where, why, or how it is you are going to complete a task likewise unknown save for the fact that you believe you have to carry it out for some reason, surely reasonable, know that this is remarkably similar in affectation to the actor’s nightmare, real or imagined, asleep or awake, of standing on stage, in this case a sound stage, having forgotten his or her lines, or, more fittingly, without an inkling of ever having learned them. Cue laughter, sweetened to replicate authenticity.

At the stage where the audience is conditioned to respond predictably, the distinction is diminished.

Zeitkolonie

This guy sits in solitary confinement for twenty years. It would’ve been for eighty except it’s proved more enough beyond a reasonable doubt than was in the case against him that somebody else had committed the crime for which he had been sentenced. The state’s attorney — three state’s attorney’s removed from the one who’d led the prosecution — filed a plea for early release before the circuit judge, along with the request that the defendant be granted said release under special circumstances, yet not have his judgment overturned, since neither the state’s attorney’s office, the original prosecutor, nor the presiding judge in the case under review should be construed as liable for having contributed willfully or otherwise to a miscarriage of justice, which interpretation might be so enabled were the ruling to be vacated. The public defender acquiesced in the interest of expediency, having extended this recommendation to his client who had long settled that resistance was futile. It was therefore argued that it would be in the interest of the state judiciary and law enforcement if the guilty verdict remained in tact, which argument whatever it’s worth the judge interpreted as well-reasoned and so ordered.Thereby released, this newly freed man found himself in a position to reap just the kind of attention one would hope for — at least as one not affected might reckon — when a human rights lawyer applying pressure with just the right balance of ruthless tact and diplomatic expression convinced the court that it would be in the interest of the state to provide a penury allowance commensurate with the length of the term of imprisonment and successfully negotiated financial compensation for time served. It was clear to the parties when the sentence was to be suspended that the preponderance of prospect lie therein that the defendant’s ability to find gainful employment would be infringed. His lawyer was able to accentuate that fact not only with meticulous clarity, but persuasively.

One might say the settlement was handsome, but then twenty years is not something that’s easy to evaluate or — put another way, it’s hard to prove that the burden of the twenty years was equally as bad as the recompense was ameliorative. It is at any rate with great difficulty that one should consider freedom under the aforementioned circumstances on par with one’s being lucky, save for when one is speaking of the objective odds in a game of chance, all things in this case, however, being unequal. The monetary sum did afford him a roof over his head with steady meals for a lifetime, which as irony dictates was what he had before his release; it was in fact that around which his punishment was crafted. Nevertheless, one substantial distinction would be how post-incarceration he would arrange his living space and the time within it.

The first thing he did was acquire twenty years of lost history in the form of mostly out-of-print nonfiction reading material, which, nomenclature aside, was fiction insofar as the digestion of such would give its readers — amongst whom numbered the accused’s next of kin — the impression that our then not-yet newly freed lifer had been, beyond the kind of doubt maintained as reasonable, guilty of the crime for which he’d been judged: He gathered two decades of daily & weekly newspaper- and monthly & bimonthly magazine back issues and arranged them in a library of sorts that he had furnished with wall-to-wall shelves from ceiling to floor. As timing would have it, it was still just easy enough with a certain sum of money and the use of the postal service to obtain in pulp form everything he considered necessary to catch up on the past.

Adjacent to the makeshift library — to previous tenants a bedroom — was a walk-in closet that served a threesome of panels on which to pin and notate developments of interest, of which he would feed one above all. This habit eventually expanded, then relocated to the living room cum bedroom cum catchall for hanging periodical clippings and observations thereof. The bathroom remained a bathroom, the kitchen a kitchen. This aside, the living-working space diverged from its occupant’s previous quarters by an additional four hundred square feet that accommodated the aerobics that succeeded the prisoner’s calisthenics.

He didn’t subscribe to any contemporary journals. Correspondingly, he made no use of television except as a monitor to watch archival video footage of newscasts and special reports of both the local and not so local sort. His idea was explicit: He’d start every day with the morning paper, each week with a few magazines, and a recorded broadcast in & between. One’d think he might not be disinclined to skip forward, or peek to the most recent publication, which’d be the paper from the day before his release, and work backward, but he began and pressed steadily onward vacant evident temptation to deviate from the plan. Day 1 was to be the date he served his first day behind bars. He scheduled twenty years to get caught up — only to be still when he finished twenty years behind.

It was however the choice of the convicted in this case to take back the past taken from him, and in a manner befitting that of a free person unencumbered by undue haste. He had anyway no interest in the life outside, although it was exactly this life outside that was denied him by a sentence sufficient to balance the severity of the series of felonies that had been hung upon him, justly unjust as that latter rendering would have it. The time churning outside his window manifest so little in his outward bearing irrespective of his actual interest, which had been decisively tempered by the dearth of personal contact for over seven thousand three hundred and twenty-two days and nights. It shouldn’t surprise one that it turned out to be the routine outing necessary to purchase provisions for nourishment and hygiene that loomed in an increasingly burdensome manner in very short order. He had over the course of one hundred seventy-six thousand hours learned the odd, involuntary art of not breathing the abundance of outside air. With a refresher of a mere week under the broad light of the partially cloud-covered sun, and the general public he was at nerveracking odds to be around, did he manage to arrange full service of grocery and drugstore delivery and never left his apartment unit again except twice.

