Friday, August 04, 2017

The Archetypes of Trump & Clinton: A Heretical Glimpse of Future Liberation


I can’t help wondering if America is on some collective, weird ass hippy acid trip of self- discovery. Consulting pages from the Almanac of Weirdness I can’t determine if Donald Trump is just another manifestation of the trickster or a demiurge made flesh. I’m leaning toward demiurge in all its malign, orange faced bluster.  It’s possible that the bronzer Trump is using is leaching poison into his blood via his face.

Tricksters aren’t necessarily benevolent, but they lead us to awareness if we endure. A demiurge imprisons – enslaves – other beings forcing homage to their twisted egos. Trump has that whole, “Behold, I’m a jealous God and you shall have no gods before me,” sensibility rather than a Coyote or a Loki leading the warrior to freedom ethos. It’s hard to say whether Trump is more Yaldabaoth or angry blowfish. It might be wise to stay away from the sushi for a while.

Somewhere, Sophia is weeping quietly into her morning coffee. Given the current state of the union there may be more bourbon than coffee in her coffee. Hillary is behind the bar serving up drinks with a tired, yet smug look of satisfaction on her face. She isn’t saying, “I told you so,” but she sure as hell is thinking it.

Hillary might be Sophia and not the bartender. She could be both in that confusing, nonsensical Thunder Perfect Mind contrariness that is part and parcel of her public persona. She’s wise mother and hated ball busting bitch that even feminists have taken issue with, although all but, Camille Paglia seem to have forgotten. Dr. Paglia is underappreciated by many so- called feminists. That’s too bad. She doesn’t need empowering. She’s a powerful force in her own right and one that I respect.

Women don’t need to be empowered. You already have the power. It has been increasing in leaps and bounds since 1920, thanks to our nation’s grandmothers and great grandmothers. Stop telling your daughter’s (yourselves for that matter) that you are being oppressed by a patriarchy. That exists only in your mind. Calling America, a patriarchy is akin to whining about the Vatican being the last vestige of the Holy Roman Empire – irrelevant and who gives two shits anyway?  Our duality is awash in false equivalencies pretending to be paradoxical truth.

Only you are preventing yourself from doing and having what you want. If you believe otherwise you have no power and no amount of sloganeering and shouting down your hated opposition will ever empower you. How you feel is also irrelevant. Your preferred identify is your perfect prison. Big Whitey only argues with you because it keeps you enslaved. “This is beautiful,” says Big Whitey as he lights his fat cigar with a crisp new one-hundred-dollar bill.  He hopes you never figure this out and thus awaken into your fullness.

“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.”

 Decode this axiomatic occult statement and take your place on the thrones of the Archons.

Stop obsessing over that rapist in the Oval office. Many of you have voted for a rapist yourself and you reelected him to a second term; lest you forget the sexual antics of one William Jefferson Clinton. Your objections to that statement falls on deaf, uncaring ears. All I hear is that you prefer your rapist over the rapist currently pretending to be President. Just stop it.

The point of power is always within you. Let’s set aside these political rape fantasies or, if you insist on keeping at them, examine the archetypal messages encoded therein. You object to Trump because he’s gleefully vulgar. He also used the word pussy. Feminists hate it when we use the word pussy. Clinton was still grabbing pussy, he just had the good sense to not get caught on tape taking about it. Therefore, we can be justified in ignoring what happened. Today if you must use the word pussy you spell it like this, p**sy.  It’s like Judaism and G-d. Let’s face it, P**sy is G-d for many of us. The drive to scatter seed wide and far in the quest to perpetuate our species until the dire end is strong in us.

The same goes for the word cunt, which far more powerful word than pussy. Pussy is purely sexual. Its women objectified to their lowest common denominator. Cunt is powerful. If a man calls you a cunt you can rest assured he feels threatened. He knows he’s lost and he has nothing left to fight with. The insulted woman has been victorious. She just needs to recognize it and go for the kill. Cunts are warriors. We must spell cunt this way, c*nt. We’re not fooling anyone, but I guess it makes us feel more civilized.

Back to Hillary.

The more radical feminists maligned Mrs. Clinton over her treatment of Monica Lewinsky. I’ve never held it against her. Even for an experienced politician used to doing damage control and spinning current events to her truth, Bill’s affair with his young White House intern was a very public humiliation. It had to be answered for. I don’t necessarily condone it – mostly because it wasn’t my humiliation – but I do understand it. Sometimes justice must be set aside and your enemy dealt with harshly and without compunction. Let’s also forget that Mrs. Clinton is also a human being – a mother and wife – which informs her public life intimately. I am not sure I would have acted any better – Hell, I know I wouldn’t.

