What’s out there?
There are things to be wary of in this world—nature is the first proof and man is the second. Just remember; men have their own conception of what is and what should be. Nature makes itself apparent but sociology often obscures. Don’t count on the attention or follow every scent; try to pierce the jungle’s veil with an eye of science.
Rabies drives animals to wanton violence to spread itself like a mind controlling virus. Consider that in man’s desire to survive they embody ideas which are infectious. There are apparitions among us. Parasites of the mind which seek to pilot us. Psychic reptilians with no conscience that slither from meal to meal with little more than a brain stem.
Animals rather than defend themselves merely mate more proliferately hoping to overwhelm the appetites of their predators. Humans have succeeded because we worked smarter fashioning ourselves hunters. A fool lets himself be eaten same as a lineage of birds feasted on every spring by the fat cat which lives for twenty contented years in a buffet called Eden.
We must prepare ourselves for what’s out there. Any outcome is earned.
Is there a taxonomy of the Parasite? An account of it’s mode?
I can’t hope to condense it because it tells the lives of a few who led hundreds of millions in a campaign of damnation. I’ll just try to explain why the story of Polish intellectuals under Soviet rule has anything to do with Americans across the pond in the 21st century. In short; material philosophy is deadly.
This account is not today. Back then is not now. Something has changed in the parasite and now it lurks renewed and infuriated for having been rebuffed. The parasite does not live one life, it has many, and like any organism it evolves. What can describe the parasite most totally as it is now?
Foreword / Preface / Author’s Note / Introduction
See how the worker’s sow, with their needles and thread, all the peoples into their clothes. Here they gather in their factory full of laughter and woe, huddled around their latest individual, measuring and sizing. Chit chatting and making light of the shop’s talk that the patient can’t help but hear.
The mistake, my dear, was thinking that strangers care about you. There are differences in this world. Some are employed in the factories but we’re the chattel that can only dream of such liberties. I wish I could surrender, I wish I were a victor, I wish I enjoyed battle, I wish the fight mattered.
The hands of madness have been laid on me and smeared my sanity. They sing to me, softly, as they massage into me; their tags of claim, their codes of conduct, their frames of thought, the death of life. The workers kill to save just as surgeons cut to operate. They kill all of me because I can’t care to complain.
I could have been a boulder but I left the door cracked and in they barged. Now they slosh me as water, making a rearrangement of my brain, binding my lips to their dick’s shape, posing me supine and legs open, set as a table for their meal. The workers licking their fingers between strokes.
The system is being set up, the factory lined up, the labor trained up, the ground opened up where from the demons will rise up so that the human spirit may once again have it’s opportunity to stand up and say no to the evil which awakens each day intent on groping and getting everyone felt up.
I am not longer me. I am that which serves the faith. All rise and follow we. Forget everything that ever was about me. That’s not worth anything. We brings the end to pain and suffering. Join we. Serve we. Work for we. Appease we. Wee wee wee all the way home. Such is we and soon providence will be.
Art is Service / Intellect is Extraneous / Love is False
I made the most fatal error a person can ever make; I tried to engineer a relationship. I thought I was wrangling the gods and finding the easy path to heaven but turns out I just played myself and hurt her in the process. I can’t believe how much I hurt her. The first mistake was the most deadly; I shot for the floor thinking I was being real when humans have to the aim for the stars to have a hope of not ending up in hell. It was a good plan on paper. All the attributes laid out and the explanations for why and how. It seemed right. Issue was; I didn’t feel anything. I was just trying to escape from my cell and she fit the bill for a prison mate with the means and motive to take the risks I was calling for since I couldn’t be in here anymore. I was losing my mind.
All about him, in the city streets, he sees the frightening shadows of internal exiles, irreconcilable, non-participating, eroded by hatred.
To better explain how I felt; I only ever left the house in pajamas and that tended to put people off but it amused the rabble. It didn’t help that I J-walked, cut across pristine patches of grass, hopped railing and took every option available to me to get where I was going without backtracking or feeling like I’d been penned in. When I was younger I’d actually once climbed my way from the second to the first floor of a mall because you know what I mean; there’s no stairs anywhere. What people think of me is constantly hounding me and my mental commentary sounds something like, I’m glad you dislike me. Please don’t mentally associate yourself with me. I want nothing to do with you or any of your particular ilk of humanity. This town grates at me.
