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


Der Parkbank Pinkler Kapitel XIX: das Abkommen Teil eins


Auf dem Weg in den Verhörraum fing das Gespräch mit dem Verhältnismäßigkeitsprinzip an, ob das Vermummungsverbot für Demonstranten nicht etwa unverhältnismäßig wäre, insofern als, je gefährlicher der Polizist, umso wahrscheinlicher sei er denn auch so vermummt. In dem Sinne gebe es so gut wie keinen Unterschied zwischen Lockspitzeln, bekleidet unter Demonstranten zum Einmischen und gegenüberstehende ahnungslose Kollegen Antreiben, und V-Menschen, angeblich zum Einsatz bei Strafverfolgungsbehörden gekommen, um Wurzeln im Kriminellmilieu zu instrumentalisieren, und Bullen. Die begehen Straftaten mit einem Freibrief, Verbrechen verübt wie geübt als wesentlicher Bestandteil der Fachausbildung.

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Der Parkbank Pinkler Kapitel XVIII: eine Wirr-Erklärung


Angesagt wird bestimmt nun ein Wort über unser Thema und, wo wir gerade dabei sind, über die Erzählweise, deren nervensägend prätentiöse Vorspiegelung — die uns womöglich beziehungsweise höchstwahrscheinlich unnötig verwirrend und verschachtelt vorkommt —, markant versucht, uns vom Thema abzubringen. Und sind wir schon dabei, unter anderem die Fragestellung der Erzählperspektiven auszutragen, würde es auch nicht schaden, ein Kapitel gleich auf Metaebene zu verfassen. Wir sind schon dabei.

In engeren Sinn heißt „dabei”, dass das Wir zusammenführt, was auch immer noch zusammen fährt. Obwohl es vorgeblich viele gibt, vermeintlich unzählig viele, die nicht mit uns zusammenfahren, wird sie denn auch nicht hiermit, zumindest nicht explizit hiermit, zusammengefasst. Das einbegriffene Wir dürfte nur schwerfällig behaupten, gerade diese Worte nicht mitzulesen, es sei denn mit Lesen ist Deuten gemeint, oder die Frage zum Lesen würde von Dritten angeschnitten, was hieße, vom angehend neutralen Erzähler. Sind wir neutral? Dachten wir auch nicht. Fahren wir weiter zusammen in unserer Wir-Erzählungs-Vehikel, ohne Ausstiegsklausel vorgesehen.

Wo waren wir? Ach, ja, das Thema. Egal wie hart unsere Zeiten für uns, sind unsere Zeiten für andere noch härter. Andere sind Dritten, wozu wir selbst als andere Dritten nicht gehören, obwohl jene ihre wie diese unsre eine Ganzheit gestalten. Wir streben doch danach, zu dem Ganzen nicht zu gehören, oder vielleicht nur — nicht ganz zu gehören. Wenn auch uns selber zuliebe, glauben wir nicht zur Sache gehörig zu sein. Wir sind trotzdem genau das, denn es gibt keine Drittperson außer jener, mit der wir uns kurz jedoch immer wieder vom Thema ablenken, in der dritten Person erzählt und verwirklicht. Wir sind zur Sache gehörig, indem wir untrennbar zum Ganzen gehören und darüberhinaus zum Ganzen des Ganzen.

Wir meinen nicht, als wären wir uns nie mit Dritten identifizieren können. Es ist das Schaffen der von uns gelenkten Erzählkunst, das uns trotz Fremdwahrnehmung so allgegenwärtig wie das Menschendasein ermöglicht, uns in allerhand Bilderstürmer hineinzuversetzen und einzufühlen. Es ist aber auch ein und dasselbe Erzählprinzip, was zu unsrer immer währenden Verfremdung beiträgt und diese hochhält.

Während wir uns als Einzelne vorstellen, gehörig sind wir zum Zusammenhang und Widerstreit. Wenngleich wir uns teilen in sie und sie, gehörig sind wir zum Regiment sowie Opfern. Wenn wohnen wir auch nur von der Hand in den Mund, oder mit nichts mehr als Sternhimmel als Dach über den Kopf, gehörig sind wir zur Marine und Milchstraße ebensogut wie zum Wald und Tierkreis.

Es wurde einmal gesagt, es gebe drei Wahrheiten: Eine für einige, eine andere für viele andere, und ein gewisses Unbekannte. Im weitesten Sinne möglich sind diese wohl Wahrheiten. .  . drei Unwahrheiten. Auf dreierlei Art auch lassen sich Lügner und Nichtlügner vergleichen: Der Lügner beschäftigt sich mit dem Lügen zu sehr, um Zeit zu verschwenden, darauf zu beharren, dass er irgend eine Wahrheit sagt. Dabei befassen sich Nichtlügner so tief mit der Lüge, da sie nie vergessen, dass sie eine Lüge leben und dadurch entschlossen sind, elegant in der Philosophie von bedingte Wahrheiten zu äußern. Und der entscheidende Faktor, wie sich Lügner und Nichtlügner von einander absetzen? Der bleibt unbekannt. Dasselbe gilt für Dieb und Nichtdieb.

Die Übertragung vom Folgenden wirkt klar aber nicht unbedingt unmittelbar: „Was ihr getan habt einem von diesen meinen geringsten Brüdern, das habt ihr mir getan.” Da wird wohl eine Idee besagt, die aber aus anderer Perspektive noch direkter aussieht: Was wir tun, tun wir uns. Leider sind wir nicht so direkt belehrbar. Daher die dritte Person.

Aber was ist unser Punkt? Wann kommen wir endlich zum Punkt? In der Frage steht die Antwort: endlich. Wir kommen entsprechend unserm Thema alle zusammen zuerst zu einer Reihe von Nebensätzen, zwischen welchen, wie üblich, Kommas hinabhängen, und dann, genau wo er doch hingehört, kommen wir schließlich zum Punkt.



Crim’s Lead Hat Ink

Of crimson kings and talkin’ heads… I said as I read what had prompted Facebook Fripp to post:

From Adrian Belew’s FB page. A longer discussion is possible of this, and most likely not a happy one. The happier version is, both the excellent AB Power Trio and King Crimson are playing live, and both have interesting repertoires.
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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.