All these erstwhile feminists, except Dr. Paglia and a select very few along with her, chose to overlook Mrs. Clinton’s treatment of Lewinsky. It makes no difference to me. I like Mrs. Clinton and I voted for her. I moved my support from Bernie to Hillary very early on. I thought it the wiser choice and think so now. Bernie’s democratic socialism is outdated.

Now we move on much in the same way that Monica Lewinsky has moved on. I really like her too. She embodies one of Nietzsche’s great axioms of self-overcoming: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I certainly don’t blame her for her youthful indiscretion. I had a few of my own involving older women when I was a young, wide eyed school boy entering the beguiling world of adulthood. I once had to climb out the window of my best friend’s mother buck naked.  Power and sex dazzle. Don’t judge. Do behold her becoming.

My essay digresses terribly thanks to my disordered mind. I will make one last point about Hillary Clinton. This time in the negative. She failed spiritually (politically a different story maybe) because she was too busy measuring words and trying to be all things to all people when she wasn’t busy deflecting Trump’s insane bombast with attempts at wit. Mrs. Clinton is the master of the back pedal. If you don’t believe me recall what happened when she misspoke and said, “All lives matter” instead of pandering to the Black Lives Matter movement. This was Kerry vs. Trump all over again: a candidate and a party with no message other than we hate this GOP dude.

What Mrs. Clinton needed to do was channel her Margaret Thatcher; Margaret Thatcher in a leather pencil skirt, starched white blouse, dominatrix stilettos and accessorized with a wicked looking riding crop. America needs discipline.  We are a bunch of petulant teenagers with no sense of reality. We’re just spoiled brats. She needed to crack our asses a good one.

As I contemplate my image of the archetypal Clinton forcing the archetypal Trump to fellate her 8-inch stiletto heels or using them to do some seriously dangerous testicle popping I have answered my previous question. Trump is all demiurge. He’s all angry, wounded child made lonely and insane by his mother Sophia’s abandonment. Sophia – Mrs. Clinton – can’t even bear to look at the twisted little godling her arrogance gave birth to.

Out of his fear and loneliness Trump- Yaldabaoth creates the shimmering bauble of this world and entraps the otherwise free souls of the cosmos so that he may have friends to play with. However, grand the palace is if it’s made from excrement it will only be an edifice of shit. We must leave the castle and venture back out into the playground of the God above Gods. We’re all playing at a game that no longer works for anyone. Not even Big Whitey.

We must give up our orthodoxies to succeed. Liberals have been attuned to social justice and for good reasons. Unfortunately, our good intentions have caused us to abandon the cause of liberty mistaking dignity in identity and equity. We are killing our world with ideologies. Feminism, libertarianism, conservativism, socialism, anarchism, capitalism and everything else must be set ablaze. These are the prisons of our own devising. We rely overly much on the government to do for us what we can do for ourselves through mutual collaboration. Think of it this way. Legislators enact laws. They regulate behavior. Then they create a legal system of enforcement to ensure that these rules are followed. Rules are always created and enforced by the people they benefit the most. We should be careful just what rules we agree to live under. They all carry with them unintended consequences.

Now I’m getting preachy. It’s time to stop.

The crux of my heresy is that politics won’t be the solution. Democracy is too important to be left in the hands of the typical voter. We are all the typical voter- you and me. It is a trick of the demiurge, this ugly, orange would be god that makes us think otherwise. The soul that liberates itself learns that it is not unique, it’s not special and the world doesn’t need it. The world got along with them before they came to be and it will continue its merry way once they are dead and gone or liberated. To be in the world is to belong to the demiurge. It’s an agreement to live by his terms. The god of this world’s plan for your life may just be cancer or something worse, servitude.

How the demiurge came to rule our present reality I’m not sure. I’ve stopped blaming evangelical Christians. It’s not really their fault. They worship a war god after all. They don’t understand all this Prince of Peace bullshit. The Peace of God comes after you cut a bloody swath through Canaan. First war, then the land flowing with milk and honey. They were dazzled just as we all are.

Godly, though Jesus may have been in spirit, his body died like that of a man. His bowels loosened and he crapped himself while sporting a final hard on in a farewell salute to this world of blood, bone and excrement.  The real Jesus hovered above the meat pupped dying slowly by crucifixion laughing at the unnecessary spectacle of it all.  Let’s follow suit.

