When I embarked on my heroic quest to take on terrorism as a rosy cheeked eighteen year old,
..all proud and manly with him guns..
I really believed that I was doing so in the name of freedom,
…and him bombs..
To protect my family,
…just gotta shoot other people’s…
And our way of life.
Had I realised that my first nominal paycheck,
…which him didna care abou’ anyway…
was largely funded by deBeers and Anglo-American,
…forty pieces of dollar…
I might have queried my premise.
”Freedom will be the theme of every broadcast and editorial. Meanwhile the ruling Oligarchy and its highly trained soldiers, policemen and mind manipulators will quietly run the show as they see fit.” Aldous Huxley
We do not vote for our leaders. They are already irrevocably in place. We vote for their lackeys, the one’s who have to wear the charcoal grey uniform and go mind the office. We are watching parliament when we’d be better off staking out St Andrews.
You don’t understand, the enemy is out there!
No matey, the enemy is in here. Its called Rampant Unrelenting Greed, and its armed with stomach juices that can digest whatever you can cram in its maw.
But our God,
loves us… yes, and lets us do whateeeever we like so long as we are muttering his name at the time.
Ever noticed that there is no ‘I’ or ‘me’ in the Lord’s prayer?
No personal responsibility…
Not, ‘forgive me, oh god, for all the dumb, blind, stupid shit I’ve pulled and for the crappy thing I did, specifically x or y or z.
forgive us, collective sheep.
give us bread. breeeead, breeeeead.
Lead us not…..us poor, poor, Baaaah.
Deliver us from all this shit, caused by…
those motly bastards with their puny AK47s who,
for some evil reason,
resent us digging holes in their ancestral lands and want them back!
Lock and load, baaaaby!
”We are now truly a nation of sheep… and sheep are always led to the slaughter.” Milton Cooper.
I was always impressed by the ease with which the corporate rulers, the inheritors of Yahweh’s collusive covenant with earthly power, could simply wind men up like toy soldiers and march them to their deaths. My own troop in the Commandos was so cut to pieces that the unit had to be disbanded, but we were not unnerved! Our god would not let us die!
Perhaps a way to measure whether or not a culture is evolved is to examine the extent to which people are okay with being marched to their deaths for the material gain of some unknown third parties tackling a tricky putt on the 9th green of an exotic golflinks somewhere foreign..
…you gotta have a million ca-billion just to sit yo ass down on dem barstool.
Oh, and how we wish we were them!
In luxury darling, with servants and maids and garden boys on crutches.
I was in the garden reading. It was one of the final afternoons of the summer holidays. Kimberley’s legs were withered from polio but he had immense upper body strength. He was working over by the chicken coop on his crutches digging a row of beans. He had been at it for an hour or so, swinging the pickaxe with one mighty arm whilst he propped himself up with the other. A slow but steady rhythm. All of a sudden the 5 PM siren sounded. We were governed by the town siren.
No baas, WE were governed by the siron..
Kimberley was in mid-swing with the pick. At the first wail of the siren he put his entire massive strength into preventing the tip of that pick from biting down into the warm earth that he had been working with all day. I watched as his whole upper body fought to prevent the Makiwa from having one second more of his time than he was being paid for.
It was the hate of a fierce and noble pride. The pride of a man who has not given his kingship away.
but it was more than sheer brute strength that was required to single-handedly prevent an already swinging axe from finding its mark, his crutch bending and bowing with force.
And it was more than the profound resentment that Kimberley must have felt for his demeaning situation, his white name, his role as garden ‘boy’.
It was his inner spirit..
that I saw he had more than I.
And I felt ashamed.
Give us this day our daily bread.
First line, first thing, first clause in the contract, Give.
Give us our fucking bread you tight fisted bastard.
BRE – AD
BRE – AD
And so the great con of our time, darlings, is that there is a good life out there just for you and that technology will set you free whilst slowly basting the moral fibre of your sorry ass. In fact the meek shall only inherit the earth subject to being priorly engorged by our golfing friend. In fact, why would the wealthy leave anything standing if their favourite sermon contains lines casting some doubt about how inheritance will work.
Go stuff yourselves boys, its the will of God!
Kimberley hadn’t bought Yahweh’s pact with David and his descendants, the implicit right to dominion over others..
and that God would look the other way while we adopted a more hands on approach,,
to loving our neighbour…
The wish for more than we need is rooted in the depersonalisation of others, because others have to be exploited to make those dreams come true.
This greed is rooted in desperate, collective anxiety that Mum has gone and may not come back, the kind of anxiety that can have you reaching for icecream or another fag..
or another lover…
or a shooter…
But the bottomless pit is nonetheless softened by the notion that we are somehow sanctioned by God and, anyway, have power over others.
I live on de right side of de tracks because I am virtuous and this is my just reward
and suddenly even Rednecks…
or, no, particularly Rednecks, but ah, oh yes, us scientific techno folk suddenly believe in a divine plan with us at the top of the heap.