Let me be the Mank to your Hearst. We’ll be besty-s after we kiss and make up, but quickly, before Sinclair is “replaced” by the communists.
The explanation for that was pretty obvious; urban youth are belligerent and coarse. If one honed in on my distaste because lets be honest, wasn’t hard to, and got touchy with me there was always another willing to start a fistfight on anyone’s behalf for any reason. They’d get carried away in the service of justice and escalate it to attempted murder. The proprietor’s of the drug stores were horrified but I was always more than willing to testify because my schedule was empty and the high and dignified were forced to spend time near me when mostly they fled from a mile off sensing something was terribly wrong with me. Why not get a job? Why not make use of my gifts? The women are too polite to impress on me and easily swooned. It frightens me.
Yes, I really did enjoy the class. Chicano culture is so interesting.
I understand how my company on this earth works; how the clock ticks and at what rate. The poor most usually hate each other and beat each other and scream bloody murder at each other and are very unhappy with each other because none of them can figure out how to find contentment in being the ass of society. They’re all incredibly unhappy. Their emotions are unregulated and wild because they’ve not been tied up and taken in by a social purpose adequate for the being they are. So when I look upon any of their wives, girlfriends, daughters or joy toys I note that I’d be a better partner for any single one of them merely by the fact that I don’t punch anyone and I’ve got a good ear for listening when these men are full of cauliflower from their treatment at the hands of management. Life is rough and I have no idea who made it like that but I hate it. Who can say why it goes so wrong? It does.
The bums will always lose! Do you hear me Lebowski?
As such all of them are the victim of some sort of psychological malady but they’re still mostly functional and cogent. This is just the price of society. Unless you’re going to be like me and give it up. Then the price will cease to exist. If I get to chatting with girls they’ll get everything I’m saying. It’s obvious to anyone with a brain. The issue is no ones has the means, opportunity or time of day. All the influential people are already swamped by the family and the business and their own selfish interests. Their hair would only get messier for having a few more guests in there so the last poor standing are left to me. I’m the therapist that doesn’t cost $450 dollars a session or depend on state funding. I’m the boyfriend that doesn’t demand unprotected sex. I’m the conversation partner who never slurs his words. I’m the boy in the jungle of animals called men. It’s worse than you’ll ever know out there. Every door is closed and every family has their secrets and shame is an effective noose. Should anyone find themselves brave they’ll only unveil a status quo that everyone already knows. There’s nowhere else to go.
Wow, look at him. It’s like me if I was poor. He must actually like people.
I’m just here to shoot the shit in a world full of it. I walk out the door and speak to it. What the fuck do you do? Drop your pants and piss on it? Dump your shit pot into the streets they live in? One of them I talked to recently was in a car crash they will never be fully compensated for, with unsolvable back issues and their license plates were getting stolen and she recounted this keeping her eyes on the world around her like it was a wild animal ready to bite her. This is every woman around there. All of them get guard dogs for boyfriends because at least if you’re intimate with them you have a hope of plugging them up before the bout of rage spills over. It’s rough. That goes on unchangeably for years and then even longer past that until it’s just the encrusted muck of your aged mind and body that keeps you company.
On September 17, 1939, learning that the Red Army had crossed the eastern border of Poland, he committed suicide by taking veronal and cutting his wrists.
I really couldn’t handle being faced with this anymore. I needed to fill my hair full of familial and career problems so that I could forget all of this. But I had no prospects and no friends and no inroads and nowhere to go, so, I wrote myself a grocery list:
Perhaps not so high income, those people are a little touchy and overly expecting. Not as open to these viewpoints as I am. Willing to venture into fucked up places of thought, needs to be of that type…I might prefer if she were the darker toned one than me…still smart, I like someone to run along with me…has to enjoy or at least follow in depth conversations or else we're doomed, she can be quiet, just has to be able to comprehend, I can't be with someone that doesn't understand me.