That sound you hear is my thighs slapping hard against the flabby, white ass of your orthodoxies. I’m pulling your hair as I grunt, “Fuck you ‘isms’. Fuck you ‘ology’s’. Who’s your daddy now?”

Who’s your fucking daddy?

I am Abraxas.

So are you.

Our adventure begins…


Wednesday, July 20, 2016

A Necessity of Meaning

I’m the sole arbiter of meaning in my life.  My life is meaningful because I get out of bed each morning and choose it be so. That doesn’t mean it’s simple.  Choice is important, but my choices still leave a lot unaccounted for. Creating meaning is hard work and some days I lose the battle for meaning and fall into a dark existential slump.  If I wish to face the stark reality of probability life is contingent and mindless contingency is no flatterer of human ego.  Reality: there may be no special plan for me. I still affirm life.
The universe or God may not give two-shits that I exist. Maybe there is no sentience outside of us little marginally self-aware beings - two-legged, four-legged, winged, finned and tentacled, and the universe just happens to exist for reasons we can’t quite grapple with yet or ever. We may never know. Just because we feel that there must be a reason for “all of this” doesn’t mean there is. It doesn’t mean there isn’t either.  I choose to see a reason. Therefore I need to create meaning. If that seems artificial to you I don’t know what to tell you.
I’m a human being. I see patterns and assume intelligence is behind them. I see significance in correlatable, but random events. My self-importance spurs me to believe that I’m the center of the universe even as I recognize the egoism of that belief. Logic and reason is great and beautiful. I choose to live by what I call the light of reason as often as it is humanly possible for a man of my limited intellect.  I still need the daemons and the ghosts of my ancestors whirling around me in the midst of the night watch. I have to believe that there is a power greater than myself watching over me even if that isn’t true…most likely not true at all.
I’m also a being of great emotions. Logic and critical thinking are not always enough. I need magic and miracles: give me liturgy, psalms, poetry and great works of art and literature. Encode the working of my subconscious in archetypes and psychodrama. I love symbols. Give me Christ on a cracker – literally – and a small sip of wine.  I love scripture.  I love sacrament. Some days I choose mysticism over logic. The pull of the irrational unknown is unbearable at times.
Perhaps, these yearnings are simply the testament to the power of indoctrination. The Jesuits had a motto that read, give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man. I was indoctrinated young with catechism classes starting in kindergarten.  Indoctrination is not necessarily brainwashing if you teach critical thinking skills. Dogmatic thinking seems rather dangerous to me. I struggle against this perverse, soul killing rigidity within myself daily  I can’t shake this feeling that the world is being stomped to death under the jackboots of “isms” and “ologies” including the ones I hold dear – maybe, especially the ones I hold dear because these are the ones that I might be able to do something about.
I understand the principal that says that what I deem significant or portentous is often just the current direction of my attention. I always think of the very first brand new car I bought – a red Nissan Sentra. I’d never noticed Sentras before, but suddenly everyone was driving them.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

An Agnostic "Faithing" Enterprise

The problem with discussing ideas of faith is that the word itself seems horribly disfigured by its association with rigidly fundamentalist religious beliefs.  I’m a natural born skeptic and I take an agnostic worldview. Some days I lean heavily on the atheistic side and others I tend toward a vaguely theistic.  Wherever, I happen to be – just ask what day of the week it is – my view is colored by a delusional sense of pantheism that pushes me to leap, whirl and sing psalms like a tone deaf cantor. I refuse any sense of stalwartly unmovable materialism.


 I suffer depression and anxiety and at the same time I find a deep joy in being alive.  I will be reduced to ashes soon enough. I might as well see how the adventure turns out.  Yes, I might be a nuttier than a fruitcake – there are no clichés when dealing with my mental health – but, faith is the way I cultivate hope that all of “this” actually means something and that even though the future is largely uncertain and unknowable the experience is worth it.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Life just assaults you that way sometimes

Socrates added a tablespoon of heavy cream to his bowl of oatmeal. The warm mush was already overburdened with brown sugar and blueberries. He loved a warm breakfast that assaulted his tongue with the duality of the sweet and sour of sugar and berry. The erstwhile philosopher brought a heavily loaded tablespoon to his mouth, blew on it gingerly and slowly slurped the mush off.

“Oh my fucking god,” he said. “I love a big bowl of Quaker Oats in the morning.”

He loaded up his spoon and repeated his breakfast orgy.