This was a further movement now forgone to additional irony, for in jail he was led daily from his concrete cube for a walk around the correctional complex, in lieu of which now emerged skipping rope and running in place. Another aspect diminished, human contact, went from six trips a week in the company of a prison guard to roughly one encounter with a delivery person in the same stretch of days.

In view of the ostensibly extreme approach of our recipient of off-the-books vindication, one might wonder with what temperament this ‘not getting on with his life’ would carry forward. Let alone concurrent with his backhanded deliverance, that which could be determined as justifiable embitterment towards a family who, in their absence of faith in the innocence and concomitant worthy humanity of their offspring, sibling, husband, and father, and their eventual abstinence from afforded visitation without which the prisoner in devastating degrees advanced in social petrification, it might be assumed that his days and nights would advance in anguish or hostility.

At the outset this assumption would bear out to be mistaken on the surface as our ambiguously liberated ex-con pored over his freshly funded free press articles with the enthusiasm of a dedicated historian, albeit as quasi real-time annalist. So too was the ritual that book-ended his frequent eighteen hour days disciplined. It commenced with Jane Fonda for fitness, continued through breakfast over the morning paper, made its way along with a stand & stretch break during the Lunch Hour Traffic Report, and kept itself abreast of frequent video news segments from a not quite concealed benefactor regularly delivered to the address sometimes in the nick of time for the analogous date, a day whose exercise was preceded by the marking of the calendar and which ended with the setting of the alarm clock.

 

Incredible sorcery ≠ credible sources.

There are so many things that make the current American president unacceptable to me, but I don’t see them taken up by the resistance to his presidency (hash-tagged or otherwise). Such an issue is conventionally disregarded, not because it’s buried by distraction (which it is) but because it does not rise to the level to meet with the resister’s resistance unless it’s been hammered into their consciousness parallel to their first learning to form full sentences, like the issues of national allegiance, federal law enforcement, and espionage.I really couldn’t care less about the state of the FBI. The only good that’s come out of that organization is seen through fictional depictions and Eliot Ness’ Wikipedia page. Theirs is such a deep record of oppressive behavior, blowing the lid off of the occasional crime ring cannot make up for serial entrapment and murder. But I’m even more sceptical about the virtue of US intelligence or the sanctity of its sources. The mere fact that these statements are potential enough to reap my own harassment &/or surveillance might land me broader sympathy if not for the short circuit of intellect that takes place when such topics arise.

It’s the result of lazy thinking, which in fairness to the lazy thinkers is the result of social conditioning, which, given where this has led, functions now like an authentic incantation that manipulates the emotional mind of its subject-objects, who take their views for rational rather than the affect they really are.

As to the things distracted from, their extant state in the public record would be well enough to get the consideration they deserve were it not for counter-conditioning that keeps them clear of the emotional radar the subject-objects are disciplined to react to. For example, the president’s readying another hundred billion dollar death package to Saudi Arabia is standard operating procedure. Mundane even. Boring. Coupled with the inbred acceptance that secret state science saves humanity from the bad guys, questions of credibility don’t involve having to think.

I’m not trying to assert that there are not categorical differences of real and potential illegality at play in the current White House. On the contrary. I just don’t care about them. Nor are the constitutional matters coincidental. They underpin the problem I’m complaining about. The shadiness seen from political actors in my lifetime most often conveniently lands linguistically, and therefore legally, in the area of mistakes made: irresponsibility, negligence, maybe recklessness. Even then the language is spun by those absolved of crossing statutory boundaries. You know, politics.

But more frankly I don’t give a shit about Russian spies and oligarchs because the American ones and the ones of their official allies have acquitted themselves horrendously as it relates to the state of the world today, and their only answer is to do battle with the symptoms they’ve caused rather than address their own complicity. Not that I would expect them to.

The last thing I expect, however, is a people trained to think a certain way to recognize its least comforting manifestations. The current phenomenon suggests monumental peril at the hands of a historically duplicitous acting president. That this might be beside a certain point, that his presidency in and of itself might be extraneous to the world’s problems seems to occur to almost no one.

Of course, this is only my version of a plausible explanation for the popular state of mind. I am not convinced that the people who are actively railing against the shocking traitorous criminality of the American president even care about his implicit disloyalty. They’re just responding to stimuli. And it sure gives them good cause to care that much less about things he has in common with his predecessors, which is something his removal from office would do less than zilch to mitigate.