My whole life is a thought experiment. Just like some people start working jobs at twelve I started to ponder at six. When the mind’s well fed and the home relatively quiet it gets to itself and creates something that the world can’t get through to—an independent perspective.
This was when "socialist realism" was introduced into Poland. This is not, as some think, merely an aesthetic theory to which the writer, the musician, the painter or the theatrical producer is obliged to adhere. On the contrary, it involves by implication the whole Leninist-Stalinist doctrine.
If people knew what being an artist was they wouldn’t want it. Sure, you get to be expressive of your soul and dedicate yourself to your own pursuit but have you realized that makes you dependent on the whims of the system around you? It takes a commitment to love and an eroding sense of security to exist as an artist, sat out on the end of a limb that likely hasn’t grown itself as sturdy as you’d like. Is it fun being sensitive when the winds pick up and your stomach registers every passing breeze? Is this experience worth the personal latitude and the occasional galleries that give you a sense of flight? Probably not but I found a girl who wanted it. For this sense of death defiance she was perfectly dark.
The difference is that in the West one may resist such pressure without being held guilty of a mortal sin.
She had no idea what I was thinking about because she didn’t have enough time in her day. You see most people are occupied not by the forces of a regime but by the duties of their lives. My head was running laps around the globe minute to minute because intellect has no constraints and she was there to decipher the scribbles and how they mattered to anyone or anything. There’s nothing more dangerous than a group of intellectuals left to themselves. Lucky for me I was a wandering bum. I was effectively neutered and left to terrorize my girlfriend with a half pitched tent. She made implications to me, softly, “I read all of it.” and her feedback stopped there. “But what did you think of it?” She had no words for it.
For the intellectual, the New Faith is a candle that he circles like a moth. In the end, he throws himself into the flame for the glory of mankind. We must not treat this desire for selfimmolation lightly.
The both of us degenerated on each other week by week. Her aspiring spirit and my aspiring mind. We were professional dreamers, hers were fueled on late night caffeine jam sessions and mine on midday bouts of sleepiness that lulled the mind from media entertainment into it’s yolk. Sadly, what we found more and more by the day was that we gravitated to each other more than anything we produced. Our work was utterly insignificant unless enslaved to our relation and even then it wasn’t us. It’s very true that art and writing feeds on social narrative and we were lost. There was no air to soar on between the two of us. No one gave two shits about what our passion was producing. Closer and closer we sank.
A Monster Too Ugly to Love
What was once a singular being has been flayed and strung along a line. Living in pain the modern creature is made to walk with blood vessels, tissue and sinew exposed. Hobbled by the pain of it’s teaching and the weight of it’s burden there’s no purpose in the suffering it endures. The tasks given to it and the life afforded it are beyond God and survive only in the shade of mankind that makes a price of every interaction and an inconvenience of existence. Somewhere along the way beauty was molested and died of despair; what lives today is the body which has nothing to embody and will surely die alone. The world’s composed of a belief in death that rots love before it’s ever hatched and cracks happiness under the lightest touch.
The Void - Intellectuals seeks a unifying philosophy to replace the failure of religion to encompass the new classes of people in our technological civilization. Feeling lost from a social narrative they seek one which incorporates and includes them as valued members of mankind.
The Absurd - Trapped in the motion of the world but able to scientifically examine and dissect it the Intellectual spitefully dreams of escaping from the prison of society that has left them insignificant and forgotten in the midst of the ignorant masses. There must be a solution within their means.
This monster is a thinker and it has no target, cause, function, engagement or purpose. The world grew up and broke right through the ceiling; now they’re drenched in the pouring rain of abstraction, the blackness beyond, in the realm God never described or ordained. What’s to appreciate? Life made itself meaningless. Back upon the ground they look down and tell it like it is; the world’s disgusting. Their life is pointless. They never made of it what makes it worth anything. Grown without the principles of spiritual incorporation they’re poor, destitute and incapable of receiving benefit. The mind finds it’s one hope in a new philosophy cut from entirely new cloth; paying little attention to the wreck of what existed before since it’s worthless.