“I could happily spend the rest of my life being a Quaker.”

Br. Ezra shook his head. “You realize that the Religious Society of Friends had nothing to do with Quaker Oats. It was a marketing gimmick designed to make people trust the cereal and think it wholesome.

“Well, I’m not really a pacifist either,” Socrates replied. “Sometimes I think violence is a necessary catalyst to affect social change.”

Br. Ezra blinked rapidly like a punch drunk pugilist. Life just assaults you that way sometimes.


“I’m just saying is all.”

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Potato Theology: May the Tot of Gott of Be With You

Gott is tot is German for God is dead. It is not, as I previously thought, God is a tater tot. I would have been okay with that too. Who doesn’t enjoy a pile of warm, golden tots fresh out of the oven?  I think Jesus would have approved of tater tots.

If the Supreme Being were a tater tot or if the tot was, at least part of the Holy Trinity I would have enjoyed mass a whole lot more. Let’s say all things being equal that the tot was Jesus as the 2nd person of the Holy Trinity. We’d not want to equate it with the Holy Spirit. The Great Tot himself told his followers that mocking the Holy Spirit was the only sin that was unforgiveable.  Establishing the tot as the 3rd person of the trinity seems like mockery to me. The son of man was okay with a little good natured ribbing. The Holy Spirit is an invisible whiny bitch that runs home to tell daddy on you.

Now that this is settled we can extrapolate further that Jesus’ golden potato-ey goodness would have inspired this lapsed Catholic. Going to communion would truly be the high point of the liturgy, not just the magical, symbolic high point (please don’t get me started on the intellectual folly of transubstantiation).
“This is the crispy golden potato of Christ.”

“Ay-fucking-men Padre,” would be the response, “Pop that tasty tot in my mouth.”
I just texted a friend and asked her if she thought Jesus would have been a mayo or a ketchup man. Being a good Lutheran – also lapsed – from Middle America she prefers to keep her beliefs close to her chest so as to not offend.  I think Midwest Lutherans may have been what Jesus had in mind when he said that the meek shall inherit the earth. However, that was before they closed all the factories and sent jobs overseas.

“I think his preference would be mixed,” She said, “He’d not want to discriminate against any particular condiment.”

True methinks

“Jesus would also have no problem with same condiment marriage either,” I said.

“True.”

Well…I’m not sure where he’d fall on Thousand Islands. That dressing has higher carb content from sugar than many other dressings and it also looks a little like barf.

Yuck.

As a senior in high school I worked the grill at a local fast food restaurant named Herfy’s. We were the home of the Herfy’s Hefty Burger and no Hefty burger was complete without our patented secret Herfy Sauce. Yup…you guessed it. Our secret sauce was mostly Thousand Islands which our commissary shipped to us in 2 gallon tubs.  No wonder I found 3 dead flies legs up on a stack of frozen patties on one of my last shifts.

I tend to be a Charles Darwin man, but the existence of the potato, natures most perfect root (not my favorite root, however. Wink...wink), might sway me toward intelligent design. I don’t want to be controversial though. Let’s end with a benediction.

“May the Tot of Gott be with you.”

“And also with you.”

“Go forth in peace my children.”


Thursday, July 03, 2014

Notes on Sobriety: The Humility of Step

Step 7, humbly asked him to remove our shortcomings, used to feel like a twig in the eye. Being an agnostic atheist in recovery each time the word “God” or one of the ineffable pronouns, such as “Him” was used I stopped listening. It drove me absolutely bat shit crazy. More than once I found myself reevaluating why I was in such a theistic recovery program. Wasn’t there another way?

However, I love the people in my home group. I love the care and concern that I’ve been given by others in program. I’ve ultimately decided to stick with it and let my friends have their god or higher power and remember to keep the focus of my recovery on me and not on what someone else believes. This is the basis of a sound recovery program.

I don’t come to these rooms to debate beliefs or discuss theology and philosophy. I come to AA and to AL-Anon to learn how to heal from the disease of alcoholism and to help others do the same. I come to share, listen and learn. I come to bear witness to the pain and the joy of the family of my choosing. Hopefully, as I apply the principals of this program in all my affairs the improvements in my own life and character will also benefit my family of origin. If it doesn’t than I have my own wellbeing and that is enough.

These days whenever I encounter the word god or one of the many pronouns associated with deity I just use it as a reminder that I don’t have all the answers. No matter how smart I am or smart I think I am, the latter being the case really, I still have limits to my knowledge, my understanding and my abilities.  I still need help and I need the love and care of other people too. Additionally others need my love and support. This is how we help each other.