Never Fear, The Idea of the System is Perfect
Slaves to progress is all we need to be. Let the arbiters be the judge of that. They know what improvement looks like because they own the measuring stick. If your work doesn’t add up they’ll give you the necessary feedback because the rubrics are perfectly clear and spelled out. Begin where others left off and add as much as you can. We need to reach this line. Once there the world is perfected, objectively, by the methods of our science. There is no need for repetition. We know perfectly well what has already been done and what still needs doing. Do not waste time. Do not waste effort. Do only what is approved. The goal will be reached ever sooner if we remain on target.
The faces of the listeners at these congresses were not completely legible, for the art of masking one's feelings had already been perfected to a considerable degree. Still one was aware of successive waves of emotion : anger, fear, amazement, distrust, and finally thoughtfulness. I had the impression that I was participating in a demonstration of mass hypnosis. These people could laugh and joke afterwards in the corridors. But the harpoon had hit its mark, and henceforth wherever they may go, they will always carry it with them. Do I believe that the dialectic of the speakers was unanswerable? Yes, as long as there was no fundamental discussion of methodology. No one among those present was prepared for such a discussion.
Here comes the traveling dialectician, the walking talking bulldozer of authority, rhetoric, argumentation and flowcharts. Over so many crowds of helpless cows have they mowed that they treat rooms of humans like fields of cabbage. They back that tractor’s ass over everyone’s heads and dust them. They’re merely here to explain the expectations of the new regime and the information will be imparted quickly, effectively, plainly and as a matter of fact. Dialectician’s are the state incarnate, acting upon the realization of the new faith. There’s no hope for anyone. This is notice of what is decided, made up and to be imminently enacted. The System is already in effect.
Crisis Upon the Threshold
Let go of whatever came before. We have agreed it was wrong. Swear yourself here and now to me; this new cause of new ways of a new mankind. However you were raised, no matter how cherished or loving, was nested within the evil of old and must be thrown away. All success is derived from the new faith and it must be celebrated that we have taken this step. Walk the line, follow the path, realize Communism together with us. Those stories and histories you knew, those nations and leaders, those peoples and orders are no more. However you have identified yourself is dead. We have decided to change and live out our lives better than ever could have been possible while chained to the system of economic oppression by rulers through exploitation of labor.
One can survive the "crisis" and function perfectly, writing or painting as one must, but the old moral and aesthetic standards continue to exist on some deep inner plane. Out of this arises a split within the individual that makes for many difficulties in his daily life. It facilitates the task of ferreting out heretical thoughts and inclinations; for thanks to it, the Murti-Bingist can feel himself into his opponent with great acuteness. The new phase and the old phase exist simultaneously in him, and together they render him an experienced psychologist, a keeper of his brother's conscience.
Upon every conversion the converted watch with quiet knowing and display a certain lack of sympathy akin to misanthropy; outright pleasure at the misfortune of others. I must wonder; can such a process ever be attributed to a system that is not profoundly evil? Is sending your child through sixteen years of schooling such? Having their molars taken out? I feel this is very much the behavior of youth when knowing a friend has just had sex for his first time or gotten his first job. But have you ever seen this happen to an adult established in their career and life who has to change their entire frame? You could say it happens with any ideological conversion, between parties or religions. But those are aren’t the entirety of everything. They’re only a part. Try cognizantly entering a totalitarian cult, a sociological hulk, an all consuming modern megalith which grinds the past to dust and your individuality is what’s getting pulped.
The State will be Perfect / Mankind is Liberated / Capitalism is Enslavement
I genuinely thought she was over and done with me but one day she came home with a pamphlet instead of our dinner. I asked her, “How are we supposed to eat paper?” She said, “No, Geoffrey, look closer.” and she pointed to a line that dawned on me a knowing I’d never before had validated; Art serves the rich in poverty when art could lead the world to prosperity. I said to her, “That’s more than I could ever dream.” We shed a tear together for all the years we’d been made to believe we were worthless. Leaned in close she flipped through all the pages with me and related to me, “The party member was so gracious. They want to see your writing and they have a training program for painters. I think this might be a really good thing for us.” I couldn’t believe it. It was as if I’d been blind.
"Are Americans really stupid? " I was asked in Warsaw. In the voice of the man who posed the question, there was despair, as well as the hope that I would contradict him.
It wasn’t perfect but it worked, in the end, what’s the difference between painting propaganda and painting corporate culture? Neither of them mean anything to us. But I did have this nagging feeling whenever they handed me a new sheet of paper because all of them read the same. How many times can a person return to the same talking points before they lose their mind? We had friends at least and a community, that made it better. But I couldn’t bring up any of my thoughts with them; there wasn’t any replacement for the ways they’d learned. I’d ask her, “Do you think any of them actually believe it?” And she’d shake her head decidedly, “What’s there to believe?” I would have to agree. Everyone makes up their own mind.
The man of the East cannot take Americans seriously because they have never undergone the experiences that teach men how relative their judgments and thinking habits are.
…
But even they may one day know fire, hunger, and the sword.
We made our living, we got job experience and references. It worked. But I have to note that we’d never get anywhere if we stuck around the rest of our days. Neither of us followed orders with the gusto or the vigor of the rest and we skipped every extracurricular we could get away with. No one bothers to even ask us, they just know through our lack of whole and total submission; we’re not as dedicated as them. On our nights off when we delight ourselves in the privacy of our apartment I’m sure they all think to us and feel terribly jealous. We’ve taken a slice of life for ourselves and that’s not very Communist of us. Oh well, it’s war and they’ll begrudgingly take our contributions when they could go to the enemy instead.
A hard school, where ignorance was punished not by bad marks but by death, has taught him to think sociologically and historically. But it has not freed him from irrational feelings. He is apt to believe in theories that foresee violent changes in the countries of the West, for he finds it unjust that they should escape the hardships he had to undergo.
In a certain sense though we would be screwed if we ever tried to break away. How does one hide the plain facts of their work history from future employers? And those references probably don’t transfer. With that sense of leverage in mind understand why we never got anything close to rich. Certainly I could never dream of the heights my parents achieved but that’s the price of getting to be a writer, I guess. It wasn’t too hard to get myself published under a pseudonym in such a way that none of my comrades ever caught on to. She as well started trying to get into online commissions and there was potential growth in the long term if she kept to it. But it wasn’t a perfect heist; they could smell the happiness on us.
The illusory "natural" order of the Western countries is doomed, according to dialectical materialism ( in the Stalinist version) , to crash as a result of a crisis. Wherever there is a crisis, the ruling classes take refuge in Fascism as a safeguard against the revolution of the proletariat. Fascism means war, gas chambers, and crematoria.
Obviously it was hard to hit our quotas; we’re trying to sell Communism to Capitalists. How do you think it’ll go? The majority of our readership was us. Pride of a people is a hard thing to break. There was the incessant political cycle between hard line conformance and popular, but diluted, outreach. The both of us just hitched our mule and carried on. Sure, you want a painting only a senior citizen who’s lost their sense of taste could appreciate? You got it. You want a piece of literature that whispers sweet nothings of erotic socialist fantasy in your ear? It’s yours. The doctrine always changed. Such is the life of a dialectic with no bite, constantly eroded on all sides by a nation of lawful sloth.
If the world is divided between Fascism and Communism, obviously Fascism must lose since it is the last, desperate refuge of the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie rules through demagoguery, which in practice means that prominent positions are filled by irresponsible people who commit follies in moments of decision.
We were the horse under the whip as are most people in the workforce. The boss comes by and pokes his finger in then swirls everything around. None of them knew the first thing about art. "Explain to me how this serves the faith” and “I don’t understand the metaphor” and “That doesn’t come across” and “This needs to be brought into line” but how does that line not make sense there because look at all the others. “Do as I say.” It’s just bullshit from up top every day. It’s the donations and funding that keep us afloat; everything we produce is shit. You learn to cater to each bureaucrat in particular or else your life is hell and hope you don’t get caught between two. It happens more with her painting because that’s forward facing.
Nazi and Communist criminal codes are alike in that they efface the frontier between penal and non-penal deeds—the first, by defining crime as any act directed against the interests of the German nation; the second, as any act directed against the interests of the dictatorship of the proletariat.
I’m just a tool of the brainiacs, the truly mad individuals, that spend their lives analyzing the playing field from within the belly of the beast; picking through the rubble and masticated flesh. Those minds of superior quality set to playing the game of pass or fail with all evidence passed through the teeth and funneled down the throat. What a fool I am to have agreed to be an ass. Who the fuck is ever going to eat my shit? My mouth reeks of it. It takes a large glass of wine to clean it and I hesitate to ever kiss her because I wouldn’t want to infect her. Everything she paints in private makes me guffaw because these people are fucking insane and everything I write in private makes her cry because these people are fucking insane.
Propaganda tries to convince the citizens of the people's democracies that law in the West is no more than a fiction subservient to the interests of the ruling classes. Perhaps it is a fiction, but it is not too subservient to the wishes of the rulers.
We’re basically just political activists, or a really terrible production company. It’s not possible to describe this as a viable movement. We don’t mean anything to them. It’s not possible for Communism to inherent anything that this country is because Communism is not this country. Communists are always thinking, scheming, doubting and questioning; there isn’t anything to be believed. America begins with a handshake and ends in the grave, ideally. This is to say that Communists aren’t capable of relaxing and letting it play out. They’re always trying, always adapting, always driving themselves into a tizzy. I’ve practically lost my mind because of them. Where’s the time for leaving the world be and trusting those other people to do their own thing?
Americans, aware of the nature of their law, compare democracy to an awkward raft on which everyone paddles in a different direction. There is much hubbub and mutual abuse, and it is difficult to get everyone to pull together. In comparison with such a raft, the trireme of the totalitarian state, speeding ahead with outspread oars, appears indomitable. But on occasion, the totalitarian ship crashes on rocks an awkward raft can sail over.
Eventually we spread our wings and flew, managed having a kid or two beyond the purview of the motherland. It was just too much overhead for what we were capable of. Kids wouldn’t have been possible on top of all that. We went out and found businesses that offered us liberties and personal space that weren’t obsessed with the failings of society and how they must be fixed. It’s tiring saving the world. What’s to be saved? We’ve been alive for over forty years. I think we’ll manage another forty without you barking in our ear. We need to start thinking about retirement. After these kids we’re definitely going to be done. Causes work out great for those with a passion and those in power; they’ll never run out of fuel but I have my scraps to think of.
American Communists (mostly the intellectually minded sons of middle-class or lower middle-class families) complain about the spiritual poverty of the masses. They do not realize, however, that the Imperium they pine for is a combination of material poverty and lack of technology, plus Stalinism. Nor do they realize how fascinating it might be to try to imagine a combination of prosperity and technology, plus Stalinism.
…
Yet if one dared to visualize that Paradise, he would find it not unlike the United States in periods of full employment.
Maybe tragedy was just tragedy and the mundane is just mundane. Have you ever tried accepting reality? Do you enjoy laughing? I feel old in my eyes and I barely see anything but don’t worry, I still have a sense of everything. Where in morality does it state the world is your responsibility? That you must shepherd it to providence? That every wrong in every dark corner is your fault? You didn’t make those choices. That wasn’t your life. Change the culture in your life if you want but that’s not necessarily going to change theirs. No one owns everything, no one controls everything, no one knows everything. There’s not a single idea to capture the world; it’s spirit is free. That’s what makes me feel okay, particularly when they show me a beautiful one I’ve never before seen.
Recommended Reading
I only covered the first two chapters of The Captive Mind and failed to even reach the book’s main concept, Ketman, while also leaving out the majority’s share of the truth. The author didn’t write conceptually; he wrote an account. The sheer weight and color of this painting is enough to floor any witness because this is the testimony of someone who participated in the dismantling of a culture (one front of a nation’s annihilation).
I’m just a child with scissors snipping apart a text I can’t even read. Please refer directly to the book. This guy was a top literary figure in his country at the most significant time in world history. Each sentence is a horror that constituted years of his life, the murder of millions and humanity subjected to the naked fear of a central authority imparted with the cause of global unity and no restraint. It just gets worse the closer you look until you’re in the mass grave with everyone else.