Ultimately, Step 7 is really about an ongoing character refinement that underpins my entire process of recovery – humility.  It doesn’t matter where the answers to my problem or the help I need comes from. It just matters that help comes.  Before this realization I was often like the man in the old joke that waited for god to save him from drowning in the flood. He ultimately died because he refused the help that came in the form of a log, canoe, row boat etc.  Qualifying what acceptable sources of help are may blind me to the generosity of others and the legitimate help that is being offered to me in the here and now. I can apply the slogan, “keep an open mind,” without succumbing to credulity – a fear that is often the basis of my intellectual arrogance.




Wednesday, December 04, 2013

Language as A Way of Life

I’m a “yes, but” kind of guy. No matter how great an idea is I will find the downside to it pretty quickly, especially if there is a good chance that I may possess a talent or some experience that would lend well to it.

Todd, have you ever thought of being a professional writer?

Yes, but my grammar and spelling leaves a little to be desired.

That’s what spell check, dictionaries, style manuals and editors are for. You can even take an adult education class at the local learning annex.
Yes, but It’s really hard to get a break and you need an agent to be really successful.

So, self publish

Yes, but while that is pretty easy you still have to promote it to get sales. What good is publishing if nobody wants to read it?

Well, how does anybody know they want to read it if you won’t publish it and try to put it out there?

And so on and so on.

When I’m honest with myself (and you) I’ll admit that I like writing…love it, actually. It’s hard work. My self-doubt, depression and anxiety get the better of me a lot. Then there is the matter of my toddler sized attention span. I get bored of my projects very quickly and move on to the next one so that all I have at the end of each year is several unfinished projects and no actual progress.

Well, why don’t you just pick one and focus on it? Set a goal to finish just one of those projects this year.

Yes, but you seem to be forgetting about my toddler sized attention span

I admit that I live in fear where my creativity is concerned. My risk taking threshold is not very high and putting my work “out there,” exposing my thoughts is scary. I strut about with my chest out pretending that I have a thick skin. I talk gruffly to those who disagree with me. I’m a tempestuous warrior man.

I wrestle bears and alligators. I fashion my clothes and boots from their skins. I am a post modern Ernest Hemingway, a hard drinking war correspondent who runs with the bulls and goes on safari when peace breaks out. I’m the only one who believes this façade, of course. My friends and family see me for who I am, a sensitive creative person who is afraid of criticism. Throw the first punch is my M.O.

A creative person’s work is an extension of themselves; their inner being brought out into the daylight. A rejection of our work can be mortal. It, at least, can feel that way. What we do is so subjective at times others don’t always understand it. That’s not their fault. My job as a writer is to use my word’s to communicate. Yet, the rejection wounds all the same. Maybe even more so because I know that I have failed.

However, do I edit and re-craft? No, not usually. That’s the difference between true writers and those of us who just use words. Real writers crawl back to their computers and their notebooks and craft and reshape their work. They experiment and play with it trying to see what they can eke out of the symbolic nature of language.  For the artist who writes it is the process that matters not the necessarily the opinions of critics and readers, although they love acclaim and adulation as much as the rest of us. However, it is their relationship to the language, both real time and archetypal that becomes their way of life.

  All I can do is remember the words of an English teacher who, after reading some immature poetry drafts, said, “The problem with your writing is that you have nothing to say.”

She offered no further encouragement or advice. I was crushed and heartbroken. 12 years later the sting of that criticism felt as real as a slap in the face that just happened. I hadn’t written a word except to make a grocery list or take down a message for my roommate. It would be another 10 years before I would buy a notebook and start keeping a journal.

As for Hemmingway,

Hemmingway was miserable; spent his life in depressed misery and eventually blew his brains out. So maybe this isn’t the side of Mt. Kilimanjaro I want to climb. According to a Zen Master, whose name escapes me, there are many ways to climb Mt. Fuji, but the view is the still the same from the summit. So maybe there is more than one way to enjoy what I love. That is, if put my self-doubt aside long enough to try it…maybe even tame my toddler sized attention span and complete one of my many works in progress. I just have to find my way up the mountain.

  So how do I go from being a hack that just uses words to being an artist of the written word?

I don’t know exactly.

One of the little bits of literary trivia that I have reminds me that Shaw didn’t begin writing until he was around the age of 40 (If I remember correctly). I’ll be 47 in 27 days. What if I pick up one of my works in progress and see